The Silverdale Wills
“This is Mr. Renard, sir.”
Flamborough held open the door of Sir Clinton's office and ushered in
the little Frenchman. The Chief Constable glanced up at the
interruptors.
“Mrs. Silverdale's brother, isn't it?” he asked courteously.
Renard nodded vigorously, and turned toward the Inspector, as though
leaving explanations to him. Flamborough threw himself into the
breach:
“It appears, sir, that Mr. Renard isn't entirely satisfied with the
state of things he's unearthed in the matter of his sister's will.
It's taken him by surprise; and he came to see what I thought about
it. He'd prefer to lay the point before you, so I've brought him
along. It seems just as well that you should hear it at first-hand,
for it looks as though it might be important.”
Sir Clinton closed his fountain pen and invited Renard to take a seat.
“I'm at your disposal, Mr. Renard,” he said briskly. “Let's hear the
whole story, if you please, whatever it is. Inspector Flamborough will
make notes, if you don't mind.”
Renard took the chair which Sir Clinton indicated.
“I shall be concise,” he assured the Chief Constable. “It is not a
very complicated affair, but I should like to have it thrashed out, as
you English say.”
He settled himself at ease and then plunged into his tale.
“My sister, Yvonne Renard, as you know, married Mr. Silverdale in
1923. I was not altogether pleased with the alliance, not quite
satisfied, you understand? Oh, there was nothing against Mr.
Silverdale! But I knew my sister, and Silverdale was not the right man
for her: he was too serious, too intent on his profession. He had not
the natural gaiety which was needed in a husband for Yvonne. Already I
was in doubt, at the very moment of the marriage. There were
incompatibilities, you understand. . . . ?”
Sir Clinton's gesture assured him that he had made himself
sufficiently clear.
“I have nothing to say against my brother-in-law, you follow me?”
Renard went on. “It was a case of ‘Marry in haste and repent at
leisure,’ as your English proverb says. They were unsuited to each
other, but that was no fault of theirs. When they discovered each
other—their real selves—it is clear that they decided to make the best
of it. I had nothing to say. I was sorry that my sister had not found
a husband more suited to her temperament; but I am not one who would
make trouble by sympathising too much.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Renard,” Sir Clinton intervened, with the
obvious intention of cutting short this elaborate exposition of the
self-evident.
“Now I come to the important point,” Renard went on. “At the time of
the marriage, or shortly afterwards—I do not know your English law
about testaments very well—my brother-in-law transferred part of his
property in stocks and shares to my sister. It was some question of
Death Duties, I was told. If he died first, then she would have had to
pay on his whole estate; but by transferring some of his property to
her, this could be avoided. In case of his death, she would have to
pay only on what he had retained in his own name. It is, I understand,
a usual precaution in the circumstances.”
“It's often done,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “By the way, Mr. Renard, can
you give me some idea of how much he transferred to her on their
marriage?”
“I cannot give you the precise figures,” Renard explained. “I have
seen the lawyer's accounts, of course; but they were involved, and I
have no good memory for figures. It was only a few hundred pounds—a
mere drop in the bucket, as you would say in English. My
brother-in-law is not a rich man, not by any means. But the sum itself
is of little importance. It is the sequel which is of more interest,
as you shall see.”
He leaned forward in his chair as though to fix Sir Clinton's
attention.
“When my brother-in-law transferred this little property to my sister,
they each made their testament. That, I believe, was on the advice of
a lawyer. By his will, my brother-in-law left all his property to my
sister. He had no relations, so far as I have learned; and that seemed
very fair. The second will, my sister's, was in identical terms, so
far as the principal clauses went. All her property in stocks, shares,
and money, went to my brother-in-law. There was a little provision at
the end which left to me a few small souvenirs, things of sentimental
value only. It seemed very fair in the circumstances. I suggest
nothing wrong. How could there be anything wrong?”
