and breast had bled. No one of these gashes was serious. They were
just such as might be expected of those unhandy weapons, scissors and
bodkin. It was that neat, lucky stroke at the throat which determined
the fate of Birdie Bolton. The minor wounds suggested a struggle with
some one in a passion, and that Miss Bolton had struggled Reggie
found other evidence. The black evening dress had been dragged from
one shoulder and torn, and there on that right shoulder were the blue
marks of a hand that had gripped. Reggie’s examination became more
minute.
Two men bustled in. A hand tapped Reggie’s shoulder. “Now, sir, if
you please.”
Reggie stood up and confronted a pompous, portly little man.
“I am Dr. Fortune,” Reggie said. “Miss Bolton was a patient of mine.”
“Was,” said the little man, with emphasis. “She is a case for an
expert now, Dr. Fortune.”
“That’s why I was examining her,” said Reggie sweetly.
The little man laughed. “A general practitioner is not much use to
her now. Rather beyond you, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’ve not made up my mind,” Reggie said.
“Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” He waved Reggie off, but Reggie did not
go. “You’ll only be in our way, you know. We’ll let you know if we
want you at the inquest. Just for formal evidence.” Still Reggie did
not move. “I am the divisional surgeon, sir,” said the little man
loudly.
“I was wondering who you were,” Reggie murmured.
The little man swung round. “We’ll have the room cleared, inspector,”
he said.
The detective inspector, who looked more like a policeman than seemed
possible, strode heavily forward. “Hope you’re not meaning to give
trouble, doctor,” he frowned. “Or I’ll have to take steps.”
“Fancy!” Reggie said. “Well, look where you’re going.” He walked
across to the window and looked out at the roses.
“Clear out, please.” The inspector followed him.
“Zeal, all zeal,” Reggie murmured, and went.
There were two doors to the room. He did not use that by which they
had come, but the other. He happened to know that it opened into
Birdie Bolton’s bedroom.
There was some one in the bedroom. A startled dark face peeped round
the screen by the bed. It belonged to a smart lady’s maid.
“Dear me, I thought this was the passage,” Reggie said.
“It is Miss Bolton’s bedroom--poor Miss Bolton.” The maid had a
slight foreign accent.
“Of course it is. And you’re her maid, of course. Flora, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, doctor. Ah, you have seen Miss Bolton! You cannot do
anything--no?”
“Miss Bolton is dead, Flora.”
“I was so fond of her,” Flora sighed.
“Well, I liked her. I suppose you heard nothing last night?”
“Ah, no. She have sent me to bed. And I sleep so sound.”
Reggie nodded. “It’s a bad business, Flora. Take me to Miss Weston’s
room, will you?”
“Miss Weston! Ah!” Flora said, with tragic intensity.
“H’m. You think she----”
“I do not think. I feel,” Flora said.
“It’s a bad habit. Well----”
And Flora led the way. She was a plump woman of some age, but still
comely enough in a dark, heavy fashion.
A tap at a door. “It is the doctor, Miss Weston,” from Flora. A
sullen voice, “You can come in,” and in Reggie went.
May Weston was a squalid sight. Her natural prettiness, the
prettiness of fresh youth, the bloom of pink and white, the grace of
full, soft line had all gone from her. She lay a shapeless heap on
her bed, her evening dress still on and all crushed and crumpled and
awry, her yellow hair half down and tousled, her face of a bluish
pallor.
“What do you want?” She stared at Reggie heavily.
“Well, this won’t do, will it?” Reggie smiled cheerfully and sat down
beside the bed. “So why are you like this?”
“Haven’t you heard?” she cried.
“I’ve heard and seen,” Reggie said. “I can’t do any more there. But
perhaps I can here.” He began to feel her pulse.
“I’m not ill.”
“Well, you never know.” He let her wrist go and bent over her. “Sleep
rather sound, don’t you?”
“Oh!” She shuddered. “Why do you look at me like that?”
Reggie bent suddenly closer, and as suddenly sat up again. Then he
laughed. “Like what, my dear?”
She stared at him and her lip quivered. “You--you! Oh, do you think I
can be mad?”
