Very early on a July morning in 1919 Constable Brown was on his beat in
Kensington, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cathcart Square.
Cathcart Square was an old-fashioned backwater of this highly
respectable suburb. It had not been built on any regular lines. Small,
narrow houses nestled comfortably by the side of what might be called
mansions. At the entrance to the Square itself, a narrow-fronted
milk-shop stood next door to a palatial residence. The dairy was very
old, and the Square, with its strange agglomeration of houses, had been
built round it.
Constable Brown, a tall, strapping young fellow, took his duties easily.
He was quite contented with his lot, and not thirsting for promotion;
he had no overweening sense of his own abilities. He was friendly with
all the cooks on his beat, and from them he received very choice
tit-bits. In his case, the policeman's lot was a fairly happy one.
The morning was a very bright one, a somewhat powerful summer sun had
just risen, and flooded the streets with light.
He had no need of his lantern, early in the morning as it was. He
strolled slowly round the Square, turning observant eyes on all the
houses. In his patrol, he met nobody. The busy world of commerce was
not yet astir. Only from afar he heard the distant rumbling of
market-carts on their way to Covent Garden, market-carts laden with
fruit and vegetables.
The Square was sleeping. In a few more hours it would wake to vigorous
life. The dairy shop would take down its shutters, and show signs of
animation. And when the dairy shop took down its shutters, Constable
Brown would be relieved, and go home to enjoy his well-earned rest.
All was quiet in the Square. Brown had patrolled it several times in
his nightly vigil, and had discovered no signs of marauders.
He paused opposite Number 10, one of the few big houses. He looked
contemplatively at the board announcing in large type--THIS HOUSE TO
LET: FURNISHED--with the agent's name displayed prominently at the foot
of the bill.
"Only house to let in the Square," ruminated Brown, as he stood reading
the bill for perhaps the hundredth time. "It's been empty now for over
three months. It ought to have been snapped up long ago."
He was right. Houses in Cathcart Square did not wait long for tenants.
Mr Brown ruminated further, and provided his own solution.
"Old Miles, the caretaker, has got too comfortable quarters, he doesn't
want to flit. When people come to view, he talks to them about damp, or
ghosts or beetles, and chokes them off. Artful old devil, Miles, and a
bit too fond of drink."
Having finished his patrol of the Square itself, he passed along the
backs, abutting on a somewhat mean street, for a rather undesirable
neighbourhood had built itself around these somewhat stately houses.
His perambulations brought him to the back of Number 10, the house to
let. His trained eye, accustomed to take in the smallest details,
noticed a broken pane of glass in the scullery window. He climbed over
the low railing which shut off the back premises from the mean street on
which they looked, and peered at the broken window-pane. From a general
point of view there was not much in it. Window-panes are broken every
day. But this was an empty house, looked after by a somewhat bibulous
caretaker of the name of Miles. A hundred chances to one that Miles had
stumbled against it, and broken it with his elbow.
But although Constable Brown was not very brilliant, he was painstaking
and methodical; his mind was slow but tenacious. He did not accept
facts at their face value.
After peering through the broken pane, he proceeded to further
experiments. He lifted the window, and it went up easily. He drew his
deductions swiftly. Somebody had entered the empty house. That
somebody had smashed the pane in order to get at the latch, had entered
the house, later emerged through the window and forgotten to fasten it.
But why enter an empty house, where there was nothing to steal except
the heavy furniture left by the late tenant, a Mr Washington, who was
abroad? Brown knew for a fact from the caretaker that all silver and
plate had been lodged at Mr Washington's bank. It was a puzzle.
One thing was clear: his duty lay straight before him. He must go over
that empty house. A careful examination might reveal something or
nothing.
But he was a very cautious man, and with no great belief in his own
powers. He would not make the examination alone. He blew his whistle
for further assistance.
In a few seconds, a fellow constable, a smart young fellow, hurried up
to him. Brown pointed to the broken pane, the uplifted window. The
smart young man projected himself through the open space. Brown
followed, explaining as he went.
They searched the basement, the ground floor, and the floor above--with
no result.
"Now for the caretaker," said the younger and the more quick-witted of
the two policemen.
"He sleeps up at the top," answered Brown. "He generally comes home
half-seas over. If a regiment was hammering at the door he would not
wake till his sleep was done."
They went up to the caretaker's room on the top floor. The bed was
empty. Miles had evidently taken a holiday.
The young constable grunted. "Seems a reliable sort of chap, doesn't
he? I wonder how long he has been away? The house agents can tell us
if they have sent any clients to view the house during the last
twenty-four hours, and whether they have been able to get in or not.
Anyway, for the present, he seems out of this job."
Brown assented. He did not talk as much as his quicker-witted
colleague, but his rather slow mind was working at its normal speed.
"We've got to examine the other floors, you know. I've made up my mind
to one thing--whoever came in here, robbery wasn't the object."
"There I quite agree," remarked the younger man.
