THE PAPER-KNIFE
THE VILLAGE of Bamberley lay about two miles from Beech Lodge, a
homelike nest of buildings gathered in a wrinkle of the Sussex hills. It
was well removed from any main road, and its thatched roofs and crooked
cobbled streets had fortunately escaped the demoralizing finger of
progress. It was, in fact, just as it had always been in the memory of
its oldest inhabitant. A village green, with the pens of the cattle
market just across the road, a rambling public house, whose swinging
sign creaked cheerily when the wind was high, a few diminutive shops,
the contents of which were huddled in the meadows, perhaps a hundred
cottages, a dozen more pretentious buildings dominated by the village
institute—and then the encircling hills, velvet and brown and wide,
patched with irregular coverts and dotted as far as the eye could reach
with farm-house and barn.
Bamberley happened to be the most important of four adjoining villages;
so here were the police headquarters of that utterly rural district. It
was a neat brick building with the local jail immediately behind,
standing where the cross-roads provided the main interest in life.
The road from Beech Lodge climbs the crown of a low hill ere it dips
into the village; and Derrick, as he strolled toward the station and
looked down on all this, thought he had never seen anything so peaceful.
The sergeant, a large, ruddy-faced, cylindrical man, greeted him with
undisguised interest, and Derrick lost no time in getting to the point.
They talked in the tiny office, which seemed filled by the other man’s
bulk. Derrick knew what he wanted, for this visit had occasioned him
much thought. He was aware, too, that minor officials in isolated places
were apt to regard with a jealous eye anything that might infringe on
their position and privilege. It was at once obvious that the sergeant
felt an added sense of responsibility when the visitor asked if he might
read the official documents in the Millicent case.
Burke had been prepared by the constable for Derrick’s coming, and
during the past few weeks had chafed at his delay. He wanted to talk
about the Millicent case more than anything else in the world. It was
the biggest and most baffling puzzle in his career, and for a day or so
the eyes of England had turned curiously toward Bamberley. After the
inquest they turned away to the next sensation, leaving the police force
of that tiny community with the stinging sensation of having fallen
grievously short. Since then, Burke, feeling his position more than he
would ever admit, had explored every avenue that presented itself to his
methodical mind. And always with the same result. Now, after nearly two
years of silence, the thing was up again, brought up by a complete
stranger who had actually taken into his employ the man suspected of the
crime, against whom no definite charge could be laid. Burke secretly
wondered whether by any chance Derrick and his gardener knew each other
a good deal better than appeared on the surface of things. This was
undoubtedly a matter for caution.
“The point is, sir,” he said slowly, “that I have no authority to tell
you anything whatever, unless it is clear that the law may be aided
thereby, and you have supplementary evidence with a direct bearing on
the case.”
Derrick nodded. “I quite understand, sergeant, and that’s entirely
reasonable. Would you sooner I looked up the counsel acting for the
crown at the inquest? I’m quite willing, if you’d rather not talk about
it.”
Burke reflected. He did not want to lose anything that might help
himself, nor did he want to go beyond his boundaries. There was probably
nothing here, but he could not get the reappearance of Martin out of his
head. He had walked past the cottage at Beech Lodge only the week before
and had a look at the man. Martin had nodded coolly and gone on with his
work. A hard man, any way one took him.
“Please yourself, sir, about that; but if you’ll tell me what’s in your
mind perhaps it won’t be necessary to go any further.”
“It may take a little time, sergeant.”
Burke glanced out of the window and along the cross-roads. “We’re not
likely to be disturbed this morning.”
“Then I’ll begin with a question. Do you believe in the theory that when
a serious crime has been committed, I mean one of passion or revenge,
that the criminal, wherever he may be, is constantly reminded of it by
the process of his own brain—that in spite of all he can do he builds
up picture after picture, and lives it all over and over again?”
“There are too many proved instances of that to doubt it.”
“And do you also believe that something constantly suggests to such a
man that he should go back and revisit the scene of the crime?”
“There was the Hardwick case, like that,” said Burke reminiscently. “You
remember the Gloucester Square doctor who was killed by the man who
afterwards took rooms immediately opposite the doctor’s house; and the
murderer never could tell why, except that it seemed the only thing to
do.”
“Then I take it that in your profession the likelihood is really weighed
and considered.”
