When Rolfe left Crewe's office he went back to Scotland Yard. He found
Inspector Chippenfield still in his office, and related to him the
substance of his interview with Crewe. The inspector listened to the
recital in growing anger.
"Birchill not the right man?" he spluttered. "Why, of course he is. The
case against him is purely circumstantial, but it's as clear as
daylight."
"Then you don't think there's anything in Crewe's points?" asked Rolfe.
"I think so little of them that I look upon Birchill as good as hanged!
That for Crewe's points!" Inspector Chippenfield snapped his fingers
contemptuously. "And I'm surprised to think that you, Rolfe, whose
loyalty to your superior officer is a thing I would have staked my life
on, should have sat there and listened to such rubbish. I wouldn't have
listened to him for two minutes--no, not for half a minute. He was trying
to pick our case to pieces out of blind spite and jealousy, because we've
got ahead of him in the biggest murder case London's had for many a long
day. A man who jaunts off to Scotland looking for clues to a murder
committed in London is a fool, Rolfe--that's what I call him. We have
beaten him--beaten him badly, and he doesn't like it. But it is not the
first time Scotland Yard has beaten him, and it won't be the last."
"I suppose you're right," said Rolfe. "But there's one point he made
which rather struck me, I must say--that about Birchill telling Hill he'd
found the dead body. Would Birchill have told Hill that, if he'd
committed the murder?"
"Nothing more likely," exclaimed the inspector. "My theory is that
Birchill, while committing the burglary at Riversbrook, was surprised by
Sir Horace Fewbanks. It is possible that the judge tried to capture
Birchill to hand him over to the police, and Birchill shot him. I believe
that Birchill fired both shots--that he had two revolvers. But whatever
took place, a dangerous criminal like Birchill would not require much
provocation to silence a man who interrupted him while he was on business
bent, and a man, moreover, against whom he nursed a bitter grudge. In
this case it is possible there was no provocation at all. Sir Horace
Fewbanks may have simply heard a noise, entered the room where Birchill
was, and been shot down without mercy. Birchill heard him coming and was
ready for him with a revolver in each hand. You've got to bear in mind
that Birchill went to the house in a dangerous mood, half mad with drink,
and furious with anger against Sir Horace Fewbanks for cutting off the
allowance of the girl he was living with. He threatened before he left
the flat to commit the burglary that he'd do for the judge if he
interfered with him."
"That's according to Hill's statement," said Rolfe.
Inspector Chippenfield glanced at his subordinate in some surprise.
"Of course it's Hill's statement," he said. "Isn't he our principal
witness, and doesn't his statement fit in with all the facts we have been
able to gather? Well, the murder of Sir Horace, no matter how it was
committed, was committed in cold blood. But immediately Birchill had done
it the fact that he had committed a murder would have a sobering effect
on him. Although he bragged before he left the flat for Riversbrook
about killing the judge if he came across him, he had no intention of
jeopardising his neck unnecessarily, and after he had shot down the judge
in a moment of drunken passion he would be anxious to keep Hill--whom he
mistrusted--from knowing that he had committed the murder. But he was
fully aware that Hill would be the person who'd discover the body next
day, and that if he wasn't put on his guard he would bring in the police
and probably give away everything that Birchill had said and done. So, to
obviate this risk and prepare Hill, Birchill hit on the plan of telling
him that he'd found the judge's dead body while burgling the place. It
was a bold idea, and not without its advantages when you consider what an
awkward fix Birchill was in. Not only did it keep Hill quiet, but it
forced him into the position of becoming a kind of silent accomplice in
the crime. You remember Hill did not give the show away until he was
trapped, and then he only confessed to save his own skin. He's a
dangerous and deep scoundrel, this Birchill, but he'll swing this time,
and you'll find that his confession of finding the body will do more than
anything else to hang him--properly put to the jury, and I'll see that it
is properly put."
Rolfe pondered much over these two conflicting points of view--Crewe's
and Inspector Chippenfield's--for the rest of the day. He inclined to
Inspector Chippenfield's conclusions regarding Birchill's admission about
the body. The idea that he had assisted in arresting the wrong man and
had helped to build up a case against him was too unpalatable for him to
accept it. But he was forced to admit that Crewe's theory was distinctly
a plausible one. Though it was impossible for him to give up the
conviction that Birchill was the murderer, he felt that Crewe's analysis
of the case for the prosecution contained several telling points which
might be used with some effect on a jury in the hands of an experienced
counsel. Rolfe had no doubt that Holymead would make the most of those
points, and he also knew that the famous barrister was at his best in
attacking circumstantial evidence.
