The Dalehouse Murder
by Francis Everton
Contents
I. I Go to Merchester
II. The Chinese Poison
III. Stella Murdered
IV. Detective Inspector Allport
V. Allport’s Alternatives
VI. The Inquiry in the Dining-Room
VII. I Argue with Kenneth
VIII. Dr. Hanson’s Case-Book
IX. Kenneth and the Tundish
X. I Analyze the Position
XI. On the Landing at Midnight
XII. Janet Arrives on the Scene
XIII. Accident or——?
XIV. A Bird-Bath and an Inquest
XV. A Close Call
XVI. Explanations and a Challenge
Chapter I.
I Go to Merchester
“Dear Francis:—
“It will be jolly to see you again. For your partner in the mixed I
have only missed the most perfect peach by the skin of the pips. (Do
peaches have pips, I wonder? See how poor we are!) However, Margaret
Hunter, the girl you are to play with, is really very nice, and—let
me warn you in time—has a devastating attraction for men. She is a
Merchester girl, but has been away for some time teaching in
Sheffield, and as the aunt with whom she lives is away, she is
staying with us for the tournament week. I have reported fully on
your great personal charm—so beware!
“The girl I just missed for you is Stella Palfreeman—one of the
prettiest girls I ever set eyes on. I met her at the Camford
Tournament last week. She is to stay with us too. Then there will be
Kenneth and of course Ralph Bennett, who, by the way, were articled
to the same solicitor in Sheffield—a regular house-party for the
event.
“Daddy has had a sort of nervous breakdown and has gone to
Folkestone with mother. They are to be there for a month and The
Tundish is looking after the practise. I wish daddy could get him
for keeps—he needs some one badly.
“You’ve never met The Tundish, have you? I wonder how he will strike
you. He is quite old—older than you by a year or two, I should
think—but like you, jolly in spite of his age and graying hair. He
can tell the most thrilling yarns about his experiences in China.
“So you see I shall be acting as hostess and I can tell you we are
going to make things buzz.
“Yours ever,
“Ethel.
“P. S.—Can you come on Saturday? All the others will be here then
excepting Stella, who hails from London and will not arrive until
midday on Monday.”
It was Monday, June the fifteenth—the opening day of the Merchester
Lawn Tennis Club’s annual open tournament at which I had played
regularly for the past few years. My sister Brenda and I were
finishing an early breakfast and I was rereading Ethel Hanson’s
letter.
I should explain that I am chief engineer to a firm in the little
Midland town of Millingham, where, since our father’s death, my sister
and I have lived happily together. Wisely, we spend our holidays
apart, and I, when I can, take mine in small doses. It suits my
business arrangements to do so, and I spend such periods of leisure as
I can snatch from my work in playing in the lawn tennis tournaments at
the neighboring small towns. Given kindly weather, I challenge any one
to name a more enjoyable little holiday.
It is five years since I first went to Merchester, and my friendship
with the Hansons dates from then. Ethel, I remember, had not left
school, but had obtained a special holiday for the event. You will see
that in her letter she refers to my age and gray hairs, but she is one
of those intensely young things to whom anything over thirty is well
on the downward slope. I am thirty-eight, moderately good at my work,
and hardly that at games. I know that I am quiet, and I believe that
my friends count me dull. Indeed, I can lay claim to only one
exceptional quality of any kind whatever, and that, my remarkably
acute sense of hearing, is nothing but an accident of birth.
At times, though, I am almost uncanny, and when playing tennis I can
generally hear most of my opponent’s private comments. “Play
everything on to Jeffcock and we shall be sure to win,” is the sort of
remark I hear more often than I like.
The summer was one of the hottest on record, and no drop of rain had
fallen since the latter end of April. Day after day the sun shone
unclouded. Grass and gardens were scorched and brown, and even the
larger shrubs and trees began to droop and wilt.
