The first floor of 21 Crow's Inn was entirely in the hands of the
police. Two plain-clothes men guarded the entrance of the corridor,
others were stationed farther along. Both the big waiting-rooms were
filled, one with indignant clients anxious to go home, the other with
the clerks and employés of the firm.
Two men came slowly down the passage. Inspector Furnival of Scotland
Yard was a man of middle height with a keen, foxy-looking face, at
present clean-shaven, and sharp grey eyes whose clearness of vision
had earned him in the Force the sobriquet of “The Ferret.” His
companion, Dr. Hackett, carried his occupation writ plain on his
large-featured face and his strictly professional attire.
Both men were looking grave and preoccupied as they entered the
smaller office which had been little used since Mr. Bechcombe's
partner retired. Inspector Furnival took the revolving chair and drew
it up to the office table in the middle of the room. Then he produced
a notebook.
“Now, Dr. Hackett, will you give me the details of this affair as far
as you know them?”
“I can only tell you that I was summoned about two o'clock this
afternoon by a clerk—Winter, I fancy his name is. He told me that his
employer was locked up in his office, that they thought he had had a
fit and were breaking the door open, and wanted me to be there in
readiness as soon as they had forced their way in. I hastily put a few
things that I thought might be wanted into my bag and hurried here. I
arrived just as the door gave way and found matters as you know.”
The inspector scratched the side of his nose reflectively with the
handle of his fountain pen.
“Mr. Bechcombe was quite dead?”
“Quite dead. Had been dead at least two hours, I should say,” Dr.
Hackett assented.
“And the cause?” the inspector continued, suspending his pen over the
paper.
“You will understand that you will have to wait until after the
post-mortem for a definitely full and detailed opinion. But, as far as
I can tell you after the examination which was all I could make this
afternoon, I feel no doubt that the cause of death was strangulation.”
“It seems inconceivable that a man should be strangled in his own
office, within earshot of his own clerks,” debated the inspector.
“Still, it is quite evident even at a casual glance that it has been
done here. But I cannot understand why Mr. Bechcombe apparently
offered no resistance. His hand-bell, his speaking-tube, the
telephone—all were close at hand. It looks as though he had recognized
his assassin and had no fear of him.”
“I think on the contrary that it was a sudden attack,” Dr. Hackett
dissented. “Probably Mr. Bechcombe had no opportunity of recognizing
his murderer. The assassin sprang forward and—did you notice a sweet
sickly smell that seemed to emanate from the body?”
The inspector nodded.
“That was the first thing I noticed. Chloroform, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said the doctor slowly. “I should say the assassin sprang
forward with the chloroform, or perhaps approached his victim
unobserved, and attempted to stupefy him, and then strangled him. That
is how it looks to me. For anything more definite we must wait for the
post-mortem.”
The inspector made a few hieroglyphics in his notebook, then he looked
up.
“You say that death took place probably about two hours before you saw
the body, doctor? and you were called in about two o'clock. Therefore,
Mr. Bechcombe must have died about twelve o'clock. You are quite
definite about this?”
“I cannot be more exact as to the time,” Dr. Hackett said slowly. “I
should say about twelve o'clock—certainly not much after. More
probably a little before.”
The inspector stroked his clean-shaven chin and glanced over his
notes.
“Just one more question, Dr. Hackett. Can you tell me just who was in
the room when you got there?”
Dr. Hackett hesitated a moment.
“Well, there was Mr. Walls, who seems to be managing things in
Thompson's absence, and three other men whose names I do not of course
know, and the late Mr. Bechcombe's secretary, whose name I understand
to be Hoyle—Miss Hoyle.”
The inspector pricked up his ears.
“I have not seen Miss Hoyle. What sort of a woman?”
“Oh, just a girl,” the doctor said vaguely. “Just an ordinary-looking
girl. I did not notice her much, except that I thought she looked
white and shocked, as no doubt she was, poor girl!”
“No doubt!” the inspector assented. “How was she dressed, doctor?”
