The most accurate account of the double tragedy appeared in a late
edition of the _Evening Post-Courier_.
“At some hour between eight and ten James Verity, a member of the
Mounted Branch of the Buckinghamshire Constabulary, and Walter
Wentford, an eccentric, and, it is believed, a rich recluse, were done
to death in or in the vicinity of a lonely cottage in the
neighbourhood of Beaconsfield. At a quarter past nine Constable Verity
was patrolling the road and came upon a body which was afterwards
identified as that of the late Mr. Wentford, who lived in a small
cottage some hundred yards from the spot where the body was found. Mr.
Wentford had been brutally bludgeoned, and was dead when the discovery
was made. Simultaneously with the discovery there appeared upon the
scene Mr. Walter Enward, a well known Beaconsfield solicitor, and his
clerk, who, at Mr. Wentford’s request, were on their way to visit him.
It is believed Mr. Wentford intended making a will, though no
documents were found in the house to support this supposition.
“Leaving Mr. Enward to watch the body, Constable Verity rode toward
Beaconsfield to summon assistance. He was never seen alive after that
moment.
“The dead man’s niece, who also acted as his secretary, Miss Margot
Lynn, had been summoned from London, and she, arriving at the cottage
a few minutes after the body had been taken away by the unknown
murderers, discovered the place in disorder, though she did not at
that time suspect a tragedy.
“The mystery was still further complicated in the earlier hours of the
dawn, when a cow-boy, on his way to work, discovered the dead body of
Constable Verity on the Beaconsfield side of the lane where Mr.
Wentford’s body was found. He had been shot through the heart at close
range. No sound of the shot had been heard, but it may be explained
that there are very few houses in the neighbourhood, and snow was
falling heavily. A carter in the employment of a neighbouring farmer
thought he had heard a shot fired much earlier in the evening, but
this may be accounted for by the fact that snow was falling so thickly
on the railway line, which is situated a mile away, that fog signals
were being used.
“Chief Detective-Inspector Gaylor has been called in by the
Buckinghamshire police, and he is being assisted by Mr. J.G. Reeder,
of the Public Prosecutor’s Department.
“The time-table, so far as can be ascertained, is as follows:--
“7.0. Constable Verity left police station on patrol.
“9.14. Constable Verity discovers the dead body of Mr. Wentford.
“9.15. Mr. Enward and his clerk drive up by motor-car, and are stopped
by the constable, who rides into Beaconsfield for assistance.
“6.45 am. The body of Constable Verity is found shot dead 120 yards
north of where the body of Mr. Wentford was found.”
Mr. Kingfether, the sub-manager of the Beaconsfield branch of the
Great Central Bank, read this account and was rightly agitated. He got
to the bank very early that morning, for he had a letter to write, and
his managerial office gave him the privacy he required. He was a
serious man, with serious-looking spectacles on a pale, plump face. He
had a little black moustache and his cheeks and chin were invariably
blue, for he had what barbers call a “strong beard.”
The newspapers arrived as he was writing. They were pushed under the
closed outer door of the bank, and, being at the moment stuck for the
alternative to an often reiterated term of endearment, he rose and
brought the newspapers into the office, put a new coal on the fire and
sat down to glance through them. There were two papers, one financial
and one human.
He read the latter first, and there was the murder in detail, though
it had only occurred the night before. The discovery of the
constable’s body was not described, because it had not been discovered
when the paper went to press.
He read and re-read, his mind in a whirl, and then he took the
telephone and called Mr. Enward. That gentleman was also in his office
that snowy morning, though the hour was eight.
“Good morning, Kingfether… Yes, yes, it’s true.… I was practically a
witness--they’ve found the poor policeman… dead… yes, murdered… yes,
shot.… I was the last person to speak to him. Dreadful, dreadful,
dreadful! That such horrors can be--I say that such horrors can be.… I
said that such… What’s the matter with your phone? He banks with you?