“It seems a normal precaution in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton
assured him. “Naturally, if she died first, he would expect to get his
own property back again—less the Death Duties, of course.”
“It was a very small affair,” Renard emphasised. “If I had been
consulted, I should certainly have advised it. But I was not
consulted. It was no business of mine, except that I was made a
trustee. I am not one who mixes himself up with affairs which do not
concern him.”
“Where is this leading to, Mr. Renard?” Sir Clinton asked patiently.
“I don't see your difficulty as yet, I must confess.”
“There is no difficulty. It is merely that I wish to lay some further
information before you. Now, I proceed. My aunt had been ill for a
long time. A disease of the heart, it was: angina pectoris. She was
bound to die in a spasm, at a moment's notice. One expected it, you
understand? And less than three weeks ago, she had the spasm which we
had so long anticipated, and she died.”
Sir Clinton's face expressed his sympathy, but he made no attempt to
interrupt.
“As I told Inspector Flamborough when I saw him last,” Renard
continued, “the figure of her fortune came as a surprise to me. I had
no idea she was so rich. She lived very simply, very parsimoniously,
even. I had always thought of her as hard-up, you understand? Figure
to yourself my astonishment when I learned that she had accumulated
over £12,000! That is a great sum. Many people would do almost
anything to acquire £12,000.”
He paused for a moment as though in rapt contemplation of the figures.
“Her testament was very simple,” he proceeded. “My sister Yvonne was
her favourite. My aunt had always put her in front of me. I make no
complaint, you understand? Someone must be preferred. I had a little
bequest under my aunt's testament; but Yvonne secured almost the whole
of my aunt's fortune. That was how things stood a fortnight ago.”
He hitched himself in his chair as though preparing for a revelation.
“My sister and I were the trustees under my aunt's testament. The
lawyer who had charge of the will communicated with me and forwarded a
copy of the document. These legal documents are not easy to
understand. But I soon saw that my sister had acquired the whole of my
aunt's capital in stocks and shares—about a million and a half francs.
I am not very good at legal affairs. It took me some time to
understand what all this meant; but I thought it out. It is really
quite simple, very easy. My sister had gained £12,000 under my aunt's
will; but if she died without any change in the circumstances, then
under the will which she signed after her marriage, my brother-in-law
would inherit the whole of that money. Figure to yourself, he had
never even seen my aunt, and all that £12,000 would pour into his lap.
And I, who had been almost like a son to my aunt, I would get nothing!
I make no complaint, of course.”
Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing whatever of his views on the
question. He merely waited in silence for Renard to continued his
story.
“When I understood the position,” Renard resumed, “I sat down and
wrote a letter to my sister. ‘Here is the state of affairs,’ I said.
‘Our good aunt is dead, and she has named you as her heiress. A whole
million and a half francs! To me she has left some little things,
enough at least to buy a suit of mourning. I have no complaints to
make: our good aunt had the right to dispose of her money as she
chose.’ That was how I began, you understand? Then I went on thus:
‘Things are for the best for the present,’ I said, ‘but one must think
of the future as well. Recall the will which you made at the time of
your marriage. All is to go to your husband, should anything happen to
you. Now,’ I wrote, ‘that seems to me hardly as it should be. If you
should die—a motor accident might happen any day—then all the money of
our aunt would pass into the hands of your husband, this husband with
whom you have so little in common and who had no relations with our
good aunt. And I, who am your nearest in kin, would receive not one
penny. Think of that,’ I wrote, ‘and consider whether it would be
fair. Is the fortune of our family to pass into the hands of strangers
and we ourselves to be left without a share in it?’”
Renard looked from the Inspector to Sir Clinton and back to the
Inspector, as though seeking for sympathy. Apparently finding nothing
very satisfying in their expressions, he continued his tale.
“I put it to her that this state of affairs was not as it should be. I
did not plead for myself, of course. That is not my way. I tried to
show her that as things stood, injustice would be done if she should
happen to die. And I urged her very strongly to make a fresh will.