“Yes, sir, it is. Some of the London men who came down here two years
ago were talking about it.”
“Another point is the matter of coincidence. How do you feel about
that?”
“It’s something that has played a big part in our work. One can’t put it
aside. Coincidence and the other things you’ve mentioned often seem to
run together.”
“And you know, of course, that Mr. Millicent’s gardener turned up very
soon after I took Beech Lodge?”
“Yes, Mr. Derrick; Constable Peters reported that you had authorized him
to occupy the cottage.”
“Then can you guess what brought him here all the way from Burma?”
“Did he go that far?”
Derrick nodded. “And came back by way of Canada—”
“There might be several reasons,” said the big man thoughtfully.
“Well, as a matter of fact there is but one.”
“How do you know, sir?”
“Martin told me himself.”
“What was it?” Burke’s tone had changed a little.
“He _had_ to come. He had no bones about saying so.” Derrick paused a
moment. “Sergeant, could an innocent man have felt like that?”
The sergeant stared at his own massive boots, glittering mountains of
leather that shone with official luster.
“Anything else, Mr. Derrick?”
“Of course you remember Perkins?”
“Perfectly; the sort of woman one can’t forget.”
“Yes; a strange character, showing nothing on the surface, and so much a
part of Beech Lodge that we took her on with the house.”
Burke grinned. “I can see that she hasn’t changed much.”
“No, she can’t change. But did you know that she walked in her sleep?”
The sergeant looked at him sharply. “For a newcomer, sir, you’ve
unearthed a good deal. I never heard that before.”
“And would you think it of interest if I told you that the desk at which
Mr. Millicent was found is of particular attraction to both Martin and
Perkins?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve seen them both examining it closely when they thought they
were unobserved. They were looking for something, sergeant.”
Burke got up, stood at the diminutive window, and with his hands folded
behind his back stared at the verdant expanse of Bamberley Green.
Obviously he was thinking very hard. Derrick lit his pipe and
contemplated the big frame, the thick neck, and round, neatly clipped
skull. There was no promise of great ability here, no quick perception,
no imaginative brain. Burke found his inspiration in his official
regulations. Law, order, and discipline, was it not all in a book? He
was the type for whom it was hard to let go, and impossible to forget.
And the biggest thing in his life was still the Millicent murder. It
hurt, just as Constable Peters had intimated. Presently he turned.
“Mr. Derrick, in most cases of crime, and especially that of murder, the
force is pestered with amateur detectives who believe they have the one
and only clue. It’s very often a reporter for some paper. They make all
kinds of trouble, and always mix things up if you give them any rope.
But you’ve said enough to justify me in talking about what took place at
the inquest on Mr. Millicent; though, mind you, it’s entirely
unofficial.”
“That’s all I ask, sergeant; and if this thing can be solved I have no
desire to appear in it at all. I’d much sooner not. If we get any
results, they’re yours, not mine. I don’t pose as an amateur detective;
but, from what I have already seen and know, I believe this thing can be
run to earth.”
Burke reached to a shelf above his head and took down a large
leather-bound volume. On the well-thumbed pages of this were pasted
envelopes, from one of which he extracted a docket bearing the name of
Millicent, with a date. The manner in which he turned to it suggested
that this procedure had often taken place before. He cleared his throat
and began rather stiffly.
“At ten thirty on the night of October fourteenth—that’s two years ago
less three days—I was just leaving this office when Paling, the groom
of Dr. Henry, drove up in great haste and said that I was wanted at once
at Beech Lodge by the doctor, who was himself at that time at the Lodge.
He had been summoned there by Martin, Mr. Millicent’s gardener, who told
him that a murder had been committed. We galloped all the way to the
Lodge, arriving there at ten thirty-seven by my watch. I left
instructions here that Constable Franklin should follow me without
delay. I was admitted by the maid Perkins, who took me to the study,
where I found Mrs. Millicent, her daughter, and the doctor. A lamp was
burning on the desk, and beside it was Mr. Millicent, lying forward so
that his head rested on the desk. He was quite dead. There was a large
wound in his neck that had bled profusely and formed a puddle among his
papers. The doctor very wisely had left things undisturbed, because his
first examination proved that life was extinct.”
“Were Perkins and Martin in the room at this time?” asked Derrick
evenly.
“No, only Mrs. and Miss Millicent and the doctor. Perkins and Martin
waited in the hall with the doctor’s groom.”