Really? Really? I’ll come over and talk with you…”
Mr. Kingfether hung up the telephone and wiped his face with his
handkerchief. It was a face that became moist on the least
provocation. Presently he folded the newspaper and looked at his
unfinished letter. He was on the eighth page and the last words he had
written were:
“… can hardly live the day through without seeing your darling face,
my own…”
It was obvious that he was not writing to his general manager, or to a
client who had overdrawn his account.
He added “beloved” mechanically, though he had used the word a dozen
times before. Then he unfolded the paper and read of the murder again.
A knock at the side door: he went out to admit Enward. The lawyer was
more important than usual. Participation in public affairs has this
effect. And a news agency had telephoned to ask whether they could
send a photographer, and Mr. Enward, shivering at the telephone in his
pyjamas, had said “Yes” and had been photographed at his breakfast
table at 7.30 a.m., poising a cup of tea and looking excessively
grave. He would presently appear in one hundred and fifty newspapers
above the caption “Lawyer Who Discovered His Own Client Murdered.”
“It is a terrible business,” said Mr. Enward, throwing off his coat.
“He banked with you? I’m in charge of affairs, Kingfether, though
heaven knows I am ignorant about ’em! I don’t know how he stands… what
is his credit here?”
Mr. Kingfether considered.
“I’ll get the ledger from the safe,” he said.
He locked the centre drawer of his desk, because his letter to Ena
Burslem was there and other documents, but Mr. Enward saw nothing
offensive in the act of caution; rather was it commendable.
“Here is his account.” Kingfether laid the big ledger on the desk and
opened it where his thumb marked a page. “Credit three thousand four
hundred pounds.”
Mr. Enward fixed his glasses and looked.
“Has he anything on deposit? Securities--no? Did he come often to the
bank?”
“Never,” said Kingfether. “He used the account to pay bills. When he
wanted ready money he posted a bearer cheque and I posted back the
money. He has, of course, sent people here to cash cheques.”
“That six hundred pounds withdrawn five days ago.” Mr. Enward pointed
to the item.
“It is strange that you should point that out--it was paid over the
counter four days ago. I didn’t see the person who called for it--I
was out. My clerk McKay cashed the cheque. Who is that?”
There was a gentle tapping at the door. Mr. Kingfether went out of the
room and came back with the caller.
“How fortunate to find you here!” said J.G. Reeder. He was spruce and
lively. A barber had shaved him, somebody had cleaned his boots. “The
account of the late Mr. Wentford?” He nodded to the book.
It was generally known that J.G. Reeder acted for the Great Central
Bank, and the manager did not question his title to ask questions. Mr.
Enward was not so sure.
“This is rather a serious matter, Mr. Reeder,” he said, consciously
grave. “I am not so sure that we can take you into our confidence----”
“Hadn’t you better see the police and ask them if they are prepared to
take you into _their_ confidence?” asked Mr. Reeder, with a sudden
ferocity which made the lawyer recoil.
Once more the manager explained the account.
“Six hundred pounds--h’m!” Mr. Reeder frowned. “A large sum--who was
the drawer?”
“My clerk McKay said it was a lady--heavily veiled.”
Reeder stared at him.
“Your clerk McKay? Of course--a fair young man. How stupid of me!
Kenneth--or is it Karl--Kenneth, is it? H’m! Heavily veiled lady. Have
you the number of the notes?”
Kingfether was taken aback by the question. He searched for a book
that held the information, and Mr. Reeder copied them down, an easy
task since the tens and the fives ran consecutively.
“When does your clerk arrive?”
Kenneth was supposed to arrive at nine. As a rule he was late. He was
late that morning.
Mr. Reeder saw the young man through a window in the manager’s office
and thought that he did not look well. His eyes were tired; he had
shaved himself carelessly, for his chin bore a strip of sticking
plaster. Perhaps that accounted for the spots on the soiled cuff of
his shirt, thought Mr. Reeder, when he confronted the young man.
“No, I will see him alone,” said Reeder.