‘See,’ I wrote, ‘how things would fall out. To you, it would mean
nothing, very naturally. You would be far beyond all cares. But this
money would be left. Would you desire that it should fall into the
hands of this husband of yours, with whom you cannot find anything in
common? Or would you not prefer that it should be left to your brother
who has always been good to you?’ That is how I put it to her. I asked
her to take swift action and to call in a lawyer who could aid her to
draw up a fresh will which would be fair to both her husband and
myself. I desired to be fair, you understand? merely to be fair. He
would have received back his own stocks and shares which he had given
to her at the time of their marriage. I would have gained the fortune
which descended from my aunt. That seemed reasonable, surely.”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “it sounds quite reasonable in the
circumstances. And what happened?”
“I have been to see the lawyers,” Renard went on. “Figure to yourself
what I discovered. My poor Yvonne was not a woman of affairs. She had
no business-like habits. If a thing seemed likely to give her trouble,
she would put it aside for as long as she could, before dealing with
it. Affairs bored her. It was her temperament, like that. So when she
received my letter, she put it aside for some days. One cannot blame
her. It was not in her nature to go to great trouble over a thing like
that. Besides, death was not in her thoughts. One day was as good as
another.”
He paused, as though wishing to heighten the interest of his
narrative; for it was evident that he had produced but little
impression on Sir Clinton.
“She had a good heart, my poor sister. She understood the position
well enough, it seems. And she had no wish to see her good brother
left out in the cold, as you English put it. But she delayed and
delayed in the affair. And in the end she delayed too long.”
Again he hitched himself forward in his chair, as though he were
approaching something important.
“I went to the lawyers. What did I find? This. My poor Yvonne had not
forgotten her good brother. She had the intention of setting things
right. One day she rang up the lawyers on the telephone and made an
appointment with them for the following afternoon. She informed them
that she proposed to alter her will; but of course, over the
telephone, she said nothing about her wishes on the point. That is to
be understood. But she said she would jot down the points to be
embodied in the new will and bring that paper with her. That is all
the lawyers know. That is all I know myself. For before the next
afternoon, when she had made her appointment with the lawyers—my poor
Yvonne was dead! Is it not distressing? Twelve thousand pounds! A
million and a half francs! And they slip through my fingers just by a
few hours. But I make no complaint, of course. I do not grumble. It is
not my way. These things happen, and one has to bear them.”
If he had expected to read any sympathy in Sir Clinton's face, he must
have been disappointed. The Chief Constable betrayed nothing of the
feelings in his mind.
“Was it not most inopportune?” Renard continued. “Or most opportune
indeed, for Silverdale, that things fell out as they have done. A
coincidence, of course. Life is full of these things. I have seen too
many to be astonished, myself. But is it not most apt that she should
die just at that juncture? Another day of life, and the twelve
thousand pounds goes into one pocket; a death, and the money falls
into other hands. I am something of a philosopher. One has to be, in
this world. And these strange chances have an attraction for my mind.
I know there is nothing behind them, nothing whatever, you understand?
And yet, is it not most striking that things fall out as they do?”
The Chief Constable declined to be drawn into a general discussion on
the Universe.
“I am afraid it is scarcely a matter for the police, Mr. Renard. Wills
hardly fall into our province, you know, unless a case of forgery
turns up; and in this case there's nothing of that sort. The only
advice I could give you would be to consult a lawyer, but as you've
already had the legal position made clear, I don't see that there's
anything to be done.”
Inspector Flamborough took his cue and, without more ado he hinted to
Renard very plainly that enough time had been spent on the matter. At
length the little Frenchman withdrew, leaving the two officials
together.
“I don't much care for his way of telling his story, sir,” Flamborough
remarked, “but I'm not sure, if I were in his shoes, that I wouldn't
feel much the same as he seems to do. It must be a bit galling to lose
£12,000 by a few hours’ delay. And he's quite reasonably suspicious,
evidently.”