Reggie shook his head. “Let’s begin quite at the beginning. Let’s
preserve absolute calm. You dined with Miss Bolton last night alone?
After dinner you went to her boudoir? That would be about nine?”
“Yes, yes. Mr. Ford came just after the coffee.”
“Ah! And who is Mr. Ford?”
May Weston blushed abundantly. “We--he has been here a good deal,”
she stammered. “Oh, Dr. Fortune, it isn’t his fault.”
“Young or old, rich or poor--what is he?”
“Of course he’s young. I suppose he’s rich. His father makes engines
or something in Leeds, and he is in the London office.”
“Sounds solid,” Reggie agreed. “And why does Mr. Ford call at nine
p.m.?”
Miss Weston’s blushes were renewed. “He has been very often,” she
said, and wrung her hands. “I shall have to tell, doctor, shan’t I?
Yes. He met Miss Bolton once at supper and then he used to come here.”
“Ah! Good-looking fellow, is he?”
“Oh, yes. He is very big and handsome.”
“And Miss Bolton liked him. Well, well.” Reggie understood now why
poor Birdie Bolton had been dreaming dreams of nights.
“Yes,” said May Weston faintly. “Oh, it’s a shame! But I must tell.
She thought he came to see her, but----”
“But it was really to see you. Now, let’s get back to the coffee.”
“He came last night. We were so gay. Miss Bolton--oh, poor Birdie!”
“We can’t undo that, my dear. Let’s do what we can for her. Did he
stay late?”
“Rather. I don’t know. I was sleepy. But Birdie was so gay. And
then--and then he went away and Birdie began to talk about him. I
don’t know how it happened. She said something--and I felt I just had
to tell her--I told her he had proposed to me. And then she was
furious. Oh, have you ever seen her in one of her rages? She was
terrible. She said dreadful things. And I--I felt as if I couldn’t do
anything at all. I was dazed and faint and just sat. I know she hit
me.”
“I saw the bruise,” Reggie said gently, looking at the blue mark on
her neck.
“Then she stormed out of the room, and--oh, doctor, I don’t
know--perhaps I fainted--it was as if I was all lead in that chair. I
thought I was asleep. And then it was like a horrible, horrible
dream--I saw her being killed. She was on the sofa, and some one was
hitting at her. Oh, doctor, did I do it? Was it a dream? Did I really
do it?”
“You saw--or you dreamed--who was it struck her in your dream?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was just like a dream when you can’t tell. I
know it was Birdie. But was it me killed her?”
The door was flung open. The detective inspector strode in. “May
Weston?” He was more the policeman than ever.
Reggie stood up. “How civil you are!” he said.
“You make yourself very busy, don’t you?” The inspector glared.
“Don’t you interfere with me. May Weston--I shall charge you with the
murder of your mistress, Birdie Bolton. Get up off that bed now.”
“He’s forgotten the rest of his part--‘anything you say may be used
in evidence against you,’ Miss Weston. So you’ll say nothing, please.”
The inspector grew red and puffed, and advanced upon Reggie. “Here,
you--you clear out of this. You’re obstructing me in----”
“Is it possible?” Reggie drawled. “Well, it isn’t necessary, anyway.”
and he left the inspector still swelling.
It is fair to him to add, what he has since protested, that he never
liked May Weston. Pussy-cat is his name for her, and he is not fond
of cats.
From her room he went to the telephone in the hall, and there the
inspector, still rather flushed, found him again.
“And what might you be doing now, if you please?” said the inspector,
with constabulary sarcasm.
“Oh, I’m talking to Miss Bolton’s solicitors. Hadn’t you thought of
talking to Miss Bolton’s solicitors?”
“Never you mind what I thought of. Don’t you use that telephone
again. I won’t have it.”
“Oh, yes, you will. Now I’m going to talk to Superintendent Bell.”
The inspector was visibly startled. For Superintendent Bell was near
the summit of the Criminal Investigation Department. “Any objection?