That night, while walking home, the idea occurred to Rolfe of going over
to Camden Town after supper to see if by questioning Hill again he could
throw a little more light on what had taken place at Doris Tanning's
flat the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was murdered. Hill had been
questioned and cross-questioned at Scotland Yard by Inspector
Chippenfield concerning the events of that night, and professed to have
confessed to everything that had happened, but Rolfe thought it possible
he might be able to extract something more which might assist in
strengthening what Crewe regarded as the weak points in the police case
against Birchill. Rolfe had every justification for such a visit, for,
though Hill had not been arrested, he had been ordered by Inspector
Chippenfield to report himself daily to the Camden Town Police Station,
and the police of that district had been instructed to keep a strict eye
on his movements. Inspector Chippenfield did not regard his principal
witness in the forthcoming murder trial as the sort of man likely to
bolt, but if he permitted him for politic reasons to retain his liberty,
he took every precaution to ensure that Hill should not abuse his
privilege.
Rolfe lived in lodgings at King's Cross, and, as the evening was fine and
he was fond of exercise, he decided to walk across to Hill's place.
As he walked along his thoughts revolved round the murder of Sir Horace
Fewbanks, and the baffling perplexities which had surrounded its
elucidation. Had they got hold of the right man--the real murderer--in
Fred Birchill? Rolfe kept asking himself that question again and again. A
few hours ago he had not the slightest doubt on the point; he had looked
upon the great murder case as satisfactorily solved, and he had thought
with increasing satisfaction of his own share in bringing the murderer to
justice. He had anticipated newspaper praise on his sharpness: judicial
commendation, a favourable official entry in the departmental records of
Scotland Yard, with perhaps promotion for the good work he had
accomplished in this celebrated case. These rosy visions had been
temporarily dissipated by the conversation he had had with Crewe that
morning. If Crewe had not succeeded in destroying Rolfe's conviction that
the murderer of Sir Horace Fewbanks had been caught, he had pointed out
sufficient flaws in the police case to shake Rolfe's previous assurance
of the legal conviction of Birchill for the crime. The way in which Crewe
had pulled the police case to pieces had shown Rolfe that the conviction
of Birchill was by no means a foregone conclusion, and had left him a
prey to doubts and anxiety which Inspector Chippenfield's subsequent
depreciation of the detective's views had not altogether removed.
The little shop kept by the Hills was empty when Rolfe entered it, but
Mrs. Hill appeared from the inner room in answer to his knock. The
faded little woman did not recognise the police officer at first, but
when he spoke she looked into his face with a start. She timidly said,
in reply to his inquiry for her husband, that he had just "stepped out"
down the street.
"Then you had better send your little girl after him," said Rolfe,
seating himself on the one rickety chair on the outside of the counter.
"I want to see him."
Mrs. Hill seemed at a loss to reply for a moment. Then she answered,
nervously plucking at her apron the while: "I don't think it'd be much
use doing that, sir. You see, Mr. Hill doesn't always tell me where he's
going and I don't really know where he is."
"Then why did you tell me that he had just stepped out down the street?"
asked Rolfe sharply.
"Because I thought he mightn't be far away."
"Then, as a matter of fact, you don't know where he is or when
he'll be back?"
"No, sir."
Her prompt and uncompromising reply indicated that she did not want him
to wait for her husband.
"I think I'll wait," said Rolfe, looking at her steadily.
"Yes, sir."
Daphne appeared at the door of the parlour which led into the shop and
her mother waved her back angrily.
"Go to bed this instant, miss; it's long past your bedtime," she said.
It was obvious that Mrs. Hill retained a vivid recollection of how
disastrous had been Daphne's appearance during Inspector Chippenfield's
first visit to the shop.
"Perhaps your little girl knows where her father is," said Rolfe
maliciously.
"No, she doesn't," replied Mrs. Hill with some spirit. "You can ask her
if you like."
Rolfe was suddenly struck with an idea and he decided to test it.
"I won't wait--I've changed my mind. But if your husband comes in tell
him not to go to bed until I've seen him. I'll be back."
"Yes, sir," she replied.
"Do you think he was going to Riversbrook?" he asked.
The woman flushed suddenly and then went pale. She knew as well as Rolfe
that her husband was strictly forbidden, pending the trial, to go near
the place of his former employment, and that the police had relieved him
of his keys and taken possession of the silent house and locked
everything up.
"No, sir," she replied, with trembling lips, "Mr. Hill hasn't gone
over there."
