Having noted the twenty-four numbers, French hurriedly replaced the
notes and with even more speed looked through the remaining drawers.
He was now chiefly anxious that Whymper should not suspect his
discovery, and as soon as he was satisfied that he had left no traces
of his search, he silently unlocked the door and then walked noisily
downstairs. As he reached the hall the landlady appeared from the
kitchen.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said politely, “that I cannot wait any longer
now. I have another appointment. Please tell Mr. Whymper that I’ll
call to see him at the church to-morrow.”
The door closed behind him, but he made no attempt to return to the
hotel. Instead he hung about the terrace until he saw Whymper
approaching in the distance: Then walking towards him, he hailed him
as if their meeting was accidental.
“Good-evening, Mr. Whymper. I’ve just been calling at your rooms to
ask if you could see me at the church to-morrow. One or two points
occurred to me in connection with our discussion of last night, and I
wanted to get your views on them. Unfortunately I have an appointment
to-night, and cannot wait now.”
Whymper, evidently not too pleased at the prospect, curtly admitted he
would be available, and with a short “Good-night,” passed on.
French went his way also, but when in a few seconds the shadowing
constable put in an appearance, he stopped him.
“Look here, Hughes. I have a suspicion that Whymper may try to get rid
of some papers to-night. Be specially careful if you see him trying to
do anything of the kind, and let me hear from you about it in the
morning.”
He reached the hotel and in his pleasant way had a leisurely chat with
the landlord before turning in. But when once he reached his room for
the night he lit a cigar and settled down to see just where he stood.
It was obvious in the first place that the evidence which he had
obtained against Pierce Whymper would have been considered by most
police officers sufficient to justify an arrest. To find a man
suspected of the theft with the stolen property in his possession was
usually reckoned an overwhelming proof of his guilt. And if to this be
added the fact that the accused was seen in the neighbourhood of the
crime about the time of its commission, having previously denied being
there, and further, that his whole bearing when questioned was evasive
and embarrassed, any lingering doubt might well have been swept away.
But French was not wholly satisfied. A ripe experience had made him an
almost uncanny judge of character and he felt a strong impression that
Pierce Whymper was not of the stuff of which thieves and murderers are
made. That the young man knew something about the crime he had no
doubt; that he was guilty of it he was not so certain.
He racked his brains as to whether there was no other statement of
Whymper’s which he could check. Then he remembered that the young
architect had admitted having seen Roper on the afternoon of the
tragedy. This was a point of contact with Starvel, and French wondered
whether more might not have passed between the two men than Whymper
had divulged. He decided that it would be worth while trying to find
out.
According to his own statement Whymper had met Roper outside the
church gate at about 5.30 on the evening in question. Next morning
French therefore strolled to the church, and getting into conversation
with one of the workmen, learned that the sexton was usually waiting
to lock up when the men left at 5.15. From the notice board he learned
the sexton’s address, ran him to earth and explained that he wished to
speak to him confidentially.
To his customary story of the insurance company who wished to discover
the cause of the Starvel fire he added some slight embroidery. At the
inquest a suggestion was made of contributory negligence—in other
words, drink—and his instructions were to find out what he could about
this possibility.
Now he had heard that Roper was seen outside the church gate about
5.30 on the afternoon of the tragedy and he, French, wondered whether
the sexton might not have noticed him when locking up.
It was a long shot, but rather to French’s surprise, it got a bull’s
eye. The sexton had seen Mr. Roper. Mr. Whymper, the young gentleman
in charge of the renovation, had been ten or fifteen minutes late
finishing up that evening and he, the sexton, had waited by the gate
till he should leave. While there he had noticed Roper. The man seemed
to be hanging about as if waiting for some one, and when Mr. Whymper
appeared, Roper went up and spoke to him. The two men talked together
as if Roper were delivering a message, then they separated, walking
off in opposite directions. They talked, the sexton was sure, for two
or three minutes. No, he did not observe the slightest sign of drink
on Mr. Roper. As a matter of fact the man wished him good-evening and
he could swear he was then perfectly sober.
“Well, I’m glad to know that,” French declared, “though I suppose it
is really against my company. But I expect we shall have to pay in any
case. Now, I think I’d best see this Mr. Whymper you speak of, and get
his confirmation of your views.”
“You’ll find him in the church, probably in the north transept where
they’re rebuilding the window.”