They made their way down from the top floor, which consisted of three
attics. On the floor beneath this, they searched every room and found
nothing.
But on the floor underneath their search was rewarded. In a small
dressing-room, leading off the bedroom which fronted the square, they
found a gruesome sight--the lifeless body of a man, comparatively young,
somewhere about thirty-five or so, a deep gash in his throat, in his
stiffened hand a razor.
The two men gazed, horrified. It was an early summer morning, the sun
was shining through the windows, the birds were twittering in the trees.
Shortly the whole world would be astir. And here, in the small room,
lay the senseless clay, oblivious of all these signs of awakening life
and vigour.
Brown was the first to speak. "Suicide!" he said hoarsely. "The poor
devil wanted to make an end of it, and crept in here, knowing it was an
empty house."
The younger man spoke less convincingly. "It looks like it. Suicide,
as you say." He paused a moment, and then spoke slowly: "I think it's
suicide, but it might be--mind you, I only say might be--a very
carefully planned murder. And now, let us overhaul his pockets, we may
find something to establish identification."
Together they bent down, and rummaged the dead man's pockets. They
found plenty of material for identification.
As they were engaged in their gruesome task, they heard the sound of a
latch-key being put in the front-door. They heard the door banged to,
and heavy footsteps ascended the staircase.
"Miles come back after his spree," whispered Constable Brown to the
younger man.
Miles, all unsuspecting of what had taken place during his absence, came
heavily up the stairs. It could not be said that he was by any means
drunk, but he was not absolutely sober. He was slowly recovering from
the previous night's debauch.
Arrived on the floor where the two policemen were conducting their
investigations, absolute sobriety came back to him. He saw the open
door of the dressing-room, two men in uniform kneeling by the side of an
inanimate object. His brain cleared as if by magic. He recognised in
one of the kneeling constables his old friend Brown.
He indulged in a little profanity, born of his emotion, which need not
be set down here. Shorn of certain expletives, natural to a man of his
class, he inquired of Brown what was the matter.
Brown on his side was cool and explicit, and instead of answering the
caretaker's questions, he preferred to put a few of his own.
"Nice sort of caretaker you are," he said in a contemptuous voice.
"You're paid to look after this house, aren't you? Where were you all
last night I should like to know? You can see what has happened.
Somebody has got in through the back, either to commit suicide, or with
a companion who brought him here to murder him. That's got to be found
out before the Coroner."
Miles pulled himself together. He was by no means a fool when sober,
and in sight of this ghastly object the fumes of last night's
intoxication had absolutely cleared.
"I can show an alibi right enough," he said doggedly.
The younger and readier-witted of the two constables looked up and spoke
sharply. "So far, my friend, we have not accused you, but you may as
well tell us the details of your alibi."
Miles's explanation, delivered in the somewhat halting way of his class,
bore the ring of truth. An old acquaintance of his, whose name and
address he gave, had looked him up the day before and asked him to spend
a day with him at Shepperton, where the said acquaintance kept a small
shop. Miles had succumbed to the temptation.
"It drives a man fair off his blooming chump to be tied by the leg in a
hole like this," he interpolated in the midst of his narrative, "waiting
for would-be tenants who never call. I daresay you chaps do your eight
or ten hours a day, but you're out in the open air, not looking on four
walls. You see a bit of life, I don't."
Constable Brown cut across his narrative swiftly.
"Never mind your grievances, Miles. If you could get a better job, I
guess you would take it. Where did you spend the night?"
"At the same old show, down at Shepperton," replied the unabashed Miles.
"My old pal's a sport, I can tell you. When he shut up his shop, he
plied me with some of the best. I wasn't backward, I admit. I missed
the last train back, and slept on the sofa in the back room. When I
woke, I remembered things a bit, and got an early train home. Here I
am. My old pal Jack will tell you I'm speaking gospel truth."
Neither of the two men listening to him had any doubt that his narrative
was a true one. He was a poor, weak, bibulous creature, but by no
stretch of the imagination could he be an accessory to the gruesome
happenings at Number 10.
Even had he been at his post, as he should have been on this particular
night, he would have been sunk in a stertorous sleep, and have heard
nothing.
But to make everything sure, Constable Brown pulled him along and forced
him to look at the dead man.
"You have never seen him before, Miles? I mean he has not called to
look over the house or anything?"
"No." Miles, looking shudderingly at the ghastly sight, was ready to
swear he had never seen him before.
He turned his frightened gaze away: "It will be all over the town
to-night," he said ruefully. "We shall never let the house after this."
"It will still be a soft job for you, Miles," retorted Brown, a little
spitefully. "You won't have to play up the damp and the beetles. You
are here for life, old man."
"I know," said Miles in a gloomy tone. "But I shall see him staring at
me every minute of the day and night."
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The body was removed to the mortuary. The evening newspapers had
flaring headlines: "Gruesome Discovery in Number 10 Cathcart Square."