No? How nice of you. . . .” He conferred with the telephone, and at
length: “Dr. Fortune. Yes. Oh, is that you, Bell? So glad. I wish
you’d come along here, Normanhurst, Westhampton. One of my patients
murdered. No, not by me. Quite unusual case. Yes, it is the Birdie
Bolton case. The inspector in charge is such a good, kind man. Sweet
face he has. You’ll come right on? So glad.” Reggie put down the
receiver and smiled upon the puzzled inspector. “That’s that,” he
said, and went out. Samuel, the chauffeur, put away his picture
paper. “I want my camera,” Reggie said, and Samuel touched his hat
and drove off. Reggie sauntered into the garden.
Normanhurst, as you know, is a low, spreading house of a comfortable
Victorian dowdiness. There are--don’t count the attics--only two
stories. It is old enough to be quite covered with climbing
plants--ivy on the north, roses and a wistaria on the other sides.
Birdie Bolton’s bedroom and boudoir looked to the south, and were on
the ground floor. On the north of the house is the approach from the
high road, a curling drive through a shrubbery. Birdie Bolton’s rooms
looked out upon a rose-bed and a big lawn. About her windows climbed
a big Gloire de Dijon. The roses beneath were of the newer hybrid
teas, well cultivated, well chosen, and at their best--a fragrant
pomp of red and gold. “How she loved ’em, poor soul,” Reggie thought,
and began to feel sentimental. That singular emotion was interrupted
by the sound of a motor-car. He went back to the front of the house
to meet it.
A big car was drawing up. It contained two people--a uniformed
chauffeur and a large young man who jumped out, rather clumsily,
before the car stopped. He had the good looks of a hero of musical
comedy, but an expression rather sheepish than fatuous, and a pallid
complexion.
“I think you are Mr. Ford.” Reggie came close to him. “I am Dr.
Fortune. Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I hardly expected to see
you so soon.”
“Miss Weston sent for me, sir.” Mr. Ford recoiled, for Reggie’s face
was very close to his.
“Did she, though!” Reggie murmured. “Did she really?” Miss Weston had
forgotten to tell him that. Pussy-cat!
“Well, Flora telephoned for her. She said something terrible had
happened, and Miss Weston wanted me. I say, doctor, what has
happened?”
“Jolly kind of Flora,” Reggie said. “Well, Mr. Ford, Miss Bolton has
been murdered.”
“My God!” said Mr. Ford, and became livid.
“And Miss Weston has been charged with the murder.”
“Oh, my God!” Mr. Ford said again. “Oh, damn!” and put his hand to
his head. “Here, let me go to her.”
“I don’t mind,” said Reggie, and Mr. Ford plunged into the house.
Reggie remained on the steps waiting for fresh arrivals. The goggled
chauffeur moved his car on out of the way, descended, and behind a
laurustinus lit a cigarette. Reggie, who never smoked them, sniffed
disapproval and began to fill a pipe.
A taxi-cab drove up, and out of it bounced a plump little man whose
coat looked as if he wore stays.
“I am Dr. Fortune,” Reggie said.
“And I’m Donald Gordon, doctor,” said the little man, who was
emphatically a Jew. “Moss and Gordon.” It was the name of Miss
Bolton’s solicitors. “Many thanks for letting us know. Poor, dear
Birdie. She was a peach. Let’s have all the facts, please.” He had an
engaging lisp.
“There’s a detective inspector inside. Like a bull in a china-shop.”
“Had some,” said Mr. Donald Gordon. “Come on, doctor. Hand it out.”
“Well, let’s see the flowers,” Reggie said, and walked him into the
garden and began to tell him all that he knew.
“So he’s pinched Miss Weston, has he?” the little Jew lisped. “He’s a
hustler.”
“Oh, I expect he’s arrested Ford too, by now. Me and you in a minute.
He’s a zealous fellow. By the way, Gordon, who is Ford?”
“Yes. He’s a dark horse, ain’t he? I only met him once, doctor. You
could see poor old Birdie was sweet on him.”
“Oh, so Miss Weston was telling the truth about that.”
“Why, didn’t you believe her, doctor?”
“D’you know, I wonder if I believe anything I’ve heard in this house.”
“Like that, is it?” Gordon lisped.