French did not, however, go immediately to the north transept of the
church. Instead he found his way to the residence of a certain Colonel
Followes, a prominent magistrate with a reputation for discretion,
whose name had been given him by Sergeant Kent. He took the colonel
into his confidence, made the necessary formal statement and obtained
a warrant for the arrest of Pierce Whymper. Whether or not he would
execute it would depend on the young man’s answers to his further
questions, but he wished to be able to do so if, at the time, it
seemed wise.
Returning to the church, French found his quarry superintending the
resetting of the stone mullions of the beautiful north transept
window. He waited until the young man was free, then said that he
would be glad if they could now have their talk.
“Come into the vestry room,” Whymper returned. “I use it as an office
and we won’t be disturbed.”
Of all the sights which the groined roof of the old vestry had looked
down on during the three centuries of its existence, none perhaps was
so out of keeping with the character of the place as this interview
between a detective of the C.I.D. and the man whom he half suspected
of murder, arson, and burglary. And yet there was nothing dramatic
about their conversation. French spoke quietly, as if their business
was everyday and matter of fact. Whymper, though he was evidently
under strain, gave none of the evidence of apprehension he had
exhibited on the previous evening. Rather had he the air of a man who
feared no surprise as he had braced himself to meet the worst. He
waited in silence for the other to begin.
“I am sorry, Mr. Whymper,” French said at last, “to have to return to
the subject we discussed last night, but since then further facts have
come to my knowledge which render it necessary. I think it right to
tell you that these facts suggest that you may be guilty of a number
of extremely serious crimes. I am, however, aware that facts,
improperly understood, may be misleading, and I wish, therefore, to
give you an opportunity of explaining the matters which seem to
incriminate you. I would like to ask you a number of questions, but
before I do so I must warn you that if your answers are unsatisfactory
I must arrest you, and then anything you have said may be used in
evidence against you.”
Whymper had paled slightly while the other was speaking. “I shall try
to answer your questions,” he said in a low voice, and French
resumed:—
“The main question is, of course, the one I asked you last night:
Where did you get the twenty-pound note with which you paid Messrs.
Cook? You needn’t tell me that you don’t know. Apart from the
improbability of that I have absolute proof that you know quite well.
Now, Mr. Whymper, if you are innocent you have nothing to fear. Tell
me the truth. I can promise you I will give your statement every
consideration.”
“I have already explained that I don’t know where the note came from.”
French paused, frowning and looking inquiringly at the other.
“Very well,” he said at last, “let us leave it at that for the moment.
Now tell me: Did you receive any other money from Mr. Averill or Miss
Averill, or Roper or Mrs. Roper within three or four days of the
fire?”
“None.”
“There was a matter of a certain £500. It was in Mr. Averill’s safe
four days before the fire. All but twenty pounds of it was in your
possession last night. Now where did you obtain that money?”
In spite of his being prepared for the worst, Whymper seemed
completely taken aback by the question. He did not answer, but sat
staring at the Inspector, while an expression of utter hopelessness
grew on his face. French went on:—
“You see, Mr. Whymper, I know all about your having that money. And I
know that you were at Starvel on the night of the fire. I know also
that your interview with Roper outside the church on that same evening
involved a good deal more than a mere exchange of good-nights. Come
now, I want to give you the chance of making a statement, but I don’t
want to press you. If you would like to reserve your replies until you
have consulted your solicitor, by all means do so. But in that case I
shall have to take you into custody.”
For some moments Whymper did not speak. He seemed overcome by French’s
words and unable to reach a decision. French did not hurry him. He had
sized up his man and he believed he would presently get his
information. But at last, as Whymper remained silent, he said more
sternly:—
“Come now, Mr. Whymper, you’ll have to make up your mind, you know.”
His words seemed to break the spell and Whymper replied. He spoke
earnestly and without any of the evidences of prevarication which had
marked his previous statements. “The truth this time,” said French to
himself, and he settled down to listen, thinking that if the other
really had a satisfactory explanation of his conduct, it was going to
be worth hearing.
“I wanted to keep this matter secret,” Whymper began, “for quite
personal reasons. The £500 you speak of, of which the money I paid to
Cook was a part, was not stolen. It never occurred to me to imagine I
could be accused of stealing it. I don’t see now what makes you think
I did. However, I see that I must tell you the truth so far as I can
and I may begin by admitting that what I have said up to now was not
the truth.”