"How can you be certain, if he didn't tell you where he was going?"
asked Rolfe.
"Because it's the last place in the world he'd think of going to," gasped
Mrs. Hill. "Such a thought would never enter his head. I do assure you,
sir, Mr. Hill would never dream of going over there, sir, you can take my
word for it."
Rolfe walked thoughtfully up High Street. Was it possible that Hill had
gone to his late master's residence in defiance of the orders of the
police? If so, only some very powerful motive, and probably one which
affected the crime, could have induced him to risk his liberty by making
such a visit after he had been commanded to keep away from the place.
And how would he get into the house? Rolfe had himself locked up the
house and had locked the gates, and the bunch of keys was at that moment
hanging up in Inspector Chippenfield's room in Scotland Yard. But even as
he asked that question, Rolfe found himself smiling at himself for his
simplicity. Nothing could be easier for a man like Hill--an
ex-criminal--to have obtained a duplicate key, before handing over
possession of the keys. Rolfe had noticed with surprise when he was
locking up the house that the French windows of the morning room were
locked from the outside by a small key as well as being bolted from the
inside. Hill had explained that the late Sir Horace Fewbanks had
generally used this French window for gaining access to his room after a
nocturnal excursion.
Rolfe looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He decided to go to
Hampstead and put his suspicions to the test. It was quite possible he
was mistaken, but if, on the other hand, Hill was paying a nocturnal
visit to Riversbrook and he had the luck to capture him, he might extract
from him some valuable evidence for the forthcoming trial that Hill had
kept back. And Rolfe was above all things interested at that moment in
making the case for the prosecution as strong as possible.
Rolfe walked to the Camden Town Underground station, bought a ticket for
Hampstead, and took his seat in the tube in that state of exhilarated
excitement which comes to the detective when he feels that he is on the
road to a disclosure. The speed of the train seemed all too slow for the
police officer, and he looked at his watch at least a dozen times during
the short journey from Camden Town to Hampstead.
When Rolfe arrived at Hampstead he set out at a rapid walk for
Riversbrook. It was quite dark when he reached Tanton Gardens. He turned
into the rustling avenue of chestnut trees, and strode swiftly down till
he reached the deserted house of the murdered man.
The gate was locked as he had left it, but Rolfe climbed over it. A late
moon was already throwing a refulgent light through the evening mists,
silvering the tops of the fir trees in front of the house. Rolfe walked
through the plantation, his footsteps falling noiselessly on the pine
needles which strewed the path. He quickly reached the other side of the
little wood, and the Italian garden lay before him, stretching in silver
glory to the dark old house beyond.
Rolfe stood still at the edge of the wood, and glanced across the moonlit
garden to the house. It seemed dark, deserted and desolate. There was no
sign of a light in any of the windows facing the plantation.
The moon, rising above the fringe of trees in the woodland which skirted
the meadows of the east side of the house, cast a sudden ray athwart the
upper portion of the house. But the windows of the retreating first story
still remained in shadow. Rolfe scrutinised these windows closely. There
were three of them--he knew that two of them opened out from the bedroom
the dead man used to occupy, and the third one belonged to the library
adjoining--the room where the murder had been committed. The moonlight,
gradually stealing over the house, revealed the windows of the bedroom
closed and the blinds down, but the library was still in shadow, for a
large chestnut-tree which grew in front of the house was directly in the
line of Rolfe's vision.
Rolfe remained watching the house for some time, but no sign or sound of
life could he detect in its silent desolation. "I must have been
mistaken," he muttered, with a final glance at the windows of the first
story. "There's nobody in the house."
He turned to go, and had taken a few steps through the pinewood when
suddenly he started and stood still. His quick ear had caught a faint
sound--a kind of rattle--coming from the direction of the house. What was
that noise which sounded so strangely familiar to his ears? He had it! It
was the fall of a Venetian blind. Instantaneously there came to Rolfe
the remembrance that Inspector Chippenfield had ordered the library blind
to be left up, so that when the sun was high in the heavens its rays,
striking in through the window over the top of the chestnut-tree, might
dry up the stain of blood on the floor, which washing had failed to
efface. Somebody was in the library and had dropped the blind.
Rolfe hurriedly retraced his steps to the edge of the plantation, and
raced across the Italian garden, feeling for his revolver as he ran. Some
instinct told him that he would find entrance through the French windows
on the west side of the morning room, and thither he directed his steps.
