Cock Robin’s House
1
The sudden telephone message from Hastings at two o’clock on that
August morning and his own subsequent acceptance of the suggestion
that he should be _The Owl’s_ “Special Commissioner,” had at least,
thought Anthony, as he drove his car through Kingston four hours
later, remedied that lack of something definite to do.
He had driven at once to _The Owl’s_ headquarters, had arranged
matters with Hastings within ten minutes, and had then telephoned to a
friend—an important official friend. To him Anthony had outlined,
sketchily, the scheme, and had been given in reply a semi-official,
“Mind you, _I_ know nothing about it if anything happens, but get
ahead” blessing. He had then driven back to his flat, packed a bag,
left a note for his man, and set out for Marling in Surrey.
From his official friend he had gathered that once on the right side
of Miss Hoode and his way was clear. As he drove he pondered. How to
approach the woman? At any mention of the Press she would be bound to
shy. Finally, he put the problem to one side.
The news of John Hoode’s death had not moved him, save in the way of a
passing amazement. Anthony had seen too much of death to shed tears
over a man he had never known. And the Minister of Imperial Finance,
brilliant though he had been, had never seized the affections of the
people in the manner of a Joe Chamberlain.
Passing through Halsemere, Anthony, muttering happily to himself:
“Now, who _did_ kill Cock Robin?” was struck by a horrid thought.
Suppose there should be no mystery! Suppose, as Hastings had
suggested, that the murderer had already delivered himself.
Then he dismissed the idea. A Cabinet Minister murdered without a
mystery? Impossible! All the canons were against it.
He took his car along at some speed. By ten minutes to eight he had
reached the Bear and Key in Marling High Street, demanded a room and
breakfast, and had been led upstairs by a garrulous landlord.
2
Bathed, shaved, freshly-clothed and full of breakfast, Anthony
uncurled his thin length from the best chair in the inn’s parlour, lit
his pipe, and sought the garden.
Outside the door he encountered the landlord, made inquiry as to the
shortest way to Abbotshall, and, placidly puffing at his pipe, watched
with enjoyment the effect of his question.
The eyes of Mr. Josiah Syme flashed with the fire of curiosity.
“’Scuse me, sir,” he wheezed, “but ’ave you come down along o’
this—along o’ these _’appenings_ up at the ’ouse?”
“Hardly,” said Anthony.
Mr. Syme tried again. “Be you a ’tective, sir?” he asked in a
conspiratorial wheeze. “If so, Joe Syme might be able to ’elp ye.” He
leant forward and added in yet a lower whisper: “My eldest gel, she’s
an ’ousemaid up along at Abbotshall.”
“Is she indeed,” said Anthony. “Wait here till I get my hat; then
we’ll walk along together. You can show me the way.”
“Then—then—you are a ’tective, sir.”
“What exactly I am,” said Anthony, “God Himself may know. I do not.
But you can make five pounds if you want it.”
Mr. Syme understood enough.
As they walked, first along the white road, then through fields and
finally along the bank of that rushing, fussy, barely twenty-yards
wide little river, the Marle, Mr. Syme told what he knew.
Purged of repetitions, biographical meanderings, and excursions into
rustic theorising, the story was this.
Soon after eleven on the night before, Miss Laura Hoode had entered
her brother’s study and found him lying, dead and mutilated, on the
hearth. Exactly what the wounds were, Mr. Syme could not say; but by
common report they were sufficiently horrible.
Before she fainted, Miss Hoode screamed. When other members of the
household arrived they found her lying across her brother’s body. A
search-party was at once instituted for possible murderers, and the
police and a doctor notified. People were saying—Mr. Syme became
confidential—that Miss Hoode’s mind had been unhinged by the shock.
Nothing was yet known as to the identity of the criminal, but (here
Mr. Syme gave vent to many a dark suggestion, implicating in turn
every member of the household save his daughter).
Anthony dammed the flow with a question. “Can you tell me,” he asked,
“exactly who’s living in the house?”
Mr. Syme grew voluble at once. Oh, yes. He knew all right. At the
present moment there were Miss Hoode, two friends of the late Mr.