“Just like that,” said Reggie. A gravity had come over the perky
little Jew, which he found very engaging.
Mr. Gordon nodded at him. “Birdie was the one and only,” he said, and
Reggie nodded back.
“Nice flowers, doctor,” a new voice said. Reggie turned to see the
small insignificance of Superintendent Bell, greeted him heartily,
introduced Mr. Gordon. “Am I _de trop_, as the French say?” said
Superintendent Bell. “No? Thought it might be a council of war.”
“Oh, is it war?” Reggie said.
“Well, you know, you’ve quarrelled with Inspector Mordan.” The
Superintendent shook his head at Reggie.
“I wouldn’t dare. He quarrelled with me.”
“Such a pity.” The Superintendent smiled and rubbed his hands. “I
ought to tell you, doctor, I quite approve of everything that
Inspector Mordan has done.”
“Splendid force, the police,” Mr. Gordon lisped. “Wonderful force. So
forcible.”
“Including the arrest of Miss Weston?” Reggie asked. “Well, well. Any
one else you’d like to arrest?”
“Any one you suggest, doctor? Now I ask you--what would you have
done?”
“Oh, I’m not in the force.”
“We do have to be so careful,” the Superintendent sighed. “That’s a
handicap, that is. I wonder why you wanted me, doctor?”
“I’m frightened of your inspector. He’s not chatty. I want to
photograph the body.”
The Superintendent turned to Gordon. “It’s a taste, you know, that’s
what it is. He likes corpses. Speaking as man to man, doctor, are you
working with us?”
“May I?”
“That’s very handsome. Yes. Inspector Mordan, he has a kind of a
manner, as you might say. I’ll speak to him. Is there anything you’d
like to tell me, doctor?”
“Nice flowers, aren’t they?” Reggie nodded to the rose-bed under
Birdie Bolton’s window. It was minutely neat.
“Look as if they’d been brought up by hand,” said the Superintendent,
but he looked at Reggie, not the roses. “Anything queer, sir?”
“There’s that,” Reggie said. He pointed to a spray of the Gloire de
Dijon beside the window. It bore a bud; it had been broken, and the
bud was limp and dead.
“That wasn’t broken last night,” said the Superintendent.
“No. That’s what’s interesting,” said Reggie, and turned away.
At the door and in the drive there was some congested traffic. Mr.
Ford’s big car still waited. Reggie’s humbler car had come back with
his camera. The taxis of Mr. Gordon and Superintendent Bell took up
more room. And yet another taxi was trying to get to the steps.
“Who’s this, Superintendent?”
“I dare say it’ll be for Miss Weston.”
“Taking her to Holloway at once? Well, well. I dare say it’s all for
the best.”
But Miss Weston was not to go without a noise. Mr. Ford saw to that.
At the head of the stairs he conducted an altercation with Inspector
Mordan in which defiance, abuse, and profane swearing were his chief
arguments. It was beastly stupid and it was damned impudence to
arrest Miss Weston, and it was also beastly impudence and damned
stupid, and so forth. In the midst of which the wretched girl was
shepherded by two detectives downstairs.
“My God, you might as well arrest me!” Mr. Ford cried, in final
desperation.
“Perhaps I will,” said the Inspector heavily, and glowered at him.
Mr. Ford paled and drew back.
On the stairs below Miss Weston stopped and turned. “Oh, Edmund,
don’t,” she said. “They can’t hurt me. You know they can’t.”
Superintendent Bell drew Reggie aside.
“Think that throws any light?” Reggie said.
“Well, not a searchlight,” said the Superintendent.
Miss Weston was driven off. Mr. Ford, looking dazed, came slowly
downstairs, and to him went Gordon.
“Better get her a solicitor, you know,” Gordon said.
“By Jove, that’s it!” Mr. Ford cried, and plunged out.
The Inspector and the Superintendent exchanged glances and looked at
Gordon.
“Why did you put him on to that, sir?” said the Superintendent.
“Professional feeling, dear boy,” Gordon smiled. “Nice girl, ain’t
it? I fancy my firm are Miss Bolton’s executors, and I fancy that
bird is sole legatee.”
