Winnie Cotterill Pays a Visit to Frattenbury
“Hurry up, Winnie, breakfast is all ready.”
“All right,” came a voice from somewhere, “I’ll be with you in a
minute. You begin—don’t wait for me.”
Maude Wingrave seated herself at the breakfast table and poured out a
cup of tea. It was a tiny room, high up in a block of flats, looking
over Battersea Park. The girl who sat at the table was short and
dark-haired, with a merry expression on her somewhat plain face.
“You are the limit, Winnie,” she exclaimed as a newcomer entered the
room, a girl of about five and twenty, with a fresh, clear-cut face
and grey eyes. “You’re a downright lazy pig.”
“I can’t help it. I simply _hate_ getting up. What’s for breakfast?
I’m hungry.”
“Go on—help yourself. Do something towards running this establishment,
if it’s only _that_. I’ve not too much time. Can’t look after you.”
And she glanced at her wrist-watch.
“You ought to be thankful, Winnie Cotterill, that you don’t have to
keep office hours.”
“I am,” replied Winnie. “Providence never intended me to be punctual,
so Providence has provided me with work that doesn’t need a 9 a.m.
beginning each day. Pass the toast.”
“What are you doing to-day?”
“Finishing the cover of the Christmas number of _Peter’s Magazine_, my
dear, and I’m thankful to get it off my hands. Then I’m going
seriously to tackle that short story the editor of _The Holborn_ sent
me to illustrate. A ‘horrible murder,’ Maude. With a detective in it.
I’m going to make him a little ugly, snubbed-nose creature, wearing
big police boots. True to life, my dear—none of your impossible
Sherlock Holmes.”
The other girl laughed.
“I’ve got an interview with our new ‘serial’ this morning,” she
said—“a great big man of fifty, with a solemn beard and spectacles.
He’s selling us the most romantic piffle you ever read. There’ll be a
boom in our issue when the servant girls get hold of it. Hand over the
paper if you’re not using it. I want to glance at the news before I
go.”
Winnie Cotterill passed the newspaper to her friend. Maude Wingrave
opened it.
“Hallo!” she exclaimed, “talk about your story with a ‘horrible
murder’ in it—here’s a real one!”
“What is it?”
Maude read out the head-lines:
“_Mysterious Crime._”
“_Yachtsman Murdered on Board His Yacht._”
“_Inquest To-day._”
“Who is it?” asked Winnie, as she reached over for the teapot.
Maude began to read:
“Early yesterday morning a shocking discovery was made on board a
small yacht, anchored in the little harbour of Marsh Quay, on an
estuary of the Channel, about two miles from the cathedral city of
Frattenbury. Mr. Reginald Templeton, a Fellow of the Royal
Geographical Society, only lately returned from South Africa——”
Winnie Cotterill dropped her knife and fork on her plate.
“Who?” she exclaimed.
“Mr. Reginald Templeton. Why?”
“Oh, my dear!”
“What is it?”
“Pass me the paper. It must be—yes—it _is_—murdered! Oh, Maude!”
“Do you know him?”
“Why, of course I do! Ever since I can remember. He was a great friend
of my mother, and always so kind to me. I always called him Uncle.
Why, I only had a letter from him last week. He was coming to London,
soon, he said.”
“Oh, you poor dear! Are you _sure_ it’s the same man, Winnie?”
“It must be,” said the girl, looking at the paper again. “Yes—when he
wrote he said he was yachting on the South Coast. Oh, Maude, what am I
to do?”
Maude had risen from the seat and was looking over her friend’s
shoulder.
“Look,” she said, pointing with her finger, “he’d been dining the
night before with his cousin, Canon Fittleworth. Do you know him?”
“I’ve heard Uncle speak of him. No, I’ve never met him.”
“Why not write to him—or telegraph?”
Winnie shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Of course, you see, Mr. Templeton isn’t
any relation of mine. But I was awfully fond of him. Poor old Uncle! I
know what I _will_ do, dear,” she went on impulsively.
“What?”
“I _must_ finish that cover this morning. But I’ll go down to
Frattenbury this afternoon and see Canon Fittleworth—yes, I will.”
Maude had glanced at her watch again, and was putting on her gloves.
“Will it be any good?” she asked.
“Oh, Maude, I _must_! He’s been so awfully good to me. Why, my dear,
when my mother died, and there wasn’t a penny, it was Mr. Templeton
who paid for my art training. I owe my living to him—really. Don’t you
see?”
Maude nodded her head sympathetically.