Hoode’s, and the servants and the young gent—Mr. Deacon—what had been
the corpse’s secretary. The names? Oh, yes, he could give the names
all right. Servants—his daughter Elsie, housemaid; Mabel Smith,
another housemaid; Martha Forrest, the cook; Lily Ingram,
kitchen-maid; Annie Holt, parlour-maid; old Mr. Poole, the butler; Bob
Belford, the other man-servant. Then there was Tom Diggle, the
gardener, though he’d been in the cottage hospital for the last week
and wasn’t out yet. And there was the chauffeur, Harry Wright. Of
course, though, now he came to think of it, the gardener and the
chauffeur didn’t rightly _live_ in the house, they shared the lodge.
“And the two guests?” said Anthony. It is hard to believe, but he had
assimilated that stream of names, had even correctly assigned to each
the status and duties of its owner.
“One gent, and one lady, sir. Oh, and there’s the lady’s own maid,
sir. Girl with some Frenchy name. Duboise, would it be?” Mr. Syme was
patently proud of his infallibility. “Mrs. Mainwaring the lady’s
called—she’s a tall, ’andsome lady with goldy-like sort of ’air, sir.
And the gent’s Sir Arthur Digby-Coates—and a very pleasant gent he is,
sir, so Elsie says.”
Anthony gave a start of pleasure. Digby-Coates was an acquaintance of
his private-secretarial days. Digby-Coates might be useful. Hastings
hadn’t told him.
“There be Habbotshall, sir,” said Mr. Syme.
Anthony looked up. On his left—they had been walking with the little
Marle on their right—was a well-groomed, smiling garden, whose
flower-beds, paths, pergolas, and lawns stretched up to the feet of
one of the strangest houses within his memory.
For it was low and rambling and shaped like a capital L pushed over on
its side. Mainly, it was two stories high, but on the extreme end of
the right arm of the recumbent L there had been built an additional
floor. This gave it a gay, elfin humpiness that attracted Anthony
strangely. Many-hued clouds of creeper spread in beautiful disorder
from ground to half-hidden chimney-stacks. Through the leaves peeped
leaded windows, as a wood-fairy might spy through her hair at the
woodcutter’s son who was really a prince. A flagged walk bordered by a
low yew hedge ran before the house; up to this led a flight of stone
steps from the lower level of the lawns. Opposite the head of the
steps was a verandah.
“This here, sir,” explained Mr. Syme unnecessarily, “is rightly the
back of the ’ouse.”
Anthony gave him his congé and a five-pound note, hinting that his own
presence at Marling should not be used as a fount for bar-room gossip.
Mr. Syme walked away with a gait quaintly combining the stealth of a
conspirator and the alertness of a great detective.
Anthony turned in at the little gate and made for the house. At the
head of the steps before the verandah he paused. Voices came to his
ear. The tone of the louder induced him to walk away from the verandah
and along the house to his right. He halted by the first ground-floor
window and listened, peering into the room.
Inside stood two men, one a little, round-shouldered, black-coated
fellow with a dead-white face and hands that twisted nervously; the
other tall, burly, crimson-faced, fierce-moustached, clad in police
blue with the three stripes of a sergeant on his arm.
It was the policeman’s voice that had attracted Anthony’s attention.
Now it was raised again, more loudly than before.
“You know a blasted sight more o’ this crime than you says,” it
roared.
The other quivered, lifted a shaking hand to his mouth, and cast a
hunted look round the room. He seemed, thought Anthony, remarkably
like a ferret.
“I don’t, sergeant. Re-really I d-don’t,” he stammered.
The sergeant thrust his great face down into that of his victim. “I
don’t believe you this mornin’ any more’n I did last night,” he
bellowed. “Now, Belford, me lad, you confess! If you ’olds out against
Jack ’Iggins you’ll be sorry.”
Anthony leaned his arms on the window-sill and thrust head and
shoulders into the room.
“Now, sergeant,” he said, “this sort of thing’ll never do, you know.”
The effect of his intrusion tickled pleasantly his sense of the
dramatic. Law and Order recovered first, advanced, big with rage, to
the window and demanded what was the meaning of the unprintable
intrusion.