“And then?”
Burke turned a page. “It was, of course, most important not to destroy
the slightest clue that might have been left, so a very careful
examination of the room was made, with exact measurement of the position
in which the body was found. I searched the room, examined the door
leading to the lawn, and found that it was fastened. By this time
Constable Franklin had arrived, and he helped. We went over the entire
ground floor, made sure that all windows were closed, then locked the
study door, and took Mr. Millicent up-stairs to his own room. I left the
constable on guard outside with instructions that no person should be
allowed to enter or leave the grounds.”
“What sort of a night was it?”
“Dull, mild, and rather cloudy, with no rain.”
“And the outside of the house?”
“Nothing could be done till next morning except make sure that any
tracks should remain undisturbed; but after a most careful examination
we found nothing of the kind. My own conclusion, and it has not been
changed since, was that the blow must have been struck by some member of
the household—or”—here Burke paused significantly—“at any rate some
one in the family service. Mind you, Mr. Derrick, this is absolutely
unofficial.”
“I quite understand that. Now what can you tell me about the inquest?”
“I was just coming to that. The witnesses were narrowed to five: Mrs.
Millicent and her daughter, Dr. Henry, Perkins, and Martin. I’ll take
them in their order, so Mrs. Millicent comes first. She told a very
simple story. Her husband was forty-five, and the latter part of their
married life had been spent at Beech Lodge. He had at one time a very
comfortable income, which latterly had been reduced by speculations.
They were not, however, in difficult circumstances, although she seemed
to know very little of his financial affairs. He was always much
interested in anything that had to do with the Orient. So far as she was
aware he had no enemies. He spent a good deal of his time in the garden
and often went for long walks, always alone. Since his last trip to the
East, from which he returned five years before his death, he seemed to
have some kind of worry, of which he would never speak, or explain.
Letters had arrived for him from Singapore, at which his worry seemed to
increase; but he always destroyed these and never referred to their
contents. From what I make of it, he was up to his eyes in something he
found it necessary to conceal from those he cared for most. There had
been no hard words with any of the staff, and no stranger had been at
the house that day so far as we could learn.”
“I understand that Mrs. Millicent engaged Perkins, while later on her
husband employed Martin. How much later?”
“About a year.”
“So that any collusion between them before this is improbable?”
“I should say so; and it seems that they took very little notice of each
other at any time.”
“Then, as far as we have gone, the period between the actual moment of
the murder and the time when Perkins notified Mrs. Millicent is
unaccounted for.”
Burke nodded. “Exactly!”
“Before we go on to the other evidence, can you tell me whether anything
was missed after the murder?”
The sergeant opened another envelope, extracting a sheet of brown paper
some eighteen inches long.
“This is a drawing made by Mrs. Millicent of a thing that her husband
used as a paper-knife. It’s not been found since that night.”
Derrick took it eagerly and scrutinized the outline of a
murderous-looking weapon. Its curving blade must have measured a foot,
being chopped off at the point in a curious and characteristic fashion.
The handle was heavy and carried a short guard. Its deadly curve was
unmistakable.
“By George!” he said. “That’s a Malay creese!”
“Yes, Mr. Millicent got it in the East and seemed to attach some kind of
sentimental value to it. He always kept it on his desk. Of course, it
may be that it was there for protection, though the average man would
have preferred a revolver. On the other hand, you can see what chance
any one would have against a thing like that.”
“Then there are two assumptions,” answered Derrick thoughtfully, “one
that the person who committed the crime knew that this thing was on the
desk available for his purpose; the other, that he came without any evil
intent, but a dispute developed and in a burst of anger he picked up the
creese, and struck.”
“And there’s just one person to whom both of those cases might apply, at
ten o’clock at night,” said Burke grimly, “the person against whom we
have no evidence.”
“I agree with that. Did anything else disappear at the same time?”
“So far as we know only one thing, and that apparently not of any
importance. It was a sort of little toy image, about three or four
inches high, that Mr. Millicent used as a paper-weight. It was carved
out of a block of jade. He used to joke about it in a queer sort of way
and say it was more valuable than they knew. Sometimes it was on his
desk, but only when he was in the room himself. At other times he used
to hide it away; but no one ever knew where. He never talked about it,
except in that joking manner. It seems to have been an ugly-looking
thing, too, but Mrs. Millicent could not make a drawing of it.”