“He is rather an insolent pup,” warned Mr. Kingfether.
“I have tamed lions,” said Mr. Reeder.
When Kenneth came in:
“Close the door, please, and sit down. You know me, my boy?”
“Yes, sir,” said Kenneth.
“That is blood on your shirt cuff, isn’t it?… cut your chin, did you?
You haven’t been home all night?”
Kenneth did not answer at once.
“No, sir. I haven’t changed my shirt, if that is what you mean.”
Mr. Reeder smiled.
“Exactly.”
He fixed the young man with a long, searching glance.
“Why did you go to the house of the late Mr. Wentford last night
between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty?”
He saw the youth go deathly white.
“I didn’t know he was dead--I didn’t even know his name until this
morning. I went there because… well, I was blackguard enough to spy on
somebody… follow them from London and sneak into the house----”
“The young lady, Margot Lynn. You’re in love with her? Engaged to her,
perhaps?”
“I’m in love with her--I’m not engaged to her. We are no longer…
friends,” said Kenneth in a low voice. “She told you I had been there,
I suppose?” And then, as a light broke on him: “Or did you find my
cap? It had my name in it.”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“You came down on the same train as Miss Lynn? Good. Then you will be
able to prove that you left Bourne End station--”
“No, I shan’t,” said Kenneth. “I slipped out of the train on to the
line. Naturally I didn’t want her to see me. I got out through the
level crossing. There was nobody about--it was snowing heavily.”
“Very awkward.” Mr. Reeder pursed his lips. “You thought there was
some sort of friendship between Mr. Wentford and the young lady?”
Kenneth made a gesture of despair.
“I don’t know what I thought--I was just a jealous fool.”
A very long silence, broken by a coal falling from the fire on to the
iron bottom of the fender.
“You paid out six hundred pounds the other day to a lady on Mr.
Wentford’s cheque?”
“I didn’t know that Wentford was--” began Ken, but Mr. Reeder brushed
aside that aspect of the situation. “Yes, a veiled lady. She came by
car. It was a large sum of money, but the day before Mr. Kingfether
had told me to honour any cheque of Mr. Wentford’s, no matter to whom
money was paid.”
“Will you tell me something about your quarrel with the young lady?”
Mr. Reeder asked. “It is, I realize, a delicate subject.”
Kenneth hesitated, then told his story as he had told it to Mr.
Machfield.
“Miss Lynn called on you that night--did she ask you to destroy the
photograph you had taken?”
The young man was surprised at this query.
“No--I had forgotten all about the photograph till the other day. I
must have sent the pack to be developed or put them aside to send
them. Would the picture of Mr. Wentford be any good to you?”
J.G. Reeder shook his head. He asked very little more. He was, it
seemed, the easiest man in the world to satisfy. Before he left he saw
the sub-manager alone.
“Did you tell Mr. McKay that he was to honour any cheque of Mr.
Wentford’s, no matter to whom the money was paid?”
The answer came instantly.
“Of course not! Naturally I should expect him to be sure that the
person who presented a cheque had authority. And another curious thing
which I have not mentioned. I lunch at the inn opposite and I usually
have a seat in the window, where I can see these premises, but I have
no recollection of any car drawing up to the bank.”
“H’m!” was all that Mr. Reeder said.
He made a few enquiries in Beaconsfield and the neighbourhood and went
on to Wentford’s house, where Gaylor had arranged to meet him. The
inspector was pacing up and down the snowy terrace before the house
and he was in very good spirits.
“I think I’ve got the man,” he said. “Do you know anybody named
McKay?”
Mr. Reeder looked at him slyly.
“I know a dozen,” he said.
“Come inside and I’ll show you something.”
Reeder followed him into the room. The carpet had been taken up, the
furniture moved. Evidently a very thorough search had been in
progress. Gaylor swung back the bookcase: the safe door was ajar.
“We got keys from the maker--quick work! They were down here by
eight-thirty.”