“Dressed?” the doctor echoed in some surprise. “Well, I don't take
much notice of dress myself. Just a dark gown, I think.”
“No hat?”
“No, I don't think so. No, I am sure she hadn't.”
“Do you know where she works?”
“Didn't know such a person existed until this afternoon. I know
nothing about her,” the doctor said, shaking his head.
The inspector coughed.
“Um! Well, that will be all for the present, doctor. It is probable
that you may be wanted later, and of course possible that Mrs.
Bechcombe may wish to see you.”
“I suppose she has been told?”
“Of course,” the inspector assented. “We phoned to the house at once,
and I gather she was informed of the death, not of course of the
cause, by a relative who was there—a Mr. Collyer, a clergyman. I shall
go round to see her when I have finished here. I hear that she
collapsed altogether on hearing of her loss.”
“Poor thing! Poor thing!” the doctor murmured. “Well, inspector, I
shall hold myself at your disposal.”
Left alone, the inspector looked over his notes once more and then
sounded the electric bell twice. One of his subordinates opened the
door at once.
“Tell Moore and Carter to take the names and addresses of all the
clients. Verify them on the phone and then allow them to go home. If
any of them are not capable of verification, have them shadowed. Now
send John Walls to me.”
The clerk did not keep Inspector Furnival waiting. He came in
hesitatingly, dragging his feet like a man who has had a stroke. His
face was colourless, his eyes were dark with fear.
“You sent for me, inspector?” he said, his teeth chattering as if with
ague.
“Naturally!” the inspector assented, glancing at him keenly. “I want
to hear all you know about Mr. Bechcombe's death. But, first, has Amos
Thompson returned?”
“N—o!” quavered Walls.
“Can you account for his absence in any way?” the inspector questioned
shortly.
“No, I have no idea where he is,” Walls answered, gathering up his
courage. “But then he is the managing clerk. I am not. I very seldom
know anything of his work.”
The inspector did not answer this. He drew his brows together.
“When did you see him last?”
“About half-past twelve, it would be. He went out of the office. I
have not seen him since. But he did go out to lunch early sometimes.
And he may have gone somewhere on business for Mr. Bechcombe.” Walls
wiped the sweat from his brow as he spoke.
The inspector looked at him.
“I understand that Mr. Bechcombe was heard to tell him to be in
readiness to go with him to the Bank at one o'clock?”
“I—I believe Spencer said something about that,” Walls stammered. “But
I did not hear what Mr. Bechcombe said myself. My desk is farther away
than Spencer's and I was busy with my work. All I heard was that Mr.
Bechcombe was not to be disturbed on any account. He slightly raised
his voice when he said that.”
“Did you gather that Mr. Bechcombe had business of an important nature
with a mysterious client?”
“I didn't gather anything,” said Walls with some warmth. “It wasn't my
business to. If Mr. Bechcombe did have an important client he must
have admitted him himself by the private door. The last one that went
to him in an ordinary way came out in a very few minutes.”
“Before twelve o'clock?” questioned the inspector sharply.
“Oh, yes. Some minutes before the clock struck—about a quarter to, I
should say. I noticed that.”
“Because——” Inspector Furnival prompted.
“Oh, well, because I heard it strike afterwards, I suppose,” Walls
answered lamely. “There are days when I don't notice it.”
“Um!” the inspector glanced at him. “Do you know the name of the last
client who saw Mr. Bechcombe?”
“Pounds—Mr. Pounds, of Gosforth and Pounds, the big haberdashers. He
came about the lease of some fresh premises they are taking. I happen
to know that.”
“Ah, yes.” The inspector looked him full in the face. “But you don't
happen to know why Mr. Anthony Collyer wanted to see his uncle,
perhaps?”
The sweat broke out afresh on Mr. Walls's forehead.
“I don't know anything about it.”
“You know that Mr. Collyer came,” the inspector said with some
asperity. “Why did you not mention it?”
Walls glanced at him doubtfully.