Sir Clinton refused to be drawn.
“Don't let's be too much influenced by the stop press news, Inspector.
Renard's evidence is the latest we have; but that adds nothing to its
value, remember. Look at the case as a whole and try to reckon up the
people who could conceivably gain anything by the crime. Then you can
assess the probabilities in each case—apart altogether from the order
in which the facts have come to light.”
The Inspector had evidently considered the matter already from this
stand-point. He hardly paused before offering his views.
“Well, sir, if you ask me, Silverdale had at least two sound motives
for committing murder. By getting his wife out of the way, he opened
the road to a marriage with the Deepcar girl, whom he's obviously keen
on. Also, if Renard's story's true, the death of his wife at that
particular juncture put £12,000 into his pocket, which he'd have lost
if Mrs. Silverdale had lived a day or two longer.”
“One has to admit that he hadn't evidence to get a divorce, which
would have been an obvious alternative to murder,” Sir Clinton
acknowledged. “And the cash affair makes the death of Mrs. Silverdale
peculiarly opportune. It's no use burking the plain fact that either
money or a woman might tempt a man to murder; and when you've got both
of them together, one can't brush them aside cavalierly. But go on
with your list, Inspector.”
“There's that money-lender, Spratton,” Flamborough pursued. “If young
Hassendean's death can be proved to be a murder, then Spratton lifts
some thousands out of the pocket of the insurance company in return
for the payment of a single premium. That's a motive, certainly.”
“It's a sound motive for _proving_ that it was a case of murder and
not suicide; and it's a possible motive for murder, I admit. But the
position of a gentleman who commits a murder for gain and can only
collect the money by proving that murder was done . . . Well, it
sounds a bit complicated, doesn't it?”
“Unless he can be sure of fixing the murder on someone else, sir.”
“It's a bit difficult in practice to produce a frame-up of that
description, isn't it?”
The Inspector refrained from betraying any opinion on this point.
“Then there's the Hailsham girl, sir. She's a vindictive type; and she
quite obviously had the worst kind of grudge against both of them.
Revenge might have been at the back of the business for all one can
tell. I don't say it's likely; but I'm considering possibilities, not
necessarily probabilities.”
“I don't think Miss Hailsham can reckon me among her admirers,” Sir
Clinton confessed. “But that's hardly evidence against her in a murder
case. We'd need something a bit more concrete.”
“She admitted that she left the dance early that night and took her
car home, sir. She hasn't got a clean alibi for the time the murder
was committed.”
“So I noticed when she told her story. But the absence of an alibi
doesn't establish murderous intent, you know. Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, there's the Deepcar girl. She's keen on Silverdale. It's
always a motive.”
“Save me from being mixed up in any murder case that you have charge
of, Inspector. My character wouldn't escape, I see. You'll need to
have something better than that before you start arresting anyone.”
“I'm not talking about arresting anyone, sir,” the Inspector replied
in an injured tone. “I'm just reviewing possible motives.”
“Quite true. Can't one make a feeble joke without rasping your
susceptibilities? Now is that the end of your list?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Ah! You didn't think of including someone with the initial ‘B,’ then?
You remember the ‘B’ on the bracelet?”
The Inspector seemed rather startled.
“You mean this fellow B. might have been a discarded lover of Mrs.
Silverdale's who was out for revenge like the Hailsham girl? I hadn't
thought of that. It's possible, of course.”
“Now let's turn to a fresh side of the case,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“One thing's certain; hyoscine played a part in the affair. What about
Mr. Justice's pertinent inquiry: ‘Who had access to hyoscine at the
Croft-Thornton Institute?’”
“Every blessed soul in the place, so far as I could see,” the
Inspector confessed, rather ruefully. “Silverdale, Markfield, young
Hassendean, and the two girls: they all had equal chances of helping
themselves from that bottle in the store. I don't think that leads
very far. That hyoscine was common property so far as access to it
went. Anyone might have taken some.”