“I know, dear. I should do just the same. I’m _so_ sorry. Yes—go down
to Frattenbury. I wish I could go with you, but I simply _have_ to get
to the office.”
“Don’t worry about me, dear. I shall take a handbag in case I stay the
night—I can get a room at an hotel. I’ll wire and let you know if I’m
not coming back this evening.”
“Thanks. I’d like to know. Good-bye!”
And she nodded brightly as she left the room to go to her work. She
was sub-editress of one of the many popular weeklies issued by a
well-known firm of publishers and newspaper proprietors. The two
“bachelor” girl friends had been sharing the same flat for nearly a
year.
Winnie Cotterill slowly finished her breakfast, reading the details of
the tragedy as she did so—a couple of columns in the usual blaring
journalistic style, followed by a short article on local police
methods, detrimental, of course, to the said local police. She was
getting into a calmer frame of mind now, though still much upset by
the shock of hearing such unexpected news.
Breakfast over, she went into the little adjacent room she dignified
by the name of “studio” and got to work on the magazine cover. When it
was finished, she took a bus to Fleet Street and deposited it with her
editor, in whose office she consulted a Bradshaw.
She had already packed a small handbag and, after a light lunch at a
restaurant, she caught the afternoon train to Frattenbury, arriving
about six, and at once made her way to the Close.
Canon Fittleworth was closeted in his study with Anthony Crosby, who
had returned from Marsh Quay and was staying the night at an hotel. A
maid announced the fact that a young lady wished to see the Canon, and
handed him a visiting card on a salver.
The Canon adjusted his pince-nez and read the name out loud.
“Miss Winifred Cotterill.”
“Eh?” interjaculated the lawyer, looking up from some papers he was
studying.
“Miss Winifred Cotterill,” repeated the Canon. “I don’t know her.”
“But I do,” said Anthony Crosby, “at least, I know of her. She is, in
a way, connected with this case, and I was going to communicate with
her as soon as I got back to London.”
“Oh, well, in that case, we’ll see her together. Show Miss Cotterill
in, Jane.”
The Canon looked her over quickly as she entered. He was, for the
moment, half afraid that there might have been some unpleasant
incident in his cousin’s life, with some undesirable female connected
with it. His suspicions were quickly removed. He saw a neatly-dressed
girl with a refined and pleasant face, and took a step towards her.
“Miss Cotterill?”
“I’m afraid I must apologise. I came down to Frattenbury
because—because I read about Mr. Templeton’s murder in the paper this
morning, and you are his cousin, and——”
“Now do sit down, Miss Cotterill,” interrupted the Canon, “and before
I ask you anything else—have you had any tea?”
“I’ve only just arrived,” replied the girl.
“I thought so. Now, I’m going to ring for tea. I’m sure you want some,
and then you can tell us all about it. Mr. Crosby,” and he waved his
hand in introduction towards the lawyer, “heard your name when it was
announced, and says he knows of you.”
Winnie Cotterill looked surprised.
“You know me?” she asked.
“I’ve heard about you, Miss Cotterill,” said the lawyer. “You see, I
had the privilege of being a friend of Mr. Templeton, as well as his
legal adviser, and he mentioned you several times. I quite understand
what a shock this terrible affair must be to you.”
“He was most awfully kind to me,” said the girl, her voice quavering a
little, “and I felt I must come down and find out more about it.”
Anthony Crosby nodded sympathetically. The maid brought in tea. Winnie
Cotterill explained how Mr. Templeton had been a friend of her mother,
and what he had done for her. Then she listened while the Canon told
her about the murder.
“But why, _why_ was he murdered?” she asked. “I can’t understand.”
“Ah, my dear young lady,” said the Canon, “that is what we all want to
know. We suspect that robbery was the cause of it and, of course, the
police have it in hand. Now tell me,” and he looked at his watch, “I
naturally take an interest in any friend of my poor cousin. Were you
thinking of going back to London to-night? I ask because the funeral
will take place to-morrow afternoon—the coroner has given an order for
burial—and I thought you might like to be present.”
“I should, very much,” replied the girl, “and I’ll get a bed at an
hotel for to-night. Perhaps you can tell me of one?”
She had risen to go.
“Sit down and have another cup of tea,” said the Canon with a smile.
“I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
He came back with his wife. Mrs. Fittleworth greeted the girl warmly.
“You poor thing!” she said; “my husband has just told me about you.
I’m so sorry. But you mustn’t think of going to an hotel. Do let us
put you up for the night.”