“There wasn't anything to mention. Mr. Anthony wanted to see Mr.
Bechcombe, and he couldn't, so he went away. He talked to Mr.
Thompson, not to me.”
“You did not hear what he said when he went away? Your desk seems to
be most inconveniently placed, Mr. Walls.”
“I heard him talking a lot of nonsense to Mr. Thompson.”
“Such as——” The inspector paused.
“Oh, well, he said he must see Mr. Bechcombe and he said he would, and
Mr. Thompson——”
“Be careful!” warned the inspector. “Don't make any mistakes, Mr.
Walls, I want to know what Mr. Anthony Collyer said.”
“He said—he said—if Mr. Thompson didn't let him in he would go round
to Mr. Bechcombe's private door,” the man said, then hesitated. “But
it—it was just nonsense.”
“Did he try to get into the room through the private door?”
“I don't know,” Walls said helplessly. “I didn't see him any more.”
The inspector drew a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from his
breast pocket and, opening it, displayed to the clerk's astonished
eyes a long, white _suède_ glove.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
John Walls peered at it.
“No. I can't say that I have. It—it is a lady's glove, inspector.”
“It _is_ a lady's glove,” the inspector assented. “Where do you
imagine it was found, Mr. Walls?”
“I'm sure I don't know,” Walls said, staring at him. “It—I think a
good many ladies wear gloves like that nowadays, Mr. Furnival. I know
Mrs. Walls——”
“This particular glove,” the inspector went on, “I found beside Mr.
Bechcombe's writing-table this afternoon.”
“Did you?” Mr. Walls looked amazed. “Well, I don't know how it came
there. All Mr. Bechcombe's clients were men that came to-day.”
“Except perhaps the one that came to the private door,” suggested the
inspector.
“I don't know anything about that,” Walls said in a puzzled tone. “I
never heard anything of a lady coming to-day.”
The inspector folded the glove up and put it away again.
“That will do for the present, Mr. Walls. I should like to see Mr.
Thompson if he returns, and now please send Miss Hoyle to me.”
Walls looked uncomfortably surprised.
“Miss Hoyle?”
“Yes, Miss Hoyle—Mr. Bechcombe's secretary!” the inspector said
sharply. “I suppose you know her, Mr. Walls?”
“Oh, yes,” Walls stammered. “At least, I couldn't say I know her. I
have spoken to her once or twice. But she didn't make any friends
among us. And her office was quite apart. She didn't come through our
door, or anything. She is a lady—quite a lady, you understand, and her
office is next to Mr. Bechcombe's own.”
“Indeed!” For once the inspector looked really interested. “Well, I
should like to see Miss Hoyle without delay, Mr. Walls.”
“Very well. I will tell her at once.”
Miss Hoyle did not keep the inspector waiting. He glanced at her
keenly as he placed a chair for her.
“Your name, please?”
“Cecily Frances Hoyle.”
“How long have you been with Mr. Bechcombe?”
“Just over a month.”
“Where were you previously?”
“At school. Miss Arnold Watson's at Putney. I stayed there until I was
nineteen as a governess-pupil. Then—I hadn't any real gift for
teaching—I took a course in shorthand and typing. Mr. Bechcombe wanted
a secretary and I was fortunate enough to get the job.”
“Um!” The inspector turned over a new page in his notebook. “Now will
you tell me all you know about Mr. Bechcombe's death?”
Cecily stared at him.
“But I don't know anything,” she said helplessly. “I never saw Mr.
Bechcombe after he called me into his office about a quarter to
twelve.”
“At a quarter to twelve!” The inspector pricked up his ears. “You saw
Mr. Bechcombe at a quarter to twelve?”
“At a quarter to twelve,” she confirmed. “He sounded the electric bell
which rings in my office, and I went in to him. He told me that he
should have some important work for me later in the day, but that at
present there was nothing and that I could go out to lunch when I
liked. When I came back there were some letters to be attended to, and
then he said I was to wait until he rang for me. That was all.”