Nearly every one was feeling the unusual heat, and on Thursday I had
caught a chill and had had to give up all idea of accepting Ethel’s
invitation for Saturday. But when Monday came I decided that I was
well enough to risk it, though Brenda did her best to alter my
decision. Had I known then of what the week held in store for me, I
think I should have needed no persuasion of hers to make me stay away.
Brenda—dear good soul that she is—had got the car round before we sat
down to breakfast, and shortly after half past eight I started out on
my forty-mile run. It was scorching hot before I finished my journey,
and having made good time I drew in to the side of the road under the
shade of a tree, in order to light my pipe.
A slight rise in the ground gave me a wonderful view of Merchester
Cathedral from where I sat. It is built of a pale red sandstone that
seems able to reflect every shade of light and color. That morning it
looked as though it were wrought in pale gold; with the windows ablaze
as they flashed back the sun, and the lower part of the building and
the top of the hill on which it stands hidden by a summer morning
haze, it might have been some fairy structure floating in the air. It
seemed to dominate the whole countryside.
The city lies huddled round the base of the hill on which the great
cathedral and the close are grouped, odd streets straggling out—like
the roots of some great tree—into the surrounding flats. I imagine
there can hardly be a point in the whole city from which the cathedral
can not be seen towering up above, and at the hour and at the
quarters, every street reverberates with the boom of the chimes from
the central tower.
The doctor’s house stands just at the foot of the hill, and the long
garden behind it lies dead level at first and then rises steeply at
about half its length. The garage stands on a tiny plateau leveled off
at the top of the slope. There is the shortest of wash yards and then
a double door leading on to the narrow lane that runs the length of
the garden and enters the main road at the side of the house. The
narrowness of the lane and the abrupt little hill make a very awkward
entry and my old two-seater still bears the scars of my first attempt
to negotiate it.
The house itself is built of a dull red brick and is of the Georgian
period. There is something in the proportions and the setting of the
windows that gives it a quiet air of character and strength. It is far
too large for the doctor’s needs, and the attics and some of the upper
rooms are never used. At some time or other a one-story wing which is
of stone with a flat-topped roof had been built out at the back on the
side next the lane. This, Hanson has turned into a private business
wing complete with consulting-room, dispensary and waiting-room. A
small hall with a door opening on to the little lane—Dalehouse Lane it
is called—and another passage connecting it to the house itself, make
it a really convenient arrangement.
The strip of garden in front of the house and the large garden behind
are alike surrounded by a ten-foot wall, buttressed at intervals, and
built of the same red brick as the house. This wall—it must be some
eighteen inches thick and is tiled at the top like the roof of a
house—has made a very secluded spot of the doctor’s garden, and there
is an air of quiet secrecy about the place that in some subtle way is
enhanced by the fact that the front door-bell is rung from a door in
the outer wall.
Yes, sheltered and shut in is the right description for the old
garden, with its red buttressed walls, that lies behind Dalehouse, and
when after dinner we used to take our coffee on the lawn—Hanson and I
with our pipes and perhaps Mrs. Hanson and Ethel with their sewing and
their books—I used to think it must be the most peaceful spot in all
the world.
One night on my last year’s visit I particularly called to mind.
Hanson and I were alone, and we sat almost silent while the light
faded and the moon crept over the top of the wall and up the sky till
it cleared the cathedral tower. It was then that he first told me of
his friend Dr. Wallace—The Tundish—and I gained the impression that he
would not be disappointed or surprised if Ethel and he were to make a
match of it together. And now, only a few weeks ago, she had written
to tell me that she was engaged to Kenneth Dane. He must have carried
her off her feet pretty quickly, for I had seen the Hansons only a
month or so before—I know them well—and until I received her letter I
had never even heard his name.
As I sat dreaming and wondering what manner of man I should find him,
the slight change in angle as the scorching sun moved round had caused
the lights in the cathedral windows to flicker and fade away, and the
color of the stonework to change from pale gold to a gold of a darker
shade. I had dallied long enough, and, starting up my engine, I
slipped in the clutch and set out on the few remaining miles that
separated me from the end of my journey. The cathedral clock was
chiming ten as I rounded the corner from the main road into Dalehouse
Lane.