“It’s very kind of you.”
“Nonsense. Of course you will stay with us. Come along, you must be
very tired.”
She took the girl out of the room, and the two men were left together.
The Canon looked inquiringly at Anthony Crosby. The latter took a
cigarette from his case, tapped it deliberately, lighted it, and
began.
“I was going to tell you about Miss Cotterill, anyhow,” he said. “From
all I have gathered, you know very little of your late cousin?”
“Very little indeed. I so rarely saw him. And he was a reticent man. I
really know nothing at all about his affairs.”
The lawyer nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed, “he was distinctly reticent, I know. I suppose _I_
know as much as anyone, and that isn’t a great deal. Now, about this
girl—I speak in confidence, of course?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Templeton—like most men—had a romance in his life.”
“He never married.”
“No,” said the lawyer deliberately, “the other man did that—it was
years ago now.”
“Who was the woman?” asked the Canon, his curiosity aroused.
“This girl’s mother,” replied Crosby. “That is as much as he told me.
She was left a widow when Winifred was about five years old—as far as
I understand.”
“Why didn’t he marry her then?”
The lawyer smiled grimly.
“I always consider that parsons, doctors and we lawyers have more
chances of knowing about human nature than the rest of the world. And
you ought to know that very often when a man doesn’t get his first
chance of marrying the woman he loves, he won’t take a second chance
when it comes. That’s the only answer I can give you.”
“Yes—it’s often true,” said the Canon thoughtfully. “I’ve seen it more
than once.”
“Exactly. Well, the fact remains that Templeton didn’t marry Mrs.
Cotterill. But he stood by her and her child. The girl has told you he
paid for her training as an art student.”
The Canon nodded.
“Just so. Well, before he went abroad to South Africa he came to me
and asked me to draw up his will. I have it at my office. If there
isn’t a later one, of course, it stands good for probate.”
“I see.”
Crosby flicked the ash off his cigarette and smiled at the Canon.
“I’m afraid you won’t benefit by it,” he said.
Canon Fittleworth laughed.
“It’s no disappointment,” he replied; “I never expected anything.”
“Then I hope that, as his nearest relative, as I suppose you are, you
won’t be envious when I tell you he has left everything he possesses
to this girl—Winifred Cotterill.”
“Indeed?” said Canon Fittleworth. “No, I’m not a bit envious. The girl
is an orphan, and I’m only too glad. Besides, after what you tell me,
it’s perfectly natural. Romance has a strange sway over human
affairs.”
“But,” said the other slowly and deliberately, “unless Templeton made
anything out of his last venture—which I doubt—it won’t be very
much—not two thousand pounds.”
“I see—I knew nothing of his affairs. But I always imagined him to be
comfortably off.”
“He should have been—but for my profession,” said the lawyer. “No,
don’t blame me. I did the best I could for him, but he would not
listen to reason. He got involved, some years ago, in an unfortunate
and expensive lawsuit—a question of adjacent properties. I advised
him, at the time, to compromise, but he was adamant. The case went
against him, and he insisted upon carrying it to the Court of Appeal.
The appeal was quashed—as I knew it would be. The costs were
enormous—he insisted on having the best counsel—and he had to sell the
whole of his property to pay them. The other man bought the property,
and Templeton never forgave him.”
“I remember hearing something about it at the time,” said the Canon.
“So that was why he sold the little place in Buckinghamshire! What a
pity! I suppose he was in the wrong, though?”
“I didn’t say that,” replied the other dryly. “It was a case of law.
And I admit that the law is not always just. Anyhow, he became a
comparatively poor man. Besides, he spent what money he had on
travelling. An explorer, out on his own, can’t expect to make money
unless he discovers a gold-mine. And Templeton didn’t. Even if he had,
he’d not the business capacity to make anything out of it. Poor chap!
‘De mortuis,’ eh?”
“Quite so,” said the Canon. After a silence he remarked:
“Are you going to tell the girl—now?”
Anthony Crosby shook his head.
“Not for the moment,” he replied. “I prefer to act professionally. As
a matter of fact, I didn’t bring the will. It’s at my office, and I
had to come straight down here from my home. Besides, there’s a sealed
packet that Templeton handed me just before he sailed—only to be
opened by me in the event of his death. It may contain a codicil, or
even another will. So it wouldn’t be fair to tell her yet, you see.
You won’t say anything about it, will you?”
“Of course I won’t. Must you be going now?”
For the lawyer had risen.
“I must. I’m staying at the ‘Dolphin,’ and I’ve some letters to write.