“You saw and heard nothing more of Mr. Bechcombe until you came on the
scene when the door was broken open by the clerks?”
“I did not see anything.”
The slight emphasis on the verb did not escape the inspector.
“Or hear anything?” he demanded sharply. “Be very careful please, Miss
Hoyle.”
“I heard him speak to some one outside very soon after I had gone back
to my office, and I heard him moving about his room after I came from
lunch,” Cecily said, her colour rising a little.
The inspector looked at her searchingly. “To whom did you hear Mr.
Bechcombe speak?”
Cecily hesitated, the colour that was creeping back slowly into her
cheeks deepening perceptibly.
“Someone was knocking at the door,” she stammered. “I think Mr.
Bechcombe spoke to him. I heard him say he was engaged.”
“Who was he speaking to?”
The girl twisted her hands together.
“It was his nephew, Mr. Anthony Collyer.”
“How do you know?” The inspector fired his questions at her rather as
if they had been pistol shots.
Cecily looked round her in an agony of confusion.
“He came to my office—Mr. Anthony, I mean.”
“Why should he come to your office?”
“He asked me to go out to lunch with him,” Cecily faltered. Then
seeing the look on the inspector's face, she gathered up her courage
with both hands and faced him with sudden resolution. “We are
engaged,” she said simply. “We—I mean it hasn't been announced yet,
but his father knows; and we shall tell mine as soon as he comes
home—he is abroad now—we are engaged, Anthony Collyer and I.”
The inspector might have smiled but that the thing was too serious.
“Did Mr. Bechcombe know?”
The girl hesitated a moment.
“I think he guessed. From the way he smiled when he mentioned Mr.
Collyer in the morning.”
The inspector looked over his notes. He was inclined to think that
Cecily Hoyle's evidence, if it could be relied on, would put Anthony
Collyer off his list of suspects. Still, he was not going to take any
chances.
“I see. So you went out with Mr. Anthony Collyer. Where did you
lunch?”
“I said he asked me,” Cecily corrected. “But I didn't say I would go.
However, we were talking about it and walking down the passage
together when Mr. Bechcombe called Tony back—‘I want to see you a
minute, Tony,’ he said.”
“Well?” the inspector prompted as she paused.
“Tony did not want to go back,” the girl said slowly. “But I persuaded
him. ‘I will wait for you in St. Philip's Field of Rest,’ I said. He
ran back, promising not to keep me waiting for a minute.”
“Field of Rest,” the inspector repeated. “What is a Field of Rest?”
“At the back of St. Philip's Church—just over the way. It is the old
graveyard really, you know,” Cecily explained. “But they have levelled
the stones and put seats there, and it is a sort of quiet recreation
ground. I often take sandwiches with me and eat them there.”
The inspector nodded. There were many such places in London he knew.
“And I suppose Mr. Anthony Collyer soon overtook you?”
“No. He didn't. He—I had to wait in the Field of Rest.”
“How long?”
“I don't really know,” Cecily said uncertainly. “Perhaps it wasn't
very long. But it seemed a long time to me.”
The inspector looked at her.
“This is important. Please think, Miss Hoyle. This is very important.
How long approximately do you think it was before Mr. Anthony Collyer
joined you in the Field of Rest?”
“Twenty minutes perhaps—or it might have been half an hour.”
The inspector looked surprised.
“Half an hour! But that's a long time. What excuse did Mr. Collyer
make for being so long?”
“He said he couldn't find the Field of Rest. He hadn't been there
before, you know.”
The inspector made no rejoinder. He turned back to his notes.
“What time did you come back to the office, Miss Hoyle?”
“We were a little over an hour,” Cecily confessed. “After half-past
one, it would be.”
“Did Mr. Collyer go back with you?”
Cecily shook her head.
“Oh, no. He walked as far as Crow's Inn—up to the archway with me.”
The inspector was drawing a small parcel from his pocket. Laying back
the tissue paper he slowly shook out the white glove he had shown to
John Walls.