I found Ethel and two of her guests under the old cedar tree that
gives grateful summer shade to one side of the lawn. Whatever her
faults may be, and I could list several, beginning with a reference to
a rather hasty little temper, she is entirely unaffected and honestly
cordial. Indeed, I know of no one who can show at once so gaily and
sincerely that she is pleased to see her friends, and as she met me I
was gratified to feel that in spite of her engagement I still held my
old place in her affections. She introduced me to Ralph Bennett and
then to Kenneth Dane.
To paint a word picture of any human being is a hazardous undertaking,
but in the case of Kenneth Dane I feel that the risk attached to the
attempt is a little less than usual, for I summed him up at once, and
my later experience proved me correct, as one of those downright souls
who carry their character plainly written all over them for each and
sundry to read. Black for him, I felt certain, was always black, and
white was always white, and that there simply were no intervening
shades of gray. No, there could be no subtle grays for Kenneth. Tall,
his broad sloping shoulders made him appear of medium height until you
stood against him. With fair brown hair of that close crisp wavy kind
that it is a thousand pities providence does not keep exclusively for
girls, eyes of a rather bright pale blue, a straight aggressive nose
and a firm mouth and chin to match, he was a fine example of athletic
British manhood. The grip he gave to my hand, nearly making me cry
out, and his deep pleasant laugh as he acknowledged my
congratulations, were both in keeping with his vigorous appearance.
In Ralph Bennett, his friend, I found an entirely different type. Slim
and dark, with rather unusual dark brown eyes, you had only to see the
two together—and I soon found that they were almost inseparable—to
recognize that while Kenneth might be the better equipped with
character and determination, Ralph was more than his match so far as
brain power and intelligence were concerned. But he was so quiet and
reserved that one almost overlooked him, and later I was often to
wonder on what foundation their friendship had been built.
At Merchester play is scheduled to start at ten o’clock, and though
they are lenient to a fault about such matters, it was agreed that
Ethel and the two boys should go on to the club, leaving me to garage
my car, change into flannels and follow them as soon as I could. I
understood that Miss Hunter, my partner, had already left for the
ground when I arrived. The doctor’s garage was occupied, for young
Bennett, whose people were of considerable wealth, had brought a
splendid Daimler with him that entirely filled it, and so I had to
find accommodation for my car at the rear of a neighboring inn. It was
already intensely hot and I felt dizzy on reaching my bedroom, which,
although the blinds had been drawn against the sun, was like a baker’s
oven.
Having rested for a short time, I bathed my face and changed and came
down-stairs to meet Dr. Wallace at the bottom. How he came by his
nickname of “The Tundish” I have never yet been able to fathom, but we
introduced ourselves, no one being present to perform the ceremony for
us. He was kindness itself in the way he questioned me about my cold,
made me go back and pack up a couple of spare shirts, promise to
change after each match, and vowed that when we returned in the
evening he would take me in hand and not only have me fit to play next
day, but able to enjoy myself as well.
Although I have no use for faith healing, or any buncombe of that
description, there is no doubt that the personal equation does come
into play where doctoring is concerned. When I had sat on my bed
holding my head in my hands I had begun to think that Brenda had been
right after all, and that I had been a fool for coming, but it needed
only a few of the doctor’s short decisive sentences, when, hey presto!
I was feeling a little better already, and there was nothing so very
much amiss.
While I liked him from the outset, even at the beginning of our
acquaintance I think I felt that he was not exactly abnormal, but that
he possessed hidden qualities that differentiated him from the rest of
us. Of medium height and a thick-set build, his black hair showed just
a powdering of gray at the temples, while his pallid regular features
seemed a mask through which his deep-set, twinkling eyes looked at you
derisively—mocking you and defying you to guess what manner of man it
really was that lay beneath.
He took me with him into the dispensary to get some capsules to take
with me to the club. It lies to the left of the passage that runs
along the garden side of the doctor’s wing. The consulting-room is at
the end of the passage and both rooms have doors opening on to the
little hall or lobby that forms the patients’ entrance from Dalehouse
Lane. A further door connects the two rooms. Beyond the lobby is a
small waiting-room.