French nodded in approval.
“That’s better, Mr. Whymper. I am glad you are taking this line.
Believe me, you will find it the best for yourself.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take any credit for it. I needn’t pretend I would
have told you if I could have helped myself. However, this is what
happened:—
“On that Wednesday evening of the fire, as I left the church about
half-past five, I saw Roper outside the gate. He seemed to be waiting
for me and he came up and said he had a message for me from Mr.
Averill. Mr. Averill wasn’t very well or he would have written, but he
wanted to see me on very urgent and secret business. Roper asked could
I come out that night to Starvel and see Mr. Averill, without
mentioning my visit to any one. I said I should be out there shortly
after eight o’clock, and we parted.”
Again French nodded. This was a good beginning. So far it covered the
facts.
“I walked out as I had promised. Roper opened the door. He showed me
into the drawing-room and asked me to wait until he had informed Mr.
Averill. He was absent for several minutes and then he came back to
say that Mr. Averill was extremely sorry, but he was feeling too ill
to see me. He had, however, written me a note, and Roper handed me a
bulky envelope.
“I was fairly surprised when I opened it for it contained banknotes,
and when I counted them I was more surprised still. There were
twenty-five of them and they were all for £20: no less than £500
altogether. There was a note with them. I don’t remember the exact
words, but Mr. Averill said he was sorry he was too unwell to
undertake what must be a painful interview, that he didn’t wish to put
the facts in writing, that Roper was entirely in his confidence in the
matter and would explain it, and that as I should want money for what
he was going to ask me to do, he was enclosing £500, to which he would
add a further sum if I found I required it.
“Roper then went on to tell me a certain story. I can only say that it
is quite impossible for me to repeat it, but it involved a visit to
France. Mr. Averill would have preferred to have gone himself, but he
was too old and frail, and he could not spare Roper. He asked me would
I undertake it for him. The money was for my expenses, if I would go.
The matter was, however, very confidential, and this I could see for
myself.
“I agreed to go to France, and took the notes. I left Starvel about
half-past nine, and walked back to my rooms. Next day came the news of
the tragedy. This put me in a difficulty as to the mission to France.
But I saw that my duty would be to go just as if Mr. Averill was still
alive. So I went, as you seem to know, but I was unable to carry out
the work Mr. Averill had wished me to do. Instead, therefore, of
spending four or five hundred pounds as I had expected to, the trip
only cost me my travelling expenses, and I was left with £480 of Mr.
Averill’s money on my hands. At first I thought I had better hand it
over to Mr. Oxley, Mr. Averill’s solicitor, but afterwards I decided
to keep it and go out again to France and have another try at the
business.”
French was puzzled by the story. It certainly hung together and it
certainly was consistent with all the facts he had learned from other
sources. Moreover, Whymper’s manner was now quite different. He spoke
convincingly and French felt inclined to believe him. On the other
hand, all that he had said could have been very easily invented. If he
persisted in his refusal to disclose his business in France, French
felt he could not officially accept his statement.
“That may be all very well, Mr. Whymper,” he said. “I admit that what
you have told me may be perfectly true. I am not saying whether I
myself believe it or not, but I will say this, that no jury on the
face of this earth would believe it. Moreover, as it stands, your
story cannot be tested. You must tell the whole of it. You must say
what was the mission Mr. Averill asked you to undertake in France. If
I can satisfy myself about it there is no need for any one else to
know. Now, be advised, and since you have gone so far, complete your
statement.”
The hopeless look settled once more on Whymper’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he said despondently. “I can’t. It’s not my secret.”
“But Mr. Averill is now dead. That surely makes a difference. Besides,
it is impossible that he could wish to get you into the most serious
trouble any man could be in because of even a criminal secret. Tell me
in confidence, Mr. Whymper. I’ll promise not to use the information
unless it is absolutely necessary.”
Whymper shook his head. “I can’t tell,” he repeated.
French’s tone became a trifle sterner.
“I wonder if you quite understand the position. It has been
established that some person or persons went to Starvel on the evening
we are speaking of, murdered Mr. Averill and Roper and his wife,”
Whymper gave an exclamation of dismay, “stole Mr. Averill’s fortune
and then set fire to the house. So far as we know, you alone visited
the house that night, some of the stolen money was found in your
possession, and when I give you the chance of accounting for your
actions, you don’t take it. Do you not understand, Mr. Whymper, that
if you persist in this foolish attitude you will be charged with
murder?”
