Foul Play
Humblethorne lay late in bed the following day—wallowed in bed would
perhaps be a more fitting description of the way in which he
shamelessly and luxuriously stretched himself down between the sheets
long after his usual time of rising. It was due to no feeling of
fatigue; he had slept without stirring and, as the occupant of the
adjoining room could have testified if he had been disposed to do so,
with a sonorous simplicity. It was due to laziness, self-indulgence
unmitigated. He had even gone to the lengths, in order to enjoy his
extra hour the more, of getting out and pulling up the blind, so that
his eyes might rest comfortably on the sunny meadows outside, and then
getting back into bed again, an act which, as all true sluggards will
bear witness, denotes the lover of laziness for laziness’s own sake.
He heard and vociferously answered the knock of the girl announcing
morning and hot water, but took no steps whatever to prevent the
latter getting cold outside his door; he was startled from a fugitive
dream by the thump of his boots, but again he made no movement to
empty the passage. If the truth must be told, it was more than
laziness which kept him in bed; it was the truth dimly acknowledged
that he had no idea what he was going to do with himself all day long.
Somehow those meadows, sun notwithstanding, had an insipidity in his
eyes which the vision of them a few days ago in town had certainly
lacked. Then he had felt so sure, that it admitted of no question,
that he had only to be among them, with nothing to do, to be
absolutely happy; already on realization of his vision he found it
vaguely unsatisfying. He was, he perceived, no country lark but a very
ordinary London sparrow; he was not already bored, but he had a
feeling that he very soon might be. At any rate he saw no need to make
the day needlessly long; he couldn’t sit indefinitely many hours alone
in a meadow. So it happened that when at last he came down to a
perfectly cold breakfast—he had forgetfully ordered it to be ready at
8.15, and it had been, within twenty minutes or so—he found the table
laid for one and no trace of the surly stranger of the previous
evening. That did not depress him and he rang happily for a fresh brew
of tea, rang two and three times, but nobody took the least notice,
though he could hear a great deal of talking going on in the servants’
quarters. It seemed so animated that he lacked the courage to go and
make his wants known, and after a long wait he sat down to his meal in
no very good humour, vowing that when next he chose to be lazy he
would at any rate have his breakfast brought up to him.
He finished, however, all that was on the table, and then, lighting a
pipe, strolled out of the coffee-room with placidity restored. In the
passage he met Timmins, the landlord, who wore a very obvious air of
great importance.
“Good morning!” said Timmins in a sepulchral voice of pleasure, in
response to Humblethorne’s greeting. “Dreadful news this morning,
isn’t it?”
“What’s that? I have heard nothing,” replied Humblethorne.
“Not heard? Bless my soul, I thought as every one knew it by this
time. Why,” coming closer and speaking slowly and deeply so as to
extract the fullest amount of dramatic effect from a new listener—he
had had a good deal of practice that morning and was getting
distinctly good at it—“Sir Roger was found dead on ’is own stairs,
right there in the ’all, they say, this very morning! Terrible wounds
on his ’ed too; seems as if they’d really set on ’im proper, don’t
it?”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Humblethorne. Timmins was disappointed;
the quiet little man had seemed such a splendid subject for the
gratifying reception of gruesome details, and yet he did not seem
particularly impressed, at least, not in the way in which Timmins had
expected. A thoughtful look came into his eyes and then they lit up
with a gleam that Timmins took for pleasure but was really
professional interest.
“Ah,” said Timmins, “I see you knew ’im. Well, there ain’t many as’ll
be sorry, a hard-hearted old grasper ’e was and no mistake. But isn’t
it terrible? So sudden-like. There’ll be a sight of people over, I’m
thinking. It’s lucky as I ordered in an extry large joint for to-day.
Bound to be busy ’ere with a thing like that ’appening. But it’s a
kind of reflection on the place, look at it ’ow you will, don’t you
think?”
“No, I didn’t know him,” said Humblethorne, breaking abruptly into
these remarks. “But of course I’m interested: I’m an inspector of
police, though you’ll help me by not letting on about that in the
village.”
“You leave it to me, sir,” said Timmins importantly. “Lord! An
inspector! Knew all about it before’and, I’ll lay, and came here on
the quiet-like.”
“No, indeed I did not,” replied Humblethorne warmly: his sense of
propriety was outraged at the expense of his sense of humour.
“You leave it to me,” repeated Timmins in suppressed tones of
confidence; “I’ll see as nobody twigs your little game; I’ll see you
through.”
“I suppose there’s a police-station in the village,” said
Humblethorne, ignoring the heavy suggestion of alliance.
“Yes, sir, just along to the left. Birts, Sergeant Birts, is your man:
shall I step round with you?”