“Why,” said Anthony, “shall we call it a wish to study at close
quarters the methods of the County Constabulary.”
“Who the—— ——ing ’ell are you?” The face of Sergeant Higgins was black
with wrath.
“I,” said Anthony, “am Hawkshaw, the detective!”
Before another roar could break from outraged officialdom, the door of
the room opened. A thick-set, middle-aged man of a grocerish air
inquired briskly what was the trouble here.
Sergeant Higgins became on the instant a meek subordinate. “I—I didn’t
know you were—were about, sir.” He stood stiff at attention. “Just
questioning of a few witnesses, I was, sir. This er—gentleman”—he
nodded in the direction of Anthony—“just pushed his ’ead——”
But Superintendent Boyd of the C.I.D. was shaking the interloper by
the hand. He had recognised the head and shoulders as those of Colonel
Gethryn. In 1917 he had been “lent” to Colonel Gethryn in connection
with a great and secret “round-up” in and about London. For Colonel
Gethryn Superintendent Boyd had liking and a deep respect.
“Well, well, sir,” he said, beaming. “Fancy seeing you. They didn’t
tell me you were staying here.”
“I’m not,” Anthony said. Then added, seeing the look of bewilderment:
“I don’t quite know what I am, Boyd. You may have to turn me away. I
think I’d better see Miss Hoode before I commit myself any further.”
He swung his long legs into the room, patted the doubtful Boyd on the
shoulder, sauntered to the door, opened it and passed through. Turning
to his right, he collided sharply with another man. A person this, of
between forty and fifty, dressed tastefully in light gray;
broad-shouldered, virile, with a kindly face marked with lines of
fatigue and mental stress. Anthony recoiled from the shock of the
collision. The other stared.
“Good God!” he exclaimed.
“You exaggerate, Sir Arthur,” said Anthony.
Sir Arthur Digby-Coates recovered himself. “The most amazing
coincidence that ever happened, Gethryn,” he said. “I was just
thinking of you.”
“Really?” Anthony was surprised.
“Yes, yes. I suppose you’ve heard? You must have. Poor Hoode!”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“But I thought you’d left——”
“Oh, yes,” said Anthony, “I’ve left the Service. Quite a time ago. I’m
here because—look here, this’ll sound rot if I try to explain in a
hurry. Can we go and sit somewhere where we can talk?”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly. I’m very glad indeed to see you,
Gethryn. Very glad. This is a terrible, an awful affair—and, well, I
think we could do with your help. You see, I feel responsible for
seeing that _everything’s_ done that can be. It may seem strange to
you, Gethryn, the way I’m taking charge like this; but John and I
were—well ever since we were children we’ve been more like brothers
than most real ones. I don’t think a week’s passed, except once or
twice, that we haven’t seen—— This way: we can talk better in my room.
I’ve got a sitting-room of my own here, you know. Dear old John——”
3
It was three-quarters of an hour before Anthony descended the stairs;
but in that time much had been decided and arranged. So much, in fact,
that Anthony marvelled at his luck—a form of mental exercise unusual
in him. He was always inclined to take the gifts of the gods as his
due.
But this was different. Everything was being made so easy for him.
First, here was dear, stolid old Boyd in charge of the case. Next,
there was Sir Arthur. As yet they were the merest acquaintances, but
the knight had, he knew, for some time been aware of and impressed by
the war record of A. R. Gethryn, and had welcomed him to the stricken
household. Through Sir Arthur, Miss Hoode—whom Anthony had not seen
yet—had been persuaded to accept Anthony, despite his present aura of
journalism.
Oh, most undoubtedly, everything was going very well! Now, thought
Anthony, for the murderer. This, in spite of its painful side, was all
vastly entertaining. Who killed Cock Robin Hoode?
Anthony felt more content than for the last year. It appeared that,
after all, there might be interest in life.
In the hall he found Boyd; with him Poole, the butler—a lean, shaking
old man—and a burly fellow whom Anthony knew for another of Scotland
Yard’s Big Four.