“Have you ever seen this before, Miss Hoyle?”
The girl leaned forward and looked at it more closely.
“No, I am sure I have not.”
“It is not yours?”
Cecily shook her head.
“I could not afford anything like that. It is a very expensive
glove—French I should say.”
“That glove was found beside the writing-table in Mr. Bechcombe's
private room this afternoon,” the inspector said impressively.
Cecily looked amazed.
“What an extraordinary thing! I don't believe it was there when I was
in this morning. I wonder who could have dropped it?”
“Possibly the murderer or murderess,” the inspector suggested dryly.
Cecily shivered back in her chair with a little cry.
“It cannot be true! Who would hurt Mr. Bechcombe? He must have had a
fit!”
“Miss Hoyle”—the inspector leaned forward—“it was no fit. Mr.
Bechcombe was certainly murdered, and Dr. Hackett says that death must
have overtaken him either a few minutes before twelve or a few minutes
after.”
“What!” Cecily's face became ghastly as the full significance of the
words dawned upon her. “It couldn't——” she said, catching her breath
in a sob. “He—he was quite well at twelve o'clock, and when I came
back from my lunch I heard him moving about.”
“Could you hear what went on in his room in yours?”
“Oh, no. Absolutely nothing. But as I passed his door when I came back
from lunch I distinctly heard him moving about. I was rather surprised
at this, because I don't remember ever hearing any sound from Mr.
Bechcombe's room before.”
“What did you do after you went back?”
“I finished some letters that had to be ready for Mr. Bechcombe's
signature before he went home. I was still busy with them when I heard
them breaking into Mr. Bechcombe's room.”
“Now one more question, Miss Hoyle. Did you notice anything particular
about Mr. Anthony Collyer's hands when you first saw him?”
Cecily stared.
“Certainly I did not. Why?”
“He did not wear gloves?”
“Oh, dear, no!” Cecily almost smiled. “I should certainly have noticed
if he had. I have never seen Tony in gloves since I knew him.”
The inspector's stylo was moving quickly in his notebook.
“You are prepared to swear to all this, Miss Hoyle?”
“Certainly I am!” Cecily said at once. “It is absolutely true.”
“Your address, please.”
“Hobart Residence, Windover Square. It is a club for girls,” she
added.
“But your permanent home address,” the detective went on.
There was a pause. The girl's long eyelashes flickered.
“I—really I haven't a settled home at present. My father is away on
some business abroad; when he comes back we shall look for a cottage
in the country.”
“Oh!” The inspector asked no more questions, but there was a curious
look in his eyes as he scrawled another entry in his book.
“That is all for the present, then, Miss Hoyle. The inquest will be
opened to-morrow, and you may be wanted. I cannot say.”
He rose. Cecily got up at once and with a little farewell bow went out
of the room.
The inspector stood still for a minute or two, then he opened the door
again.
“Call Mr. William Spencer, please.”
Ordinarily Mr. Spencer was a jaunty, self-satisfied young man, but
to-day both the jauntiness and the self-satisfaction were gone and it
was with a very white and subdued face that he came up to the
inspector.
“Well, Mr. Spencer, and what have you to tell me about this terrible
affair?” the inspector began conversationally.
“Nothing; except what you know. I heard the governor tell Mr. Thompson
not to let anyone into his room, and I heard no more until Mr. Walls
asked me to go round to the private door.”
“You were the first to see the body, I understand.”
“Well, looking through the keyhole, I saw a heap and I told Mr. Walls
I thought it was the governor.”
“Exactly!” The inspector looked at his notes. “You were right,
unfortunately. Now, Mr. Spencer, have you ever seen this?” suddenly
displaying the white glove he had previously shown.
Mr. Spencer's eyes grew round.
“I—I don't know.”
“What do you mean by that?” the inspector questioned. “Have you any
reason to suppose you have done so?”
Spencer stared at it.
“I met a lady with long gloves like that coming up the stairs when I
went out to lunch.”