Humblethorne declined the offer, though Timmins assured him more than
once it would be no trouble, not the least in the world, busy as he
was what with the expected custom and one thing and another. But as
Humblethorne had a rooted objection on principle to giving offence to
any one who might conceivably be useful to him—or to any one else for
that matter—he contrived to avoid doing so by intimating that Timmins
would be of great assistance if he kept an eye upon any chance
visitors to the inn. He left Timmins finally with an accession of
importance which was terrifying to behold, and made his way quietly
along the village to the police-station. Here an official card and a
very few words sufficed to establish his identity; and as the details
of the great Scrawley case had lingered on in the retentive minds of
the country police long after it had been forgotten by their busier
brethren he found it likely that even the sergeant would regard his
appearance as a godsend. He was able quickly to satisfy himself that
it was at any rate a case of suspected violence and, inwardly
rejoicing at the dissipation of all his fears of boredom, desired that
a telegram should be sent to headquarters asking that he should be put
in charge.
Humblethorne had always firmly believed in refusing to speculate upon
untrustworthy data: gossip and second-hand evidence were far more
often misleading than helpful; the mind was too apt to catch up and
assimilate what it first received with the possible result that later
and more important information attracted less attention than it
deserved, at least so he had found. So he had deliberately abstained
from questioning Timmins, and now, having learned that Sir Roger
Penterton had indeed been found dead in a state suggesting foul play,
he asked no further questions of the eager subordinate. Sergeant Birts
was “with the corpse,” he was informed, and with no haste but equally
no unnecessary delay Humblethorne now bent his steps in the same
direction.
From the social status and business importance of the dead man the
case was bound to attract attention, and the thinly populated locality
suggested that the tracking of the criminal would not be a specially
difficult matter. Humblethorne saw himself the speedy solver of an
important crime, and it was in high spirits that he passed up the
drive, which ran across the park and entered the woods at the point at
which he had watched it the previous evening. He emerged onto a large
and beautifully kept garden which stretched on either side of the
drive, and another hundred yards brought him in front of the big,
modern mansion known as Salting Towers.
It looked as if the owner had originally demanded comfort of his
architect and made no stipulation as to beauty, beyond, indeed, the
adornment of pretentious towers at either end; it was a rambling,
irregular building with a large gravel space before the heavy door
which was set nearly in the centre of the house. On the right-hand
side clumps of rhododendrons, abutting on the gravel, shut off the
drive as it went on to the back entrance; on the left a large expanse
of lawn stretched away, broken up near the house by a few flower-beds.
A gravel path cut the lawn round the house, leaving only room for a
strip of grass and for a narrow flower-bed from which grew ivy of no
great age and Virginian creeper.
So much Humblethorne noted whilst walking up—a house not difficult of
access, he decided, if, as seemed likely, the lawn and path ran on
round to the left in front of the south aspect. He rang the bell and
waited. After an interval he was just about to ring again when the
door was suddenly opened by a large individual in sergeant’s uniform
who ran his eyes aggressively over the visitor and inquired: “What
might you be wanting?”
“Am I speaking to Sergeant Birts?” asked Humblethorne pleasantly.
“That’s my name. Who are you?”
“I am Inspector Humblethorne; possibly you have heard of me,” he
handed over a card as he spoke, which the sergeant took with no very
good grace.
“You’re early on the field, sir,” he said at length. “How on earth did
you hear of the case so soon?”
Humblethorne looked at him closely a moment and allowed the dream he
had pleased himself with spinning as he walked up to vanish. “I am
staying at the Rose and Crown,” he said; “and so could hardly do
otherwise than make it my business to assist you. I inquired at the
station and they told me you were here, as I expected; so I came up at
once. I need hardly say, sergeant, that I shall see you get full
credit for any success which may attend our efforts; I know so well
what it means to a man to have an important case at last.”
The sergeant’s face brightened instantly. “It’s very good of you to
say so, sir,” he said, heartily. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sorry
you’re here.” He paused and then added with professional
impressiveness, “it’s a case, sir. Of course I’ve only had time to
make a few preliminary inquiries, but there isn’t a clue of any sort;
in fact, I think you’ll admit it has some curious features. But come
in.”
“I never knew a case yet without a clue of some sort, but whether
there’s one that leads to anything is another matter,” Humblethorne
replied as he stepped through the door and found himself in the large
hall of the house. He then stood, without going further, familiarizing
his eyes with the surroundings, according to his invariable rule.
“That’s where the body was found,” said the sergeant, pointing
half-left to the foot of the broad staircase, which ascended from the
hall to a landing and then turned upward again to the first floor;
“lying on the floor by the stairs there, it was.”
“And isn’t it now?” asked Humblethorne sharply. “What’s that under the
sheet?”
“Them’s only the marks; the body’s in the smoking-room, first room on
the left there.”
“Who moved it?” exclaimed Humblethorne with much severity. “Did you?”