Boyd came to meet him. The burly one picked up his hat and sought the
front door. The butler vanished.
“I wish you’d tell me, colonel,” Boyd asked, “exactly where you come
in on this business?”
Anthony smiled. “It’s no use, Boyd. I’m not the murderer, But lend me
your ears and I’ll explain my presence.”
As the explanation ended, Boyd’s heavy face broke into a smile. He
showed none of the chagrin commonly attributed to police detectives
when faced with the amateur who is to prove them fools at every turn.
“There’s no one I’d rather have with me, colonel,” he said. “Of
course, it’s all very unofficial——”
“That’s all right, Boyd. Before I left town I rang up Mr. Lucas. He
gave me his blessing, and told me to carry on—provided I was accepted
by the family.”
Boyd looked relieved. “That makes everything quite easy, then. I don’t
mind telling you that this is a regular puzzler, Colonel Gethryn.”
“So I have gathered,” Anthony said. “By the way, Boyd, do drop that
‘Colonel,’ there’s a good Inspector. If you love me, call me mister,
call me mister, Boydie dear.”
Boyd laughed. He found Anthony refreshingly unofficial. “Very well,
sir. Now, if we may, let’s get down to business. I suppose you’ve
heard roughly what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Much detail?”
“A wealth. None germane.”
Boyd was pleased. He knew this laconic mood of Anthony’s; it meant
business. He was pleased because at present he felt himself out of his
depth in the case. He produced from his breast-pocket a notebook.
“Here are some notes I’ve made, sir,” he said. “You won’t be able to
read ’em, so let me give you an edited version.”
“Do. But let’s sit down first.”
They did so, on a small couch before the great fireplace.
Boyd began his tale. “I’ve questioned every one in the house except
Miss Hoode,” he said. “I’ll tackle her when she’s better, probably
this afternoon. But beyond the fact that she was the first one to see
the body, I don’t think she’ll be much use. Now the facts. After
supp—dinner, that is, last night, Mr. Hoode, Miss Hoode, Mrs.
Mainwaring and Sir Arthur Digby-Coates played bridge in the
drawing-room. They finished the meal at eight-thirty, began the cards
at nine and finished the game at about ten. Miss Hoode then said
good-night and went to her bedroom; so did the other lady. Sir Arthur
went to his own sitting-room to work, and the deceased retired to his
study for the same purpose.”
“No originality!” said Anthony plaintively. “It’s all exactly the
same. Ever read detective stories, Boyd? They’re always killed in
their studies. Always! Ever notice that?”
Boyd—perhaps a little shocked by the apparent levity—only shook his
head. He went on: “That’s the study door over there, sir, the only
door on the right side of the hall, you see. That little room just
opposite to it—the one you climbed into this morning—is a sort of den
for that old boy Poole, the butler. Poole says that from about
nine-forty-five until the murder was discovered he sat in there,
reading and thinking. _And_ he had the door open all the time. _And_
he was facing the door. _And_ he swears that no one entered the study
by that door during the whole of that time.”
“Mr. Poole is most convenient,” murmured Anthony. He was lying back,
his legs stretched out before him.
Boyd looked at him curiously. But the thin face was in shadow, and the
greenish eyes were veiled by their lids. A silence fell.
Anthony broke it. “Going to arrest Poole just yet?” he asked.
Boyd smiled. “No, sir. I suppose you’re thinking Poole knows too much.
Got his story too pat, so to speak.”
“Something of the sort. Never mind, though. On with the tale, my
Boyd.”
“No, Poole’s not my man. By all accounts he was devoted to his master.
That’s one thing. Another is that his right arm’s practically useless
with rheumatism and that he’s infirm—with an absolute minimum of
physical strength, so to speak. That proves he’s not the man, even if
other things were against him, which they’re not. You’ll know why when
I take you into that room there, sir.” The detective nodded his head
in the direction of the study door.
“Well,” he continued, “taking Poole, for the present at any rate, as a
reliable witness, we know that the murderer didn’t enter by the door.
The chimney’s impossible because it’s too small and the register’s
down; so he must have got in through the window.”