“Then push the thing a little further. Out of all that list, who had
an opportunity of administering hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale—directly
or indirectly—on the night she died?”
“Directly or indirectly?” Flamborough mused. “There's something in
that perhaps. On the face of it, only three people could have
administered the drug directly, since there were only three people at
Heatherfield in a fit state to do it. I take it that she swallowed the
stuff at Heatherfield, sir, because I found no trace of a paper which
might have held it, either at the bungalow or on the bodies of young
Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale.”
“That's sound, I believe,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “She swallowed the
stuff at Heatherfield before going out. Now who are your three
suspects?”
“Mrs. Silverdale herself might have taken it, sir, either on purpose
or by mistake.”
“But she had no access to hyoscine that we know of.”
“No, sir, but both Silverdale and young Hassendean had. She may have
taken it in mistake for a headache powder or something of that sort.
And it might have been added to a headache powder by either Silverdale
or young Hassendean.”
“That's a good enough suggestion, Inspector. But I didn't see any sign
of a powder paper in her room when I searched it; and you remember she
came straight downstairs and went out of the house, according to the
maid's evidence. Any other view?”
“Then it must have been administered in the coffee, sir, by either
young Hassendean or the maid.”
“The maid? Where would she get hyoscine?”
“From Silverdale, sir. It's just occurred to me. Silverdale wanted a
divorce; but he couldn't get evidence because his wife was simply
playing with young Hassendean and keeping well within the limits. But
if she were drugged, then young Hassendean might seize the chance that
was offered to him, and if Silverdale was prepared beforehand, he'd
have his evidence at the cost of watching them for an hour or two.”
“So Silverdale gave the maid the drug to put in one of the cups of
coffee and ordered her to give that cup to Mrs. Silverdale, you
think?”
“It's possible, sir. I don't put it higher. That maid was a simple
creature—look how the doctor pumped her on the pretence of getting
medical information that night. She was devoted to Silverdale; he told
us that himself. She'd swallow any talk he chose to hand out to her.
Suppose he faked up some yarn about Mrs. Silverdale needing a sedative
but refusing to take it. The maid would believe that from Silverdale,
and she'd put the hyoscine into the cup quite innocently. If the worst
came to the worst, and the cups got mixed, then young Hassendean would
get the dose instead.”
“It's asking a bit too much, I'm afraid. Remember it was a heavy
over-dose that was given.”
“Everybody's liable to make a mistake, sir.”
“True. And I suppose you'd say that after the murder at the bungalow
Silverdale awoke to the fact that the maid's evidence about the
hyoscine would hang him, probably; so he went back and murdered her
also.”
“It was someone well known to her who did her in, sir. That's clear
enough.”
“In the meantime, you've left aside the possibility that young
Hassendean may have administered the stuff. How does that strike you?”
“It's possible, sir,” the Inspector admitted cautiously. “But there's
no evidence for it.”
“Oh, I shouldn't like to go so far as that,” Sir Clinton said,
chaffingly. “I'll tell you what evidence there is on the point.
There's Hassendean's own diary, first of all. Then there's what we
found in young Hassendean's laboratory notebook.”
“But that was just some stuff about weighing potash-bulbs, whatever
they may be.”
“Quite correct. That was what it was.”
“Well, I'm no chemist, sir. It's off my beat.”
“There's no chemistry in it. I gave you the key to it at the time.
Then there's other evidence. Young Hassendean was a careless worker.
Everyone agreed on that; and his notebook confirmed it. Next, there's
what Miss Hailsham said about hyoscine, which is more or less common
knowledge, nowadays, of course. And there's young Hassendean's
interference in the serving of coffee at Heatherfield, that night.
Finally, there's what the maid said about Mrs. Silverdale's appearance
when she was going out of the house. Put all these points together,
and I'll engage to satisfy a jury that young Hassendean administered
the hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale in her coffee, with a definite
purpose—but not murder—in view.”