The Superintendent pursed his lips. The Inspector laughed. “It grows,
don’t it, sir? Just grows,” he said.
“I would like to get on,” Reggie yawned.
“That’s right,” said the Superintendent, and took the Inspector aside.
Mr. Gordon, following Reggie to the boudoir, was distressed by the
sight of the dead body, and said so. Reggie went on with his
photography--first the stab in the throat, then the minor wounds,
then the bruise on the shoulder. At which last Inspector Mordan found
him.
“Taking the wrong side, aren’t you?” he sneered.
“Oh, I’m taking all sides. Ever try it?” Reggie said.
“Well, have you done, doctor?” the little Jew broke in. “Can’t we
have her covered up?”
“I’ll have the body removed, sir. If the doctor has quite done.” said
the Inspector.
And so at last the body of Birdie Bolton was taken away to the
mortuary, and Mr. Gordon, much relieved, flung open the windows and
turned to his business, the secretaire and its papers. He worked
quickly. . . . “Nothing there but love-letters. Wonder where she kept
her will?”
“There’s a safe in the bedroom, I think,” Reggie said.
“You bet there is. She had all her jewels in the house, I know, and
she had some good stuff, poor old girl. Well, come on; here’s her
keys.”
They went into the bedroom, and the little Jew made for the safe.
Reggie wandered across the room. It was a parquet floor with Persian
rugs on it. He shifted one by the bedside. There was a small dark
stain on the floor still not dry. An exclamation from Gordon made him
turn. Gordon had the safe open, and the safe, but for some papers in
disorder, was empty.
“Not one bally bangle left!” Gordon cried. “Not a sparkle of the
whole outfit! Remember that ruby and diamond breastplate! Remember
her pearls! And the stuff that Indian Johnny gave her! My hat!
Somebody’s had a haul.” A spasm crossed his face. “I say, doctor, you
were here when I opened the safe!”
“I was here,” Reggie said stolidly. “I wasn’t surprised.” The little
Jew gasped. “You remember that emerald she always wore? It wasn’t on
the dead body.”
“Oh, God!” said Gordon, and with unsteady hands turned over the
papers. “That’s her script. More or less all there, I should say.
Where’s the will? I know she had her will. Drew it myself.”
“What’s that?” Reggie said.
The one untidy thing in that very tidy room, a paper lay by the
fireplace. Gordon picked it up. “Here we are! Yes, ‘May Grace Weston,
my companion.’ That’s the document. Crumpled up and torn!” He
whistled. “As if Birdie was destroying it and then--biff!”
“Just as if she’d been destroying it,” Reggie agreed.
“That puts the lid on, don’t it!” said the little Jew. “Miss
Weston-oh, lor, there’s a soft kid if you ever had one. Just shows
you you never know with girls, doctor. Girls, girls, girls! Well,
we’d better tell these bally policemen.”
So Inspector Mordan, vastly to his satisfaction, was told, and
Superintendent Bell, appearing from nowhere, heard, and agreed to
search the house for the stolen jewels. “You gentlemen come too,
please.” He cocked an eye at Reggie.
“Want to keep me under observation?” Reggie grinned back.
“Want you to identify what we find,” said the Inspector.
“You’ll find something all right,” said Reggie.
But he showed little interest in the search, mooning after their men
in and out of servants’ bedrooms and yawning in corners. Inspector
Mordan had gone straight to Miss Weston’s room, and from it he came
glowing with triumph. He called for his Superintendent, he collected
Reggie and Gordon. “You gentlemen happen to recognize that?” He
opened his big hand and showed the ring with the big emerald which
Birdie Bolton had loved.
“That’s it,” Gordon cried. “That’s Birdie’s. Coo! What a stone, ain’t
it?”
“In Weston’s room,” the Inspector proclaimed, “on the floor; just
under the bed, in Weston’s room.”
“Only that and nothing more?” Reggie murmured.
“Yes, where’s the rest, Mordan?” said Superintendent Bell.
The Inspector smote his thigh. “By George, I see it! I let that
rascal Ford see the wench alone. He’s gone off stuffed with the swag.”