I was leaning against the table in the middle of the room, while the
doctor, humming a gay air, was finding a pill-box to put the capsules
in, when I heard some one laughing—a woman most certainly—in the
waiting-room. Not a matter for comment, you may think, but you should
have heard the laugh. It was very low, and apparently did not reach
the doctor’s less sensitive ears, but, oh, how mean and cruel it was!
You know how a certain sound, or the scent of a flower say, may recall
to life some vivid scene of childhood’s days? When we were children at
home there was an old forbidden book describing the tortures of the
Spanish Inquisition and in it there was one illustration depicting a
young girl stretched out on the rack with a woman standing by her side
laughing at her, which had impressed my young imagination, and had
caused me many hours of secret grief. It was an old woodcut, crudely
drawn, and I had not thought of it for years, but the woman laughing
in the waiting-room brought the gruesome little picture back to life.
The laugh came twice, then there was the sound of an opening door,
then whispering in the lobby.
“Who was that, Miss Summerson?” the doctor asked, as the door
connecting the dispensary with the lobby opened and a pale
nervous-looking girl wearing a white coverall came in—the dispenser, I
gathered.
The doctor was fiddling about with my pill-box as he spoke, but I was
looking at her as she came in through the door and I could have sworn
that she was startled when she saw that we were there—and if she were
startled, I was surprised when she answered the doctor’s question.
“There wasn’t any one,” she said. “I’ve been changing the water in the
waiting-room and I shut the outer door as I crossed the lobby. Some
one had left it ajar.”
Both her look and the rather over-elaborate nature of her explanation
convinced me that she was lying. Too, I could have sworn to that
laugh, to the whispering, and to the fact that some one had been there
besides Miss Summerson herself. At the time I thought very little
about it, however; some one—some one with a most amazingly repulsive
laugh—had been to see her and she didn’t want the doctor to know of
the visit. That was no business of mine, and I was just making my way
toward the lobby—the club lies at the end of Dalehouse Lane—when who
should come out of the consulting-room but Ethel. She had been to the
club and as she was not required to play for a time she had come home
for some rubber tape to wind round the handle of her racquet. As soon
as her wants had been supplied we returned to the ground together.
On our way I felt half inclined to tell her of Miss Summerson’s little
act of deceit. Then, how very easy it would have been. Later it was to
become more difficult, but that I could not foresee.
No sooner had we reached the club than I heard the names, Miss M.
Hunter and F. H. Jeffcock, being shouted down the conical sound-muffle
which the secretary is pleased to call a megaphone. We were to play on
court number ten and I found that both my partner and our opponents
were waiting for me there.
My partner looked a jolly girl. Pink and white and well rounded, with
the bluest of sparkling eyes and her hair tightly braided in two
little close packed coils—pale gold shells hiding her pretty ears—she
had somehow missed real beauty. For a proper chocolate box lady all
the ingredients were there, but there was a certain slight heaviness
about her features, that just, and only just, spoiled the picture she
made, and inexplicably led me to the conclusion that her mother was
fat. Perhaps, however, that was due to the fact that while the modern
girl looks like a boy in a smock, she seemed unwilling to disguise her
pretty femininity.
I found her an excellent partner and we won our first match. Yes, so
far as playing went, Miss Hunter and I got on very well together, but
she was just a little annoying in the way she constantly reiterated
“Sorry, partner,” whenever she missed a shot, and found it necessary
to make some little remark or other whenever the opportunity occurred.
Then I was still to learn that her conversational ability was
prodigious if volume alone were taken into account, and that she beat
every one I ever met for platitudes and proverbs.