“I'll need to think over all that, sir. You seem pretty sure about
it.”
“I'm practically certain. Now look at the business from another
stand-point. Who had a grudge against the two victims, either
separately or together?”
“Silverdale, obviously.”
“Obviously, as you say. That's if you take them together, of course.
Now for a final problem. Who is Mr. Justice? He seems to be in the
know, somehow. If we could lay hands on him, we might be near the
centre of things. He knew before anyone else that something had
happened at the bungalow. He knew about the hyoscine at the
Institute—although as Silverdale's a fairly well-recognised authority
on alkaloids, that might have been just a shot aimed on chance.
Anyhow, look at it as you choose, Mr. Justice has information, and he
seems to have a motive. Who is he, can you guess?”
“Somebody who won't come out into the open until he's dragged there,
evidently. It might be an unwilling accomplice, sir.”
“That's possible. Anyone else?”
“It might be Spratton. He's got an interest in establishing that it
was a case of murder and not suicide.”
“Obviously true. Anyone else?”
“I can't think of anyone else who would fit the case, sir. By the way,
I've got the originals of these advertisements—the code ones. I sent
down to the newspaper offices and got hold of them.”
He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket-book and handed them
to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton glanced over them.
“H'm! The first one—the letters—is built up as usual from telegram
forms. The one with the numbers is fitted together from numbers
printed in a newspaper; it might have been clipped from one of these
lists of the results of drawings of bonds for redemption—Underground
Electric Railways, and that kind of thing. These advertisements have
columns and columns of figures out of which he'd be able to pick what
he wanted easily enough. Now what about this address that he's put
down—the usual guarantee of good faith at the bottom. It's fictitious,
of course?”
“Yes, sir. There's no such place.”
“It's in writing. It looks like a girl's writing. This is a dangerous
game for Mr. Justice; but I suppose if he'd put all the advertisement
in clipped-out letters the newspaper people might have got suspicious
and refused to print it. What about this handwriting, Inspector?”
Flamborough's expression showed that he felt he had done his work
thoroughly.
“I managed to get hold of specimens of the writing of Miss Hailsham
and Miss Deepcar. It isn't either of them. Then I tried to get it
recognised—and I succeeded, sir. Miss Hailsham recognised it at once.
It's Mrs. Silverdale's own writing!”
“A forgery, then? That's very neat of Mr. Justice. I feel inclined to
take off my hat to that fellow. He thinks of everything.”
“Well, it's a blank end for us, so far as I can see, sir.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be so lost in admiration of Mr. Justice's
ingenuity that he failed to notice Flamborough's dissatisfaction. When
he spoke again, it was on a different topic.
“What about your friend, Mr. Whalley, Inspector? It seems to me we
ought to have him up and put him through it as quick as possible.
Quite obviously he knows something.”
“I've tried to get hold of him, sir. But he's left the town and I
can't get on his track. He's gone off to some race-meeting or other, I
expect. He often goes off like that and leaves no address. I'll lay
hands on him as soon as he comes back to Westerhaven.”
“He's an essential witness, I suspect; so don't let him slip through
your fingers. You'd better ask for assistance from the local police in
likely places.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And now, Inspector, how are you getting along with the game of
eliminations? How low have you brought the possibles out of the
original nine solutions?”
Flamborough produced his often-unfolded scrap of paper and scanned it
once more.
“If one accepts what you said a minute or two ago, sir, then the
drugging of Mrs. Silverdale was meant to be plain drugging and wasn't
wilful murder. So the last case drops out.”
He put his pencil through the line of writing.
“That leaves only two alternatives:
Hassendean Mrs. Silverdale
X—Suicide ....... Accident
Y—Murder ........ Accident
And young Hassendean, from all accounts, was hardly the lad to suicide
by shooting himself twice in the body—too painful for him. So it
really looks rather like Case Y. Certainly it's coming down to brass
tacks quicker than I thought it would.”