An enterprising journalist had got hold of Miles, and speedily
discovering his weakness, had taken him to the nearest public-house, and
plied him plentifully with liquor, with a view to a sensational article.
The enterprising reporter made the best of his material, but it did not
amount to much. The caretaker knew nothing about the dead man, he was
armed at all points with his alibi. As regards the house itself,
invested with so much tragedy, the present tenant was a Mr Washington,
a man of considerable means, now abroad. Mr Washington was prepared to
let it furnished. The furniture was very valuable.
To a public greedily anxious for the smallest details, the astute
journalist served up a nice little article, describing the expensive
furniture, and adding a short life-history of Mr Washington, as
supplied by the reminiscent Miles. The public swallowed this article
eagerly and awaited further developments.
These came with the inquest, and there was a somewhat tame ending to
what had promised to be a very sensational case.
Some three months previously, a certain man named Reginald Davis had
been suspected of committing a murder while driving a motor-car in
Cornwall. The evidence, although circumstantial, had been very
convincing. The police had been on his track, but not quickly enough.
The man had eluded their vigilance, and rim to earth somewhere.
On the body of the dead man in Cathcart Square, the two constables had
found three letters addressed to Reginald Davis. Also a letter, signed
Reginald Davis, addressed to the Coroner in which he avowed his
intention of committing suicide at the earliest opportunity.
It was fairly evident from this that the wretched man, hunted by the
police, and recognising that capture was imminent in the course of a few
days, had resolved upon the fatal step, had effected his entrance into
the lonely house in Cathcart Square, had found it even more deserted
than he imagined, and in that little dressing-room cheated the law.
But, in addition to this overpowering evidence, there was added the fact
of identification.
A tall, handsome young woman, giving the name of Caroline Masters, had
been to the mortuary, and identified the body as that of her brother,
Reginald Davis.
She gave her evidence before the Coroner with commendable composure,
broken now and again with a little natural grief. Her disclosures were
briefly as follows.
Reginald had always been the black sheep of the family, not naturally
vicious, but impetuous, fiery-tempered and ungovernable. If he was
guilty of the murder in Cornwall, it had been due to no natural criminal
instinct, but to a fit of unbridled passion. Her theory was that
remorse had weighed upon him for this unpremeditated crime, and that,
through remorse and the fear of justice overtaking him, he had crept
into this lonely house and passed sentence on himself.
She made a very great impression on the Court by the calm and dignified
way in which she gave her evidence. The Coroner put to her a few
questions. She was quite certain that the body was that of her brother,
Reginald Davis? Were there any other members of the family who could
support her in her identification?
No, there were no other members of the family alive. There was another
brother dead, and a sister of whose whereabouts she knew nothing. Her
father had been a strange man, he had quarrelled with all the members of
his family, and she had never known one of them. Her mother had died
some years ago. Her voice broke a little as she related these touching
circumstances of her domestic life, more especially when she added she
was a widow, her husband having been killed in the Great War.
There seemed but one possible verdict. The dead man, it was clearly
established, was Reginald Davis, first by the letters found upon him,
secondly by his sister's identification.
It was also clear that Reginald Davis, hunted by the police, and knowing
that it was only a question of days or weeks before he would be rim to
earth, had considered the two alternatives of self-destruction or the
extreme penalty of the law--and that he had chosen the former.
The verdict was recorded. Mrs Masters was complimented on the way in
which she had given her evidence. The Coroner assured her that the
sympathy of the Court was with her. The tears welled into her eyes as
she listened to the Coroner's well-chosen phrases. She bowed her
grateful thanks.
Constable Brown was waiting in the corridor as she came out. Beside him
stood the younger policeman who had assisted him on that very
well-remembered night in Cathcart Square.
Brown touched his helmet. "A very trying time for you, ma'am," he said,
"a very trying time. You went through it bravely."
She smiled wanly. "My poor brother! He had so many good points. But
it is better as it is. I shudder to think of what might have been, if
he had not done this dreadful thing."
"Much the best way, ma'am, much the best way," corroborated Brown.
She went out, a graceful figure, and Brown turned to his younger
colleague.
"A remarkable case, old chap. As we said all along, suicide."
The younger man paused a little before he replied. It may be mentioned
that a few months later he was promoted to the detective force in
consequence of some rather clever work connected with a gang of coiners
in an obscure corner of the West End.
"It looks like it, but I'm not quite as sure as you are," he said
laconically.
Brown stared, but made no comment. A verdict was a verdict. His young
colleague had the inexperience and the vanity of youth, and thought he
was more clever than other people, perhaps!
But on one thing the young constable had made up his mind, and that was
that Miles, the bibulous caretaker, had not told the truth when in the
witness-box. He came to this conclusion from his demeanour. Miles
swore that he had no knowledge of the dead man, but the constable
believed this to be a lie.
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And with the tame ending of the Coroner's inquest, the mystery of Number
10 Cathcart Square ceased to hold the public interest. Plenty of other
things came on to attract their attention.