“Yes, sir; at least——” Birts grew rather red under Humblethorne’s eye,
and went on less confidently: “I allowed it to be moved after the
doctor had seen it and I’d had a careful look.”
“You allowed it to be moved! What were you about?”
“Well, sir; I’d seen all there was to see, and of course I had no idea
you were coming.”
“You’d seen all there was to see!” There was as much contempt in the
little man’s voice as he was capable of by nature. “Good Lord, man,
how on earth could you? You haven’t had any special training. Why in
the name of all that’s holy didn’t you wait? If I hadn’t come somebody
else would probably have been sent from London as soon as they’d heard
of it there.”
“I’m extremely sorry, sir; I see I was hasty. But Mr. Castle, him as
is secretary to Sir Roger, asked me when I’d finished looking if it
couldn’t be moved away from the staircase; he said it was dreadful to
have it lying there all day, where every one had to pass to go
upstairs. Of course, it was broad daylight by then. Naturally,” ended
Birts, red and apologetic, “I shouldn’t have moved it if he hadn’t
asked me to.”
“Well,” said Humblethorne, “it’s no use crying over spilt milk. It’s
done now. But never, never move anything—in a case of this kind
everything may depend on it. I should have thought you’d have known as
much, even in the country. Who found the body?” he asked abruptly.
“Mr. Castle did, about half-past one this morning. We can tell you
exactly how it lay, sir,” added Birts eagerly, “and of course we took
particular care not to touch the stains or anything. Come and look,
sir.”
“In a minute. Let me just get the geography of this place clear; on
the left, first, smoking-room, then drawing-room, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s this room on our right—dining-room?” He stepped forward,
opened the door and looked in and satisfied himself that it was so.
“And opposite the main door, ah, the billiard-room. Where does this
passage lead to?” pointing to one that led off to the right separating
the dining-room from the billiard-room.
“That goes through to the kitchen and leads off round to the left of
Sir Roger’s study and also Mr. Castle’s room.”
“And the body was found by Mr. Castle about 1.30 this morning lying in
this hall to which five doors and a passage have access. Any
explanation?”
“No, sir, absolutely none. Nobody that I’ve seen so far heard anything
or saw anything at all. But of course I haven’t had time yet for a
proper inquiry.”
“Very singular. Windows and doors all right, eh?”
“No traces so far as I have discovered. Fairlie—that’s the
butler—assures me he locked up as usual last night; and the maids say
everything was all right this morning.”
“That looks bad. Who does the household consist of?”
“Sir Roger and her ladyship—dreadfully upset she was at the news, so I
heard, though he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a kind husband, but I
daresay she thought more of him than we did and it would be a shock to
an old lady at the best of times; she was always so particular, too,
to have things just so. Then there’s the daughter, Miss Celia, great
friends she and I used to be when she was little—she’s all right. Then
there’s Miss Temple, Miss Celia’s friend, but she isn’t really an
extra; she’s always staying here: like sisters those two are, and I’ve
known her ever since she was so high,” putting his hand on a level
with his waist. “Mr. Castle, again, has been secretary here for a
great many years; very clever he is, and very easy to get on with too,
I must say. He’s high-strung and finding the corpse upset him a bit,
but he’s all right.” Birts spoke grudgingly; he regarded Castle as the
man who had got him into trouble. “Then there’s Fairlie, James
Fairlie, and he again has been here, well, as long as I can remember
and was with her ladyship’s family, so I believe, before she married,
and is as decent an old fellow as you’d see anywhere. Not much to go
upon yet, sir, is there?”
“Too early to give an opinion,” replied Humblethorne, cautiously. “I’m
not sure whether it helps or hinders most to know them all as you do.
It certainly saves a lot of questioning, but then it prejudices a man
also.”
“Perhaps it does, sir; but then I know it isn’t anything but waste of
time to go suspecting some people—Miss Celia, for example. Why, that
girl, sir, just couldn’t hurt a soul; I don’t believe she could if she
was to die for it. She’s been delicate, as you might call it, for a
long time, for one thing.”
“And yet,” remarked Humblethorne gravely, “if you recall the
Featherstone mystery, there was a girl just as you describe, gentle
and popular, a member of societies for doing charitable things and all
that—and she did have to die for it. One thing is certain and that is
that you can’t ever be sure about human nature; at least, that’s my
experience. Many a criminal has concealed a cold-blooded heart under a
guise of benevolence, and it doesn’t do in our profession to forget
it, Birts. Suspect everybody at first, and don’t allow your sympathies
to put any possibility out of your calculations. Not, of course,” he
observed, seeing polite incredulity in the sergeant’s face, “that I
have at present the least doubt of Miss Penterton’s innocence; all I
mean is, I shan’t refuse facts if later they should point to
her—that’s all. And now who else lives here?”
