“Well,” she said, “I don’t mind lettin’ you ’ave a look. Looks breaks no
bones, as the sayin’ is.” She fumbled in a remote pocket beneath her
skirt and produced a small packet of papers.
“My eyes ain’t so good as they was,” she added, with sudden caution.
“’Ere, Archie!”
The ferrety youth (who must have been listening at the door) answered
the summons with suspicious promptness. I noticed that he had provided
himself with a formidable-looking stick and immediately pushed my chair
back against the wall. Mrs. Cutts slowly detached one letter from the
bundle, and spread it out flat on the table, disengaging it from its
folds with a well-licked thumb.
“W’ich one is this, Archie?”
The youth glanced sideways at the letter and replied:
“That’s the do-something-quick-one, Mother.”
“Ah! and w’ich is the one about the pore gentleman as was done in in a
play?”
“’Ere you are, Mother.”
She slid the letters across to meet my hand. I released the note; she
released the letters and the exchange was affected.
These were the letters numbered 43 and 44, and dated August 2nd and
October 5th respectively, as above. If you will glance back to them, you
will see that they offered valuable evidence.
I at once recognised them for genuine documents in my stepmother’s
handwriting.
“How many letters have you?”
“Well, there’s more than I ’ave ’ere. But them as I ’old in my ’and,
w’ich makes eight, countin’ them two, is the ones as ’ud interest
anybody as wanted to know w’y a gentleman might die sudden.”
“Are there any that say definitely how he died or what he died of?”
“No,” said Mrs. Cutts, “I wouldn’t deceive a gentleman like you, sir.
Tell the truth, likewise fair and square. Them eight letters, sir, is
wot they calls excitements to murder, and would be so considered by any
party as might ’appen to receive them. But as for saying in so many
words ‘weed-killer’ or ‘prussic acid,’ I will not say as you will find
them words in black and white.”
“That, of course, detracts from their value,” I said carelessly. “These
letters are evidence of sad immorality, no doubt, Mrs. Cutts, but it’s
one thing to wish a person dead and another to kill him.”
“There ain’t sech a great difference,” said Mrs. Cutts, a little shaken.
“It says in the Bible—‘’E that ’ateth ’is brother is a murderer,’ now,
don’t it, sir? And there’s some as sits on juries ’as the same way of
thinkin’.”
“Maybe,” said I, “but all the same, it’s not proof.”
“Very good, sir,” said Mrs. Cutts with dignity. “I wouldn’t contradict a
gentleman. You ’and me them letters back, Archie. The gentleman don’t
want ’em. Ef Mr. Lathom ’ad any sense ’e’d burn the rubbishin’ stuff,
and so I’ll tell ’im, clutterin’ up the place.”
“I don’t say that, Mrs. Cutts,” said I, holding on to the letters. “They
are of interest, but not of as much interest as I thought they might be.
What value did you think of placing on them?”
“To them as knew ’ow to use ’em”—here Mrs. Cutts appeared to size me up
from head to toe—“letters like them might be worth a ’undred pounds
apiece.”
“Rubbish,” said I. “I’ll give you fifty pounds for the lot, and that’s
more than they’re worth.”
I put the two letters back on the table and flicked at them
disdainfully.
“Fifty pound!” shrieked Mrs. Cutts, “fifty pound! And me riskin’ losin’
a job as is worth more than that any day in recommendations and perks,
not countin’ my money regular every week!”
She gathered the letters together and began to tie the packet up again.
“Mr. Lathom ’ud give five times that much to know as they wos safe,” she
added.
“Not he,” said I. “I doubt if he has as much as a hundred pounds in the
world. Whereas, if your son likes to come round with me to my hotel, I
can give him cash on the nail.”
“No,” said Mrs. Cutts, “I can’t let them letters go. Supposin’ Mr.
Lathom wanted to read ’em and they wasn’t there.”
“That’s your affair,” said I. “If you don’t want to sell them, you can
keep them. If I were you I’d put them back quickly where you found them,
and say nothing to Mr. Lathom about it. There’s such a thing as
blackmail, you know, Mrs. Cutts, and judges are pretty strict about it.”
Mrs. Cutts laughed scornfully.
“Blackmail! Nobody ain’t goin’ to charge theirselves with murder, and
don’t you think it.”
“There’s no murder there,” said I. “Good night.”
I rose to go. The woman let me get as far as the door and then came
after me.
“See ’ere, sir. You’re a gentleman, and I don’t want to be ’ard on a
gentleman wot’s pore father ’as died sudden. Give me two ’undred pound,
and I’ll let yer take copies of ’em and Archie shall go with you and
bring ’em back.”
“Copies don’t count so well in a court of law as originals,” I said.
“They could be swore to,” said Mrs. Cutts.
“Not at this time of night,” said I.
The youth Archie leaned across and whispered to his mother. She nodded
and smiled her unpleasant smile.