I shall see you to-morrow—at the funeral. I want to have a
consultation with the police in the morning.”
It was about ten o’clock that evening that the Canon, who had retired
to his study after dinner, came into the drawing-room. His wife and
daughter and Winnie Cotterill were seated there.
“Who was with you in the study, dear?” asked his wife. “I heard Jane
showing someone in.”
“Major Renshaw,” replied her husband, seating himself. “He came in to
have a smoke and discuss the events of the day.”
Mrs. Fittleworth glanced swiftly at Winnie Cotterill. With a woman’s
instinct she knew the girl had had nearly enough strain that day. She
was just going to try to turn the conversation when the Canon went on
in his best parsonical manner that brooked no interruption:
“Of course, I refrained from asking him very much about any possible
clues, and so on,” he said. “The police naturally wish to keep these
things to themselves. But he did tell me something, which isn’t
exactly private, because it’s being talked about at Marsh Quay. There
was a young man lodging at the inn there—the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ An
artist, apparently, though no one seems to know anything about him.”
“Go on, father,” said Doris; “this sounds most exciting.”
“Well, the strange thing is that he left quite suddenly yesterday
morning—just before the unhappy affair was discovered. The landlady
says he came downstairs very early and announced his intention of
leaving at once.”
The three women were listening intently. The Canon went on:
“He was, it seems, cycling into Frattenbury. But he never went there.
The police have been making inquiries, and only found out this evening
that he stayed last night at Selham—three miles from Marsh Quay down
the estuary, you know. He left there this morning, so they say, and
must have been close to Marsh Quay, because he was seen riding in the
direction of Frattenbury. Then all trace of him was lost again.”
“Oh, daddy, how exciting! Do they think he committed the murder?”
“Well, Renshaw didn’t say that—but, of course, it’s suspicious going
off like that, and the police are making every effort to find him.
They have his description, and it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Do they know his name?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth.
“They know the name under which he stayed at the inn,” replied the
Canon, “but, of course, it may be a fictitious one.”
“What is it, daddy?”
“Grayson—Harold Grayson.”
“Oh!”
They all turned towards Winnie Cotterill, from whom the exclamation
proceeded. The girl was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her hands
clutching at its arms, her face deadly pale.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Fittleworth, crossing over to her.
“Oh—it can’t be,” said Winnie in a low voice, half choking. “He
couldn’t have done it—I know he couldn’t have done it.”
“What—do you know him?” asked the Canon anxiously.
The girl nodded.
“If it’s the same—Mr. Grayson. Yes. He was at the Art School with me.
And I’ve seen him since. I—I know him quite well. It’s impossible. Oh,
oughtn’t I to tell the police? It’s dreadful to think of.”
Mrs. Fittleworth, who noticed the deep blush to which the girl’s ashy
cheeks had given place, with a motherly instinct put her arm over her
shoulder.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “The Canon has said the police don’t
necessarily suspect him. If he is really the Mr. Grayson you know—and
he may not be, after all—of course he will be able to explain. You’re
quite done up with all this terrible affair, and I’m going to take you
to bed. Come along.”
“Thank you,” said Winnie gratefully, “you are kind to me. I’m very
silly, I know, but I can’t bear to think that he—he is suspected. I
know he couldn’t have done it.”
“Of course he couldn’t,” said Mrs. Fittleworth soothingly. “Now—I must
insist. You come to bed, dear.”
When the Canon himself went to bed that night he had to listen to a
little lecture. And he took it calmly—from force of habit—much more
calmly than if it had come from the Dean, or even the Bishop. Whereat
it is evident that even for cathedral dignitaries there is a higher
court than the mere ecclesiastical.
“Really, Charles,” said his wife, “you ought to have noticed that the
poor girl had gone through quite enough for one day.”
The Canon tried defensive argument, which was foolish of him—for he
ought to have remembered that he never succeeded.
“But how was I to know, my dear, that she was acquainted with the
young man?”
“Oh, do be reasonable, Charles. You ought not to have mentioned the
subject of the murder at all at that time of night. Doris and I had
been doing our best to get the girl’s mind off it. And then you came
in and started it all again!”
“Why didn’t you stop me, my dear?”
“Stop you!” exclaimed his wife; “stop you when you once begin to hold
forth on a subject. How can anyone stop you? _I_ can’t. There. I know
you didn’t mean to upset her, but you ought to have thought.”
“I suppose I ought,” said the Canon resignedly. “I’m very sorry. Good
night, my dear.”