“Only servants, besides those I’ve mentioned. None of them been here
long except Fairlie and the cook. Sir Roger used to upset them a bit,
you know; he was rough with his tongue when put out. But there’s
nothing against any of them: footman seems an ordinary sort of lad.
Comes from Southhurst, that’s nine miles away; I can easily find out
all about him.”
Whilst they had been talking, Humblethorne had been taking in the hall
with a steady general scrutiny; and now expressed himself ready for a
more particular examination. They moved accordingly to the spot at
which the body had been found; and Birts carefully removed the sheet
which had been covering it.
“You’ll hear the facts from Mr. Castle yourself, of course,” he said;
“but Sir Roger was lying just here on his right side, with his head
here.” He indicated the marble just below the left-hand bottom corner
of the stairs.
“When did you see it?” asked Humblethorne, gazing intently at the
tell-tale stains which, spreading across the marble, had soaked into
the edge of the carpet. A heavy silver cigarette box of Indian
workmanship, adorned with richly embossed figures, lay with cigarettes
scattered round it just at the foot of the stairs and a little to the
left side: further to the left, a couple of yards away beyond the
stains, lay a heavy stick.
“About half-past five this morning.”
“Not till then.” Humblethorne looked up quickly.
“No; I was only told of the crime at twenty past four. Alfred, that’s
the footman, came on a bicycle.”
“And the body was found about one—a long interval, Birts; much might
happen in that time. Has anything besides the body been moved that you
know of?”
“Well, sir, some of these cigarettes were lying on the stairs. I let
Mr. Castle move them; he asked if he might and I didn’t see no harm;
they were on the stairs so as to make it awkward to pass.”
Humblethorne silently invoked heaven, so that Birts added hastily,
“They’re all here, though, I counted them to make sure. But you’ll
hear Mr. Castle yourself.”
“I intend to; and next time, for the Lord’s sake don’t move or let
anyone move a thing: It makes it hopeless.” Humblethorne knelt down
and examined everything, especially the stick and cigarette box, with
the utmost care. The box was lying close to where the dead man’s head
had rested; the main bloodstain ran up to it and had darkly marked the
centre of its lower edge: nothing else was noticeable except that one
of its corners had been dented and the brightness of the dent seemed
to show that this had been recently done. “Looks as if it had been
used,” he remarked, pointing this out.
“That’s the weapon all right,” returned Birts, confidently. “Struck
him on the forehead and made a nasty hole.”
“Where did it come from, d’you know?”
“No, but I expect Fairlie’ll be able to tell us.”
“Whose is the stick?”
“That belonged to Sir Roger.”
“H’m, there seems to be plenty of blood about,” remarked Humblethorne,
rising from his knees. “Look here, and here.” He pointed first to the
left-hand corner of the stone stairs, and then to the centre of the
carpet covering the second and fourth steps, on each of which a faint,
but traceable, oblong stain could be seen.
“This,” said Birts, referring to the first, “is close to his head and
he hit it falling—there’s a cut on the side to fit. But I don’t know
what the others are.”
“Footsteps, Birts, footsteps. Many a man’s been hung on less. That’s
the ball of the foot of a person we want going upstairs, or I’m much
mistaken.”
“Or coming down, it might be?”
“Possibly; but why should whoever it was come down with feet like
that? No, going upstairs—and either very careless or very agitated.
Let me see the body.”
They passed into the smoking-room, where a policeman was on duty
beside the covered body of the late owner of the house. Humblethorne
knelt down and, removing the covering, looked long at the clean-shaven
face of a man of about seventy-five, hard-featured in life and
inexpressibly repellant in the rigidity of death; his eyes were wide
open and seemed to stare out of the scowling face with a cold
malignity. The features were slightly distorted, whether with fear,
anger, or other emotion it was impossible to say. On his left temple
was a deep, ugly, triangular wound, an inch in diameter, and the
congealed blood lay dark and sinister across his forehead; on the
right side of his head, just above and in front of the ear, was a
short perpendicular cut, made, to judge by the slight flattening of
the face on that side, by some heavy object striking against it with
considerable force or by a fall upon a sharp and unyielding substance.
He was in a smoking-jacket and ordinary evening dress; his watch and
chain was in its place, and there was a sovereign and some odd silver
in his pockets.
“Doctor seen him?” inquired Humblethorne, rising at last from his
examination and replacing the sheet.
“Yes, sir. Arrived soon after me. He said death had taken place some
hours previously; didn’t like to be more definite. Either of the two
wounds would be sufficient to cause death, he said, especially the one
on the side of the head; skull’s fractured. He gave it as his opinion
that that was caused by striking the edge of the stairs in his fall.”
“Probably,” agreed Humblethorne. “Well, now I should like to hear what
Mr. Castle has to say. And that I think I can do better in the hall.”