Whymper’s face had become ghastly and an expression of absolute horror
appeared on his features. For a moment he sat motionless, and then he
looked French straight in the face.
“It’s not my secret. I can’t tell you,” he declared with a sudden show
of energy and then sank back into what seemed the lethargy of despair.
French was more puzzled than ever. The facts looked as bad as
possible, and yet if Whymper’s tale were true, he might be absolutely
innocent. And French’s inclination was to believe the story so far as
it went. The secret might be something discreditable affecting, not
Mr. but Miss Averill, which would account for the man’s refusal to
reveal it. On the other hand could Whymper be hiding information about
the Starvel crime? Was he even shielding the murderer? Could he,
learning what had occurred and finding proof of the murderer’s
identity, have himself set fire to the house with the object of
destroying the evidence? Somehow, French did not think he was himself
the murderer, but if he knew the identity of the criminal he was an
accessory after the fact and guilty to that extent.
Whether or not he should arrest the young man was to French a problem
which grew in difficulty the longer he considered it. On the whole, he
was against it. If Whymper turned out to be innocent such a step
would, of course, be a serious blunder, but even if he were guilty
there were objections to it. Arrest might prevent him from doing
something by which he would give himself away or at least indicate the
correct line of research. Free, but with arrest hanging over him, the
man would in all probability attempt to communicate with his
accomplice—if he had one—and so give a hint of the latter’s identity.
French made up his mind.
“I have more than enough evidence to arrest you now,” he said gravely,
“but I am anxious first to put your story to a further test. I will,
therefore, for the present only put you under police supervision. If
you can see your way to complete your statement, I may be able to
withdraw the supervision. By the way, have you got the note Mr.
Averill enclosed with the £500?”
“Yes, it is in my rooms.”
“Then come along to your rooms now and give it to me. You had better
hand over the notes also, for which, of course, I’ll give you a
receipt. I shall also want a photograph of yourself and a sample of
your handwriting.”
When French reached the hotel he took out some samples of Mr.
Averill’s handwriting which he had obtained from Mr. Tarkington and
compared them with that of Whymper’s note. But he saw at a glance that
there was nothing abnormal here. All were obviously by the same hand.
That evening after racking his brains over his problem it was borne in
on him that a visit to Annecy was his only remaining move. It was not
hopeful, but as he put it to himself, you never knew. He felt there
was nothing more to be learned at Thirsby, but he _might_ find
something at Annecy which would give him a lead.
He saw Sergeant Kent and urged him to keep a close watch on Whymper’s
movements, then next day he went up to town and put the case before
Chief Inspector Mitchell. That astute gentleman smiled when he heard
it.
“Another trip to the Continent, eh, French?” he observed dryly. “Fond
of foreign travel, aren’t you?”
“It’s what you say, sir,” French answered, considerably abashed. “I
admit it’s not hopeful, but it’s just a possibility. However, if you
think it best I shall go back to Thirsby, and——”
“Pulling your leg, French,” the Chief Inspector broke in with a kindly
smile. “I think you should go to France. You mayn’t learn anything
about the tragedy, but you’re pretty certain to find out Whymper’s
business and either convict him or clear him in your mind.”
That evening at 8.30 French left Victoria and early next morning
reached Paris. Crossing the city, he bathed and breakfasted at the
Gare de Lyon, and taking the 8.10 a.m. express, spent the day watching
the great central plain of France roll past the carriage windows. For
an hour or two after starting they skirted the Seine, a placid, well
wooded stream garnished with little towns and pleasant villas. Then
through the crumpled up country north of Dijon and across more plains,
past Bourg and Amberieu and through the foothills of the Alps to Culoz
and Aix. At Aix French changed, completing his journey on a little
branch line and reaching Annecy just in time for dinner. He drove to
the Splendid, where Whymper had stayed, a large hotel looking out
across a wide street at the side of which came up what looked like a
river, but which he afterwards found was an arm of the lake. Scores of
little boats lay side by side at the steps along the road, and on the
opposite side of the water stood a great building which he saw was the
theatre, with behind it, the trees of a park.