He pulled out his electric torch and tried the windows. They were shut,
and the first one was locked. The second one yielded to his hand. He
pulled it open, and stepped into the room. Making his way by the light of
his torch to the stairs, he swiftly but silently crept up them and turned
to the library on the left of the first landing. The door was closed but
not locked, and a faint light came through the keyhole. Rolfe pushed the
door open, and looked into the room. A man was leaning over the dead
judge's writing-desk, examining its contents by the light of a candle
which he had set down on the desk. He was so engrossed in his occupation
that he did not hear the door open.
"What are you doing there?" demanded Rolfe sternly. His voice sounded
hollow and menacing as it reverberated through the room.
The man at the desk started up, and turned round. It was Hill. When
he saw Rolfe he looked as though he would fall. He made as if to
step forward. Then he stood quite still, looking at the officer with
ashen face.
"Hill," said Rolfe quietly, "what does this mean?"
The butler had regained his self-composure with wonderful quickness. The
mask of reticence dropped over his face again, and it was in the smooth
deferential tones of a well-trained servant that he replied:
"Nothing, sir, I just slipped over from the shop to see if everything
was all right."
"How did you get into the house?"
"By the French window, sir. I had a duplicate key which Sir Horace
had made."
"And I see you also have a duplicate key of the desk. Why didn't you give
these keys up with the others to Inspector Chippenfield?"
"I forgot about them at the time, sir. I found them in an old pocket this
evening, and I was so uneasy about the house shut up with a lot of
valuable things in it and nobody to give an eye to them that I just
slipped across to see everything was all right."
"You came here after dark, and let yourself in with a private key after
you had been strictly ordered not to come near the place? You have the
audacity to admit you have done this?"
"Well, it's this way, sir. I was a trusted servant of Sir Horace's. I
knew a great deal about his private life, if I may say so. I know he
kept a lot of private papers in this room, and I wanted to make sure
they were safe--I didn't like them being in this empty house, sir. I
couldn't sleep in my bed of nights for thinking of them, sir. I felt
last night as if my poor dead master was standing at my bedside, urging
me to go over. I am very sorry I disobeyed the police orders, Mr. Rolfe,
but I acted for the best."
"Hill, you are lying, you are keeping something back. Unless you
immediately tell me the real reason of your visit to this house tonight I
will take you down to the Hampstead Police Station and have you locked
up. This visit of yours will take a lot of explaining away after your
previous confession, Hill. It's enough to put you in the dock with
Birchill."
Hill's eyes, which had been fixed on Rolfe's face, wavered towards the
doorway, as though he were meditating a rush for freedom. But he
merely remarked:
"I've told you the truth, sir, though perhaps not all of it. I came
across to see if I could find some of Sir Horace's private papers which
are missing."
"How do you know there are any papers missing?"
"As I said before, Mr. Rolfe, Sir Horace trusted me and he didn't take
the trouble to hide things from me."
"You mean that he often left his desk open with important papers
scattered about it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you made a practice of going through them?"
"I didn't make a practice of it," protested Hill. "But sometimes I
glanced at one or two of them. I thought there was no harm in it, knowing
that Sir Horace trusted me."
"And some papers that you knew were there are now missing. Do you
mean stolen?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did you see them last?"
"Just before Inspector Chippenfield came--the morning after the body was
discovered. You remember, sir, that he came straight up here while you
stayed downstairs talking to Constable Flack."
"Do you mean to suggest that Inspector Chippenfield stole them?"
"Oh, no, sir, I don't think he saw them. Sir Horace kept them in this
little place at the back of the desk. Look at it, sir. It's a sort of
secret drawer."
Rolfe went over to the desk, and Hill explained to him how the hiding
place could be closed and opened. It was at the back of the desk under
the pigeonholes, and the fact that the pigeonholes came close down to the
desk hid the secret drawer and the spring which controlled it.
"What was the nature of these papers?" asked Rolfe.
"Well, sir, I never read them. Sir Horace set such store by them that I
never dared to open them for fear he would find out. They were mostly
letters and they were tied up with a piece of silk ribbon."
"A lady's letters, of course," said Rolfe.
"Judging from the writing on the envelopes they were sent by a lady,"
said Hill.
Rolfe breathed quickly, for he felt that he was on the verge of a
discovery. Here was evidence of a lady in the case, which might lead to a
startling development. Perhaps Crewe was right in declaring that Birchill
was the wrong man, he said to himself. Perhaps the murderer was not a
man, but a woman.
"And who do you think stole them?" he asked Hill.
"That is more than I would like to say," replied the butler.