A sudden light danced in Derrick’s eyes. “Then there was no concealment
about this?”
“No more than that it used to be stowed away, and he’d never allow it to
be touched. You know how men sometimes get queer ideas about things?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And it’s generally something quite unimportant. Well, it was like that
with this image. Matter of fact, it was so ugly that no one in the house
seemed to want to touch it, except Perkins.”
“Ah!” said Derrick slowly. His eyes were very keen. “Now, there are a
few other questions I’d like to ask, but first you might tell me what
other evidence was given.”
The sergeant glanced out of the window. “That’s queer! I was going to
say that Miss Millicent couldn’t tell us anything important, and there
she is now.”
Derrick looked up. The girl was just abreast of the tiny office, walking
slowly. Involuntarily she turned her head, and their eyes met. Color
mounted to her cheeks, and she bowed. Derrick went out to her quickly.
There were no preliminaries.
“May we come over in a few days? I think perhaps you could help then.”
He spoke as though their last conversation had only been interrupted.
“Do!” she nodded.
“And till then I hope you’re not worrying, or anxious?”
She shook her head, smiled, and sent him a look of complete confidence.
“Would it seem odd if I said that I worry less now than in the past two
years?”
“I’m so glad of that!”
“It’s quite true. I’m happier, and so is mother. I”—she hesitated a
little—“I think we don’t feel so horribly alone.”
“You’re not.” His voice was queerly strained. “Indeed, you’re not.”
She glanced at him again, then turned quickly away.
Derrick looked after her, following the slight figure till it came to
the corner of the green. Something of him went with her, and he
reëntered the sergeant’s office wondering at himself.
Whatever doubts the latter might have had about this unofficial
conference had been laid at rest. The new master of Beech Lodge was
animated by more than mere curiosity. That was now established; and,
surveying the past two years, the big man realized how heavily the
unfathomed crime had rested on his own spirit. The memory of it could
never leave him till the mysterious scroll was unrolled. This visit of
Derrick’s might result in nothing; but, in a way not entirely clear, the
chance of solution seemed at last a little more probable. He looked at
the young man almost with respect.
“As I said, Miss Millicent could really tell us little more than her
mother. She seemed just as frightened of something that might still take
place as of what had happened. She knew about the image, but nothing of
its history; and my impression was that she linked it up with the crime
in a way that none of the rest of us did. She had no explanation of
this. I got the impression that she understood her father, if one can
put it that way, better almost than her mother—although I have no real
reason for saying this.”
Derrick glanced at him shrewdly. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you mentioned
it. Anything else?”
“No, sir. Perkins was the next witness. She had been in Mrs. Millicent’s
employ for nearly five years. An Englishwoman, aged thirty-eight, she
had traveled a good deal before she went into service. She stated that
on the night in question she was on her way up-stairs from the servants’
hall—there was no other servant there at the time—and passed the
study. The door was closed, and there was no sound; but she could see
the lamplight under the door. A little later, when she was ready for
bed, she went back to the servants’ hall for a book and noticed that the
door was ajar and the lamp still burning.
“She went in, thinking that Mr. Millicent had gone to bed and forgotten
to put it out. There she found him, bent forward over the desk, his head
on one side and a deep wound in his neck from which the blood had poured
in a pool. She said that for a moment she could not move, then ran
up-stairs, hammered at Mrs. Millicent’s door, and told the latter that
there had been an accident in the study. Mrs. Millicent called to her to
send Martin at once for the doctor, so she raced down to the cottage at
once without going again into the study. She found Martin, who ran for
Dr. Henry, coming back a little later with the doctor and groom in the
cart. Then the groom came for me. As you probably know, Beech Lodge is
about half-way between Bamberley and the doctor’s house.”
“Did Perkins admit having missed anything from the desk?”
“She mentioned the paper-knife but said nothing about the image till she
was questioned.”
“And then?”
The sergeant reflected a moment. “I didn’t make much of what she said
then. She was very upset, and rambled a good deal, till I think the
coroner was glad to have done with her. I almost thought she attached as
much importance to that as to the paper-knife, but of course she was
hysterical.”
“Possibly,” murmured Derrick. “So I take it that Martin could not
actually have seen the body till he returned with the doctor?”