“That’s a thought,” Reggie admitted, and the Superintendent lifted an
eyebrow at him. “You ought to have Ford watched. No, I mean it. If I
was you, Inspector, I’d have his place watched night and day.”
The Inspector was visibly gratified. “I know my business, thank you,”
he said. “I say, doctor--it is growing, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, as if it was forced,” Reggie smiled.
“What do you mean?” The Inspector flushed.
“You see, you’re so witty, Mordan,” said the Superintendent.
“And that’s that,” Reggie yawned. “You don’t really want me any more.
Good-bye. Oh, Inspector--I don’t want you to be disappointed. The
murder wasn’t done in that room where you found the body. Good-bye!”
“Wasn’t done----” The Inspector stared after him. “Good Lord, he’s
mad!”
“Better get him to bite you, Mordan,” said the Superintendent.
* * * * *
That party did not meet again till the day of the inquest. Before the
court met, Superintendent Bell called on Reggie and found him in a
bad temper. This was unusual, and equally unusual in the
Superintendent’s experience was a pallor, a certain tension, across
Reggie’s solid, amiable face. A civil question about his health
brought a snappish answer. It seemed to the Superintendent that Dr.
Fortune had been making a night of it.
“Well, what is it?” Reggie snarled. “Got anything to tell me?”
“I’ve been rather disappointed,” the Superintendent said meekly.
“More fool you. I told you to watch Ford.”
“That’s it, sir. Were you pulling my leg?”
“Oh, damn it, man, this is serious! Miss Bolton was a patient of
mine. I don’t let any one but me kill my patients.”
“Very proper, I’m sure,” the Superintendent agreed. “But we have
watched him, doctor. Nothing doing.”
“Set a man to stand on his doorstep, I suppose. What’s the good of
that?”
“As you say,” the Superintendent agreed. “We’ve picked up one thing,
though. Just before the murder his father turned him down for wanting
to marry this girl Weston. He hasn’t a penny except from his father.
That might have made him desperate--him and the girl. It does grow,
you know, doctor.”
“Queer case,” Reggie grunted. “Going to the inquest? Sorry I can’t
drive you down. My chauffeur’s taking a day off.”
So they walked to the coroner’s court, and on the way Superintendent
Bell used his large experience in the art of extracting confidences
in vain. But Reggie mellowed, perceptibly mellowed, as he baffled
Superintendent Bell.
The court was crowded to its last inch. The coroner was conscious of
his importance, and made the most of it in a long harangue. The
divisional surgeon was more pompous than ever, and made it a point of
honour to use terms so technical that all his evidence had to be
translated to the jury, and the coroner and he argued over the
translation.
“What a life, ain’t it?” Mr. Gordon murmured in Reggie’s ear.
At last came what the evening papers called “Dramatic Evidence”: the
housemaid who had found the body and had hysterics over again as she
described it; Mrs. Betts, who had found May Weston sleeping beside
it, waked her, and heard her say, “I did it--oh, I did it!”
“Sensation in Court” was the cross-head for that. The coroner looked
over his glasses at the jury, and the jury muttered together, and May
Weston came into the box. With the manner of a chaplain at an
execution the coroner warned her that she need not give answers that
would incriminate her. “I want to tell you everything,” she said. She
was very pale in her black, and listless of manner, but quite calm.
What she told was the queer story she had told Reggie, but she was
not allowed to tell it her own way. The coroner badgered her with
continual questions designed to make the queerness of it seem
queerer. He made her nervous, confused her, frightened her. “You
bother me so that I don’t know if I’m telling the truth or not,” she
quavered.
Then, in the language of the newspapers, “another sensation.” Mr.
Ford, large and red, started up and roared, “I ought to be there,
sir. Let her alone. I ought to be there.”
Reggie put his head between his hands and bowed himself, groaning.
Every one else was much excited by Mr. Ford. He was pulled down in
his seat. The coroner rebuked him with awful majesty. The foreman of
the jury wanted to know if he would be called. The coroner pronounced
that the court would most certainly require Mr. Ford to explain
himself--and came back to May Weston.