"Are you sure they were in this hiding place when Inspector Chippenfield
took charge of everything?"
"Yes, sir. I dusted out the room the morning you and he came to
Riversbrook together, and the papers were there then, because I happened
to touch the spring as I was dusting the desk, and it flew open and I saw
the bundle there."
"Why didn't you tell Inspector Chippenfield about the papers and the
secret drawer?"
"That is what I intended to do, sir, if he didn't find them himself. But
when I had found they had gone I didn't like to say anything to him,
because, as you may say, I had no right to know anything about them."
"When did they go: when did you find they were missing?"
"When Inspector Chippenfield went out for his lunch. I looked in the desk
and found they had gone."
"Who could have taken them? Who had access to the room?"
"Well, sir, Mr. Chippenfield had some visitors that morning."
"Yes. There were about a dozen newspaper reporters during the day at
various times. There were Dr. Slingsby and his assistant, who came out to
make the post-mortem: Inspector Seldon, who came to arrange about the
inquest, and there was that man from the undertakers who came to inquire
about the funeral arrangements. But none of these men were likely to
take the papers, and still less to know where they were hidden. In any
case, no visitor could get at the desk while Mr. Chippenfield was in the
room. And he is too careful to have left any visitor alone in this
room--it was here that the murder was committed."
"He left one of his visitors alone here for a few minutes," said Hill in
a voice which was little more than a whisper.
"Which one?" asked Rolfe eagerly.
"A lady."
"Who was she?"
"Mrs. Holymead."
"Oh!" Rolfe's exclamation was one of disappointment. "She is a friend of
the family. She came out to see Miss Fewbanks--it was a visit of
condolence."
"Yes, sir," said the obsequious butler. "She was a friend of the family,
as you say. She was a friend of Sir Horace's. I have heard that Sir
Horace paid her considerable attention before she married Mr.
Holymead--it was a toss up which of them she married, so I've been told."
Rolfe saw that he had made a mistake in dismissing the idea of Mrs.
Holymead having anything to do with the missing papers. "Do you think
that she stole these letters--these papers?" he asked. "Do you think she
knew where they were?"
"While she was in the room, Inspector Chippenfield came rushing
downstairs for a glass of water. He said she had fainted."
"Whew!" Rolfe gave a low prolonged whistle. "And after she left you took
the first opportunity of looking to see if the papers were still there,
and you found they were gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"What made you suspect Mrs. Holymead would take them?"
"Well, sir, I didn't suspect her at the time. I just looked to see if
Inspector Chippenfield had found them. I saw they had gone, and as I
couldn't see any sign of them about anywhere else I concluded they must
have been taken without Inspector Chippenfield knowing anything about it.
The reason I came over here to-night was to have another careful look
round for them."
Rolfe was silent for a moment.
"What would you have done with the papers if you had found them?" he
asked suddenly.
"I would have handed them over to the police, sir," said the butler, who
obviously had been prepared for a question of the kind.
"And what explanation would you have given for having found them--for
having come over here in defiance of your orders from Inspector
Chippenfield?"
"The true explanation, sir," said the butler, with a mild note of protest
in his voice. "I would have told Inspector Chippenfield what I have
already told you. And it is the simple truth."
Rolfe was plainly taken back at this rebuke, but he did not reply to it.
"In your statement of what took place when Birchill returned to the flat
after committing the murder, he said something about having seen a woman
leave the house by the front door as he was hiding in the garden--a
fashionably dressed woman I think he said."
"Yes, sir, that was it."
"Do you believe that part of his story was true?"
"Well, sir, with a man like Birchill it is impossible to say when he is
telling the truth, and when he isn't."
"There was no lady with Sir Horace when you left him that night when he
returned from Scotland?"
"No, sir."
"I think you said he was in a hurry to get you out of the house, and told
you not to come back?"
"That is what I thought at the time, sir."
"Well, Hill," said Rolfe, resuming his severe official tone; "all this
does not excuse in any way your conduct in coming over here and
forcing your way into the house in defiance of the police; opening this
desk, and prying about for private papers that don't concern you. The
proper course for you to adopt was to come to Scotland Yard and tell
your story about these missing papers to Inspector Chippenfield or
myself. However, I don't propose to take any action against you at
present. Only there is to be no more of it. If you come hanging about
here again on your own account, you'll find yourself in the dock beside
Birchill. Hand me over the duplicate key of the door by which you came
in, and also the key of the desk which you had still less right to have
in your possession. Say nothing to anyone about those papers until I
give you permission to do so."