After dinner French asked for the manager, and producing his
photograph of Whymper, inquired if any one resembling it had recently
stayed at the hotel. But yes, the manager remembered his guest’s
friend perfectly. He had stayed, he could not say how long from
memory, but he would consult the register. Would monsieur be so
amiable as to follow him? Yes, here it was. M. Whymper?—was it not so?
M. Whymper had arrived on Friday the 8th of October and had stayed for
three nights, leaving on Monday the 11th. No, the manager could not
tell what his business had been nor how he had employed his time.
Doubtless he had gone on the lake. To go on the lake was very
agreeable. All the hotel guests went on the lake. By steamer, yes. You
could go to the end of the lake in one hour, and round it in between
two and three. But yes! A lake of the greatest beauty.
French had not expected to learn more than this from the manager. He
remembered that in his original letter to Cook Whymper had asked for
Talloires, and he now spoke of the place. Talloires, it appeared, was
a small village on the east side of the lake, rather more than
half-way down. A picturesque spot, the manager assured him, with no
less than three hotels. If monsieur wished to visit it he should take
the steamer. All the steamers called.
Next morning accordingly French took the steamer from the pleasant
little Quay alongside the park. French thought the lake less lovely
than that of Thun, but still the scenery was very charming. High hills
rose up steeply from the water, particularly along the eastern side,
while towards the south he could see across the ends of valleys snow
peaks hanging in the sky. Villas and little hamlets nestled in the
trees along the shore.
Right opposite the pier at Talloires was a big hotel and there French,
having ordered a drink, began to make inquiries. But no one had seen
the original of the photograph, or recollected hearing a name like
Whymper.
Another large hotel was standing close by, and French strolled towards
it beneath a grove of fine old trees which grew down to the water’s
edge. This hotel building had been a monastery and French enjoyed
sauntering through the old cloisters, which he was told, formed the
_salle à manger_ during the hot weather.
Having done justice to an excellent _dejeuner_, he returned to
business, producing his photograph and asking his questions. And here
he met with immediate success. Both the waiter who attended him and
the manager remembered Whymper. The young architect had, it appeared,
asked to see the manager and had inquired if he knew where in the
neighbourhood a M. Prosper Giraud had lived. When the manager replied
that no such person had been there while he had been manager—over five
years—Whymper had been extremely disconcerted. He had then asked if a
Mme. Madeleine Blancquart was known, and on again receiving a negative
reply, had been more upset than ever. He had left after lunch and the
manager had heard that he had repeated his questions to the police.
In ten minutes French was at the local gendarmerie, where he learned
that not only had Whymper made the same inquiries, but had offered a
reward of 5000 francs for information as to the whereabouts of either
of the mysterious couple. Interrogations on the same point had been
received from the police at Annecy, so presumably Whymper had visited
them also.
This supposition French confirmed on returning to the little town.
Whymper had made his inquiries and offered his reward there also and
had seemed terribly disappointed by his failure to locate the people.
He had left his address and begged that if either of the persons was
heard of a wire should be sent him immediately.
As French made his way back to London he felt that in one sense his
journey had not been wasted. Whymper’s actions seemed on the whole to
confirm his story. French did not believe he would have had the guile
to travel out all that way, and to show such feeling over a failure to
find purely imaginary people. He felt sure that M. Prosper Giraud and
Mme. Madeleine Blancquart did really exist and that Mr. Averill had
mentioned them. If Whymper had invented these people he would have
spoken of them so that his inquiries might be discovered in
confirmation of his statement. If Whymper, moreover, had had
sufficient imagination to devise such a story, he would certainly have
had enough to complete it in a convincing manner.
The more French considered the whole affair, the more likely he
thought it that there really was a secret in the Averill family, a
secret so important or so sinister that Whymper was willing to chance
arrest rather than reveal it. And if so, it could concern but one
person. Surely for Ruth Averill alone would the young man run such a
risk. And then French remembered that until the fire, that was, until
Whymper’s visit to Starvel, the courtship of the young people had been
going strong, whereas after the tragedy the affair had seemed at a
standstill. There was some secret vitally affecting Ruth. French felt
he could swear it. And what form would such a secret be likely to
take? French determined that on his return he would make some guarded
inquiries as to the girl’s parentage.
But when he reached London he found a fresh development had taken
place, and his thoughts for some time to come were led into a
completely new channel.