No doubt Ethel’s description of her caused me to look out for
something of the sort, but I could not help thinking that her rather
pronounced physical attractions were deliberately assisted in their
deadly work by all those little wiles that a girl who sets herself out
to captivate knows so readily how to use. A coquette and a minx?—no,
certainly. A little immodest then?—no, certainly not, again, but
somehow in a way that I can not account for, her very modesty itself
seemed suggestive of everything that modesty ignores. But in spite of
the fact that I saw through her, and was just a little annoyed with
myself for feeling her attraction, none the less, we got on very
amicably, and I was quite satisfied to have missed the beautiful Miss
Palfreeman, who had yet to arrive from London.
She arrived at lunch-time, Ethel and Ralph going to meet her while
Margaret and Kenneth and I reserved a table in the refreshment tent
and started our meal. Ethel had not exaggerated her beauty. Tall and
slim, her coppery brown hair, which later I was to learn was of the
“kinky” variety, almost concealed by a little hat that matched it
exactly, it was the light in her amber eyes and her complexion that
added more than anything else to her general loveliness. More than one
head turned in her direction.
The tent was almost unbearable, but we were a gay little party; the
liquid butter, the peculiar physiognomy of one of the waitresses, the
hat of one of the competitors, and such like trivialities were each in
turn the excuse for jest and laughter.
The Tundish joined us in the middle of one of our bursts of merriment,
and had made the remark that it was obviously time that a steadying
element was added to the party before we knew that he was there. I
happened to be looking at Stella when he first began to speak in his
distinctive tone of voice, and to my surprise I saw her suddenly and
unmistakably turn pale and the glass she was lifting to her lips slip
from her fingers to the ground. She stooped to pick it up and
recovered her composure so quickly that I imagine none of the others
noticed it. They were introduced, and I half fancied that she
hesitated for the fraction of a second before holding out her hand,
but I could see no disturbance on the doctor’s placid face and the
greeting he gave her was suavity itself. I did notice, however, that
although I made room for him between Stella and myself, he squeezed
himself in between Margaret and Kenneth, where the arrangement of the
table dishes made it a much less convenient position.
Ralph was obviously impressed with Stella, and I was not a little
amused to see how readily and openly he showed it. I gathered that
Margaret’s thoughts were running in the same direction, for I saw her
glance at Stella and a little smile—a mixture of amusement and
appreciation—flicker across her rather full wide mouth. It was unkind
of me, perhaps, but I could not help imagining that there was
self-satisfaction in her smile as well, and that it might be the
result of some such thought as: “Yes, very beautiful indeed—there’s at
least fifteen between us, but where men are concerned——!”
Cigarettes were alight and we were on the point of leaving the table,
when Ethel with characteristic suddenness decided she would like
another ice.
“No, please don’t—I think not—I’m sure you’d be better without it,”
The Tundish warned her.
“Ethel goin’ ’ave another ice,” she laughed emphatically, I imagine
mimicking some childhood saying.
“Ethel’s doctor says she mustn’t.”
Kenneth sprang to his feet saying: “Why, of course, she can. It’s just
the weather for ices,” and he went over to the buffet and fetched her
the pinkest and largest he could procure. She waded through it
quizzing The Tundish with every spoonful she ate, and Kenneth seemed
aggressively and absurdly pleased that he had persuaded her to ignore
the doctor’s wishes. But in some subtle way, The Tundish, sitting with
impassive face and twinkling eyes, seemed to turn his rebuff into a
moral victory, and while he appeared satisfied and pleasant, they had
the air of being a little ashamed of what they had done.
Why this little incident should have stuck in my memory I can’t quite
explain, except perhaps that it was the forerunner of so many similar
little incidents between Kenneth and the doctor, but without opening
his mouth he had made them both look like naughty children disobeying
their nurse, and I think that it was about from this time that I began
to suspect that, somehow, somewhere, there was something amiss with
our party. Although we still continued to laugh and be jolly, I could
not help feeling sensible that the pace was being forced, and that it
was only by effort the ball was kept rolling.
I wondered whether it was due to the arrival of The Tundish, and if so
why. Or whether it was due to the fact that my cold was making me feel
depressed, and that while I was approaching the forties, the rest,
with the exception of The Tundish himself, were all young and in their
early twenties.