“That is his evidence, which I will come to in a minute, and also
Perkins statement. It would be a matter of perhaps twenty or twenty-five
minutes after Perkins waked Mrs. Millicent.”
“And Mrs. Millicent, and I suppose her daughter, stayed with the body
till the doctor came?”
“Yes.”
“Where was Perkins then?”
“Also in the study, trying to help Mrs. Millicent, who she thought was
going off her head.”
“Let me go back a minute. The first time Perkins passed the study on her
way up-stairs the door was shut, and the next time ajar. How long
intervened?”
“Perkins says perhaps half an hour, while she undressed.”
“So during that half-hour the crime was committed, and the door was
probably left ajar by the murderer?”
“I could never see it any other way, Mr. Derrick.”
“And that is the time left unaccounted for?”
“Exactly. Now you’ve reached the point where I’ve had to leave the thing
for two years, and you’ve reached it by the same road of reasoning.”
Derrick smiled. “Tell me what the doctor said, sergeant.”
“Very little. He testified that from the condition of the body life
could not have been extinct for more than one hour.”
“That again narrows it down to about one half-hour in which the thing
happened. The question is what did happen, so perhaps we’d better hear
what Martin said.”
“There again it didn’t amount to much. He stated that he was smoking in
the garden of the cottage when Perkins came running in, half dressed,
crying out like a mad woman that Mr. Millicent had been murdered, and—”
“She used the word ‘accident’ to Mrs. Millicent,” interrupted Derrick.
“Yes, but not this time. She told Martin to get Dr. Henry as soon as
possible. There was no horse at Beech Lodge then, so he ran all the way
to the doctor’s place. The rest of it coincided with Perkins’s evidence.
He also said that he had been outside the cottage all the evening and
could swear that no one had entered the grounds from the road.”
“Had there been any difference between him and Mr. Millicent?”
“Apparently not. Mr. Millicent had been in the garden with him that
afternoon, discussing the pruning of the roses and general preparations
for the winter. Mrs. Millicent confirmed this, subsequently, and said
that her husband trusted the man implicitly.”
“Did Martin mention the paper-knife?”
“He was questioned but said he knew nothing about it. From what the
others testified, it seems that he very seldom came into the house, so
it’s reasonable he should not have known.”
“Or the image?” asked Derrick thoughtfully.
“No, sir, nothing of that, either.”
“And how long had he been in Mr. Millicent’s employ?”
“A matter of something less than five years.”
“And before that?”
“According to his statement, knocking about in the Orient.”
“Do you think it is possible that he may have met his master somewhere
in the East, and the fact never came out?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but now it begins to seem possible.”
“And that there had for some time existed between them something that
ultimately culminated in murder?”
“We could not get as far as that at the inquest, sir.”
“Let it stand for the present. What was Martin’s manner or attitude
while he gave evidence?”
“A bit surly, as he always is, though I think without meaning it. It’s a
bit against him that he’s apt not to look one in the face.”
Derrick nodded. “Now I’ll only put one or two more questions. From what
you know, do you imagine there can be any link or understanding between
him and Perkins?”
The sergeant shook his head with decision. “What makes me feel there is
not is that, from all I can gather, Perkins dislikes the man.”
“That seems to be so. When I took him on she preferred to do the boots
and coals herself, though he was available. She’s doing them now. On the
other hand, Martin has come back around the world, and Perkins seems
riveted to the house. Neither of them displayed any particular interest
in their wages. Martin jumped at thirty shillings a week, which is not
much as things go now. The point is, why are they both so keen on Beech
Lodge?”
Burke stroked his chin. “I suppose that’s one of those coincidences you
spoke of. I’ll admit that they almost certainly know a good deal more
than we’ve been able to get out of them, but we haven’t got enough
evidence to hang your hat on. One can’t make an accusation on anything
else, much less an arrest. It’s up to me to prove that so and so is
guilty, and not for him to prove that he isn’t.”
“What then would you call a step toward real evidence?” asked Derrick,
with a little lift in his voice.
“Proof that either Perkins or Martin had been lying at the inquest,
or”—he added with an incredulous smile—“the discovery of that
paper-knife, or even the image.”
Derrick put his hand in his pocket and laid a small dark green object on
the table.
“Was it at all like this, sergeant?”
The blood rushed suddenly to the big man’s temples. “My God, sir! where
did you find that?”