He stooped down and pulled out three bundles. The first was made up of
bills, the second of used cheques, the third was a thick bundle of
French banknotes, each to the value of 1,000 francs.
“That is surprise No. 1,” began the detective, flourishing the money.
“French money----”
“I am afraid it doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr. Reeder apologetically.
“You see, I’ve been examining the gentleman’s bank book. By the way,
here are the numbers of notes drawn from Mr. Wentford’s account.” He
handed over a slip of paper.
“Six hundred pounds is a lot of money,” said Gaylor. “I’ll ’phone
these through. Well, what else did you find in the bank book?”
“I observed,” said Mr. Reeder, “though I did not emphasize the fact,
that all the money he paid was in French bank notes. Number two
is----?”
The inspector extracted a sheet of headed paper from one heap. Written
in pencil was what was evidently a memorandum from somebody who signed
himself “D.H. Hartford.”
“I have found that the man who is employing a private detective to
find you is George McKay of Sennet House, Marlow. I don’t know what
his intentions are, but they’re not pleasant. There is nothing to
worry about: he is employing one of the most incompetent private
detectives in the business.”
“Extraordinary!” said Mr. Reeder, and coughed.
“The first thing to do is to find Hartford----” began Gaylor.
“He is in Australia,” Mr. Reeder interrupted. “At the time that letter
was written his office address was 327, Lambs Buildings. He became
bankrupt and left the country hurriedly.”
“How do you know?” asked Gaylor, astonished.
“Because I--um--was the incompetent private detective engaged to find
Mr. Lynn, or, as he called himself, Mr. Wentford. And I did not find
him,” said Mr. Reeder.
“Why did McKay wish to find this man?”
“He owed him money. I know no more than that. The search fell off
because--um--Mr. McKay owed me money. One has to live.”
“Then you knew about Wentford?”
Mr. Reeder took counsel with himself.
“Um--yes. I recognized him last night--I once had a photograph of him.
I thought it was very odd. I also--er--drove over to Marlow and made
enquiries. Mr. McKay--Mr. George McKay did not leave his house last
night, and at the moment the murder was committed was entertaining
the--um--vicar to dinner.”
“You’re a killjoy,” he said, and Mr. Reeder sighed heavily.
“I’m going to have these developed.” He held up a little film pack. “I
found them in the old man’s bedroom. I don’t suppose they’ll tell us
anything.”
“I fancy they will be very instructive,” said Mr. Reeder, “especially
if you are interested in natural history. There will also be a picture
of Mr. Wentford or Lynn, with his arm about the shoulder of his
niece.”
Gaylor sat down.
“Are you pulling my leg?” he demanded.
“Heaven forbid!” answered Mr. Reeder piously.
Gaylor got up and stood squarely before him.
“What do you know about these murders, Reeder?” he challenged.
Mr. Reeder spread his hands wide. His glasses, set askew, slipped a
little farther down his nose; he was not a very imposing figure.
“I am a queer man, Mr. Gaylor; I am cursed, as you are aware, with a
peculiarly evil mind. I am also intensely curious--I have always been.
I am curious about criminals and chickens--I have perhaps the finest
Wyandottes in London, but that is by the way. It would be cruel to
give you my theories. The blood on the policeman’s horse: that is
interesting. And Henry--I suppose Mr. Enward’s clerk has another
name--the blood on his coat, though he did not go near the body of the
late Mr. Wentford, that is interesting. Poor Henry is suffering from a
severe chill and is in bed, but his mother, an admirable and
hardworking woman, permitted me to see him. Then the two aces pinned
to the door, all very, very, very interesting indeed! Mr. Gaylor, if
you will permit me to interview old George McKay I will undertake to
tell you who committed these murders.”
“The girl told you something--the girl Lynn?”
“The girl has told me nothing. She also may be very informative. I
purpose spending a night or two in her flat--um--not, I hope, without
a chaperon.”
Gaylor looked at him, amazed. Mr. Reeder was blushing.