“What time was that?”
“About half-past twelve, it would be, or a little later, I think,”
debated Spencer.
“Ah!” the inspector made a note in his book. “What was she like—the
woman you met?”
“Well, she was tall with rather bright yellow hair and—and she had
powder all over her face. The curious thing about her was,” Spencer
went on meditatively, “that I had an odd feeling that in some way her
face was familiar. Yet I couldn't remember having seen her before.”
“Did you notice where she went?”
“No, I couldn't. It was just where the stairs turn that I stood aside
to let her pass, and you can't see much from there. But I thought I
heard——”
“Well?”
“I did think at the time that I heard her stop on our landing and go
along the passage——”
“To Mr. Bechcombe's room?” said the inspector quickly.
“Well, it would be to his room, of course,” Spencer said, his face
paling again. “But I dare say I was wrong about her going down the
passage. I didn't listen particularly.”
“Do you know that I found this glove beside Mr. Bechcombe's
writing-table when I went into the room?” questioned the inspector.
Spencer shivered.
“No. I didn't see it.”
“Nevertheless it was there,” said the inspector. “Mr. Spencer, I think
you will have to try to remember why that lady's face was familiar to
you. Had you ever seen her here before?”
“No, I don't think so. I seem to——” Spencer was beginning when there
was an interruption, a loud knock at the door. Spencer turned to it
eagerly. “Mr. Thompson has come back, I expect.”
The inspector was before him, but it was not Amos Thompson who stood
outside, or any messenger from the offices; it was a tall, thin
clergyman with a white, shocked face—the rector of Wexbridge to wit.
He stepped aside.
“I must apologize for interrupting you, Mr. Inspector. But I represent
my sister-in-law, Mrs. Luke Bechcombe. I had just called and was
present when the sad news was broken to her. I came here to make
inquiries and also to arrange for the removal of the body. And here I
was met by these terrible tidings. Is it—can it be really true that my
unfortunate brother-in-law has been murdered?”
“Quite true,” the inspector confirmed in a matter-of-fact fashion in
contrast with the clergyman's agitated tone.
“But how and by whom?” Mr. Collyer demanded.
“Mr. Bechcombe appears to have been attacked, possibly chloroformed,
deliberately, and strangled. His body was found in his private
office.”
The rector subsided into the nearest chair.
“I cannot believe it. Poor Luke had not an enemy in the world. What
could have been the motive for so horrible a crime?”
“That I am endeavouring to find out,” the inspector said quietly.
“I can't understand it,” the clergyman said, raising his hand to his
head. “Nobody would wilfully have hurt poor Luke, I am sure.”
“It is tolerably evident that somebody did,” the inspector commented
dryly.
Mr. Collyer was silent for a minute; putting his elbow on the table,
he rested his aching head upon his hand.
“But who could have done it?” he questioned brokenly at last.
The inspector coughed.
“That also I am trying to discover, sir. When did you see Mr.
Bechcombe last, Mr. Collyer?”
“Last night. I dined with him at his house in Carlsford Square. Just a
few hours ago, and poor Luke seemed so well and happy with us all,
making jokes. And now—I can't believe it.”
He blew his nose vigorously.
“Was your son one of the dinner party?” the inspector questioned.
Mr. Collyer looked surprised.
“Oh, er—yes, of course Tony was there. He is a favourite with his
uncle and aunt.”
“Did you know that he was here this morning?”
Mr. Collyer's astonishment appeared to increase.
“Certainly I did not. I do not think he has been. I fancy you are
making a mistake.”
“I think not,” the inspector said firmly. “Your son was here this
morning just before twelve o'clock. He appears to have caused quite a
commotion, demanding to see his uncle and announcing his intention of
going to the private door and knocking at it himself.”
Mr. Collyer dropped his arm upon the table.
“But—— Good—good heavens! Did he go?”
“He did. He also saw his uncle,” said the inspector. “And now I am
rather anxious to hear your son's account of that interview, Mr.
Collyer.”