“See ’ere, sir, I’ll risk it. Archie shall bring you them letters to
your ’otel in the mornin’ and you shall take copies and ’ave them swore
to afore a lawyer. I dursn’t let you ’ave them, really I dursn’t, sir.
I’m takin’ a sad risk as it is for a respectable woman.”
“Very well,” I replied. “But copies are only worth a hundred pounds to
me at the very outside.”
“You’re makin’ a very ’ard bargain, sir.”
“It’s that or nothing,” said I.
“Well, sir, if you say so. I’ll send Archie round at ten o’clock, sir.”
I agreed to this and walked away, glad to get out. I lay awake all
night, fancying that Mrs. Cutts would go to Lathom in the interval and
make better terms with him.
However, Archie was there with the letters in the morning as agreed, and
I took him and them round to a solicitor’s, where typed copies were made
and sworn. I also made an affidavit that I recognised the writing of the
originals as being in my stepmother’s handwriting. I then paid the lad
the agreed hundred pounds in Treasury notes, and dismissed him.
I have entered into all these details in order that there should be no
doubt as to the genuineness of these copies, and to make quite clear why
I am unable at the moment to forward the originals.
It is true that I could probably have forced Archie into handing the
letters over, since he had no right to them. But several reasons urged
me to take the other course. First, I had no legal right to them either,
and was not clear how my action might be looked upon by the police.
Secondly, and this was more important, I could hardly hope that Lathom
would not discover their absence, and, if he did, he might take fright
and leave the country and thus add great difficulties to my task. It
would take some weeks, perhaps, to collect all the evidence I needed,
and by the time I was ready to set the law in action, he might hide
himself very effectually. Thirdly, I did not wish to alienate Mrs.
Cutts. I foresaw that she might be very useful, not only in bringing me
fresh letters, if any arrived that threw further light on the business,
but also in keeping watch on Lathom’s movements. I suggested to Archie
that there might be possibilities of further reward in the future, and
cautioned him against alarming Lathom.
It is conceivable, however, that Mrs. Cutts may consider it more
advantageous to blackmail Lathom than to assist me. Up to the moment of
writing, he is still living in Chelsea, and apparently feels himself
safe. But for all I know, Mrs. Cutts may have retained the letters and
be blackmailing him on her own account. Or she may have delivered her
warning, and he may have destroyed the letters and made himself (as he
imagines) secure. In the latter case it will, of course, be impossible
to produce the original documents in court, and then the certified
copies will justify their existence.
Having obtained the evidence of the adultery, I now felt myself in a
position to put pressure on Munting, and accordingly went round to see
him again.
“I perfectly appreciate,” I said, “the reasons for your silence at our
last interview. But if I tell you that I have in my hands independent
proof that Lathom was Margaret Harrison’s lover, perhaps you will feel
justified in assisting my inquiries.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear man,” he said, “if you have proof already, I don’t see what
assistance you require. May I ask what you call proof? After all, one
doesn’t make these accusations without sufficient grounds.”
“I have got the letters written to Lathom by my stepmother,” I said,
“and they leave the matter in no doubt whatever.”
“Indeed?” said he. “Well, I won’t ask you where you got them from.
Private detective work is not in my line. If you really believe that
your father was driven to do away with himself, I am extremely
sorry—but what can one do about it?”
“I do not think so,” I said. “I believe, and these letters afford strong
evidence to my mind, that my father was cruelly and deliberately
murdered by Lathom at Margaret Harrison’s instigation. And I mean to
prove it.”
“Murdered?” he cried. “Good God, you can’t mean that! That’s absolutely
impossible. Lathom may be a bit of a rotter in some ways, but he’s not a
murderer. I’ll swear he isn’t that. You’re absolutely mistaken.”
“Will you read the letters?”
“No,” he said. “Look here. You’re a man of the world. If things have got
to this point, I don’t mind admitting that Lathom did have some sort of
an affair with Mrs. Harrison. I did what I could to make him drop it,
but, after all, these things will sometimes happen. I told him it was a
poor sort of game to play, and when I got the opportunity—over that
Milsom affair—I told him I’d shut up about it on condition he cleared
out. He assured me afterwards, in the most solemn way, that it was all
finished with. Why, damn it, I asked him about it the very day we went
down to Manaton, and he repeated that the whole affair was absolutely
over and done with.”
“He was wise,” I said dryly, “since he was taking you down there to view
my father’s dead body. Even you might have suspected something if you
had gone to ‘The Shack’ in the knowledge that it was to Lathom’s
interest to find what he did find.”
His face changed. I had touched him on the raw somewhere.
“Did you, as a matter of fact, believe Lathom?”
“I believed him—yes.” He turned his pipe thoughtfully over between his
fingers. “I believed that the affair had been put an end to. But I was
not altogether sure that Lathom’s affection for Mrs. Harrison had
ceased.”
“And when you found that my father had died so opportunely—did no
suspicion enter your mind?”