“Which of how many?” Anthony asked, still in that sleepy tone.
“The one farthest from the door and facing the garden, sir. The room’s
got windows on all three sides—three on the garden side, one in the
end wall, and two facing the drive; but only one of ’em—the one I
said—was open.”
Anthony opened his eyes. “But how sultry!” he complained.
“I know, sir. That’s what I thought. And in this hot weather and all.
But there’s an explanation. The deceased always had them—those
windows—shut all day in the hot weather, and the blinds down. He knew
a thing or two, you see. But he always used to open ’em himself at
night, when he went in there to work. I suppose last night he must
’ave been in a great hurry or something, and only opened one of ’em.”
He looked across at Anthony for approval of his reasoning, then
continued: “But the queer thing is, sir, that that open window shows
no traces of anything—no scratches, no marks, no nothing. Nor does the
flower-bed under it either.”
“Any finger-prints anywhere on anything?” said Anthony.
“None anywhere in the room but the deceased’s—except on one thing.
I’ve sent that up to the Yard—Jardine’s taken it—for the experts to
photograph. I’ll have the prints sometime this afternoon I should
think.” Boyd’s tone was mysterious.
Anthony looked at him. “Out with it, Boyd. You’re like a boy with a
surprise for daddy.”
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Boyd laughed, rather shamefacedly, “it’s
the _modus operandi_, so to speak.”
“So you’ve found the ber-loodstained weapon. Boyd, I congratulate you.
What was it? And whose are the finger-prints?”
“The weapon used, sir, was a large wood-rasp, and a very nasty weapon
it must have made. As for the finger-prints, I don’t know yet. And
it’s my firm belief we shan’t be much wiser when we’ve got the
enlargements—not even if we were to compare ’em with all the prints of
all the fingers for miles round. I don’t know what it is, sir, but
this case has got a nasty, puzzling sort of feel about it, so to
speak.”
“A wood-rasp, eh?” mused Anthony. “Not very enlightening. Doesn’t
belong to the house, I suppose?”
“As far as I can find out, sir, most certainly not.” Boyd’s tone was
gloomy.
“H’mm! Well, let us advance. We’ve absolved the aged Poole; but what
about the rest of the household?” Anthony spread out his long fingers
and ticked off each name as he spoke. “Miss Hoode, Mrs. Mainwaring,
her maid Duboise, Sir Arthur, Elsie Syme, Mabel Smith, Maggie—no,
Martha Forrest, Lily Ingram, Annie Holt, Belford, Harry Wright. Any of
them do? The horticultural Mr. Diggle’s in hospital and therefore out
of it, I suppose.”
Boyd stared amazement. “Good Lord, sir!” he exclaimed, “you’ve got ’em
off pat enough. Have you been talking to them?”
“Preserve absolute calm, Boyd; I have not been talking to them. I got
their dreadful names from an outsider. Anyhow, what about them?”
Boyd shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”
“All got confused but trustworthy alibis? That it?”
“Yes, sir, more or less; some of the alibis are clear as glass. To
tell you the truth, I don’t suspect any one in the house. Some of the
servants have got ‘confused alibis’ as you call it, but they’re all
obviously all right. That’s the servants; it’s the same only more so
with the others. Take the secretary, Mr. Deacon; he was up there in
his room the whole time. There’s one, p’r’aps two witnesses to prove
it. The same with Miss Hoode. And the other lady; to be sure she’s got
no witnesses, but that murder wasn’t her job, nor any woman’s. Take
Sir Arthur, it’s the same thing again. Even if there was anything
suspicious—which there wasn’t—about his relations with the deceased,
you can’t suspect a man who was, to the actual knowledge of five or
six witnesses who saw him, sitting upstairs in his room during the
only possible time when the murder can have been done.
“No, sir!” Boyd shook his head with vigour. “It’s no good looking in
the house. Take it from me.”
“I will, Boyd; for the present anyhow.” Anthony rose and stretched
himself. “Can I see the study?”
Boyd jumped up with alacrity. “You can, sir. We’ve been in there a
lot, taking photos, etcetera; but it’s untouched—just as it was when
they found the body.”