“Well—I admit it did just pass through my mind that Harrison might have
done it himself. I—I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t know that I did
really believe it. But it did occur to me as a possibility.”
“Nothing more?”
“Absolutely nothing more.”
“Will you read the letters, and tell me if, after that, you still think
there was nothing more?”
He hesitated.
“If you are so sure that Lathom is innocent, you may be able to prove
his innocence.”
He looked at me doubtfully, and slowly put out his hand for the letters.
He read the endorsement by the solicitor, and looked sharply at me
again, but said nothing. I waited while he read the documents
through—first quickly, then for a second time slowly and with great
attention.
“You will notice,” I said, “that, shortly before the time when he told
you the affair was over, Margaret Harrison had written him a letter
clearly indicating that she believed herself to be about to have a child
by him.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“And that he was not informed that this belief was erroneous, till after
my father’s death.”
“No.”
“Plenty of motive for murder there.”
“Plenty of motive, certainly. But motive by itself is nothing. Good
heavens, man, if everybody committed murder because they had a motive,
precious few of us would die natural deaths.”
“But you will admit that murder was being urged upon him in various
ways, in all these letters.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily go so far as to admit that. Mrs. Harrison is an
emotional, imaginative woman. She picks up phrases out of books. Plenty
of people talk in this vague way about love—about its being supreme,
and justifying itself, and sweeping obstacles aside and so on, without
ever intending to put their words into action. I’ve written that kind of
thing myself—in books.”
“Very likely. As a modern novelist you need not be expected to uphold a
high standard of morals. But in practice, I take it, you would not wish
to excuse or justify murder.”
“No. I confess to an old-fashioned prejudice against murder. It may be
inconsistent of me, but I do. And so, I am sure, would Lathom.”
“Lathom is obviously very much under the influence of Margaret
Harrison.”
“I should have said it was the other way round.”
“In some things. In theory, no doubt. But when it comes to doing things,
I should say she was infinitely more practical—and more unscrupulous.
But say, if you like, he is only under the influence of a strong
passion—don’t you think that might lead him to do things which
conflicted with his principles, or prejudices, or whatever you like to
call them? Come now, you have called me a man of the world. Murders are
done every day, for much less motive than Lathom had.”
He drummed on the table.
“Well,” he burst out at last, “I’ll admit that. I’ll admit—for the sake
of argument—that Lathom _might_ have murdered your father, though I
don’t believe it for a moment. But it was physically impossible. How
could he? He was here in London all the time.”
“That’s where you can help me. Why was it impossible? How do you know it
was impossible? Can you prove that it was impossible?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“Will you let me have all the facts you know about the whole thing from
the beginning?”
“Of course I will. Damn it all, if Lathom _did_ do it, he deserves
everything that’s coming to him. He’d have to be an absolute swine. Mind
you, Lathom and I didn’t always get on together, but—its absurd. He
can’t have done it. But we’ve got to kill the possibility.”
He began to walk up and down, visibly perturbed. I waited. We were
interrupted by a servant announcing dinner.
“You’ll stay?” said Munting. “You must meet my wife. She has a very
clear head for this kind of thing.”
I accepted, not wishing to lose a day in getting to the bottom of the
matter. We did not, of course, talk about the subject while the maid was
in the room, but after dinner we all went into the library, and there
outlined the story to Mrs. Munting. I mention her, not because she was
able to contribute anything of great value to the discussion (though,
being a woman, she was more willing than her husband to allow that a
young man might murder an older one for a woman’s sake), but because she
fetched out the letters which Munting had written to her during his
period of residence at Whittington Terrace, in order to verify facts and
dates. In the end, she handed the letters over to me in case I might
find in them any clue or suggestion which we had overlooked. Munting
rather naturally objected to having his love-letters (if one can call
these rambling effusions by that name) put into the hands of a
comparative stranger, but his wife, with that curious lack of delicacy
which virtuous women often display, laughed, and said she was sure I
should not pay any attention to the personal passages.
“Mr. Harrison is not proposing to publish your Life and Letters, you
know,” she said.
This childish remark seemed to amuse Munting. He said: “No; I fancy I’m
safe with him,” and raised no further objection. Probably his vanity was
sufficient to assure him that the exposure of his intimate feelings was
bound to leave a favourable impression. Indeed, it is obvious that, even
in writing to his fiancée, he was writing for effect half the time, and
quite possibly with an eye to future publication. With young men like
Beverley Nichols and Robert Graves prattling in public about their
domestic affairs, we need hardly expect to find any decent reticence
among the smart novelists of to-day.
Taking the question of _Motive_ as settled for the moment, we proceeded
to discuss the subjects _Means_ and _Opportunity_. Under these heads,
the Muntings put forward a number of objections to the murder theory,
and I was bound to recognise that they looked sufficiently formidable.
Here is the schedule which I drew up immediately after this
conversation.
POINTS TO BE INVESTIGATED IN CONNECTION WITH THE DEATH OF GEORGE
HARRISON
_A. Means_