Significant Information
After a quick luncheon and a visit to the library of the Yard to look
up “Aneurism” in the Encyclopedia Britannica, in order to check Sir
Horace’s description, Inspector Poole presented himself at 168 Queen
Anne’s Gate. On this occasion he did not present his private card, as
he thought it unlikely that Miss Fratten would see him on that alone,
and he certainly did not intend to entrust his official card to a
butler or footman, who would certainly start talking about “a visit
from the police”; instead, he enclosed his official card in an
envelope with a note explaining that Sir Leward Marradine had
instructed him to call.
Poole was standing in the large and comfortable hall, waiting for the
return of the butler, when a door on one side opened and a tall young
man with a dark moustache came out into the hall and walked towards
the staircase. Throwing a glance at Poole, the newcomer hesitated, a
puzzled expression on his face, then stopped abruptly and exclaimed:
“Good God; Puddles! What on earth . . . where have you sprung from?”
For a moment Poole struggled with an effort of memory; then a smile
broke on his face, and he took a step forward with extended hand:
“Mangane! Laurence Mangane!”
Suddenly he checked himself and his hand dropped to his side, a
peculiar expression replacing the smile on his face.
“Good-afternoon, sir,” he said.
A look of amazement came into Mangane’s face and he, too, checked his
approach.
“‘Sir’?” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Poole glanced round to see if anyone else was present.
“I’m Detective-Inspector Poole, sir,” he said.
Slowly Mangane’s face cleared and he broke into a broad grin.
“Good Lord, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about your quaint
career. So you’re a detective, are you? And an Inspector at that?
Jolly good work. I . . .”
Poole made a gesture to stop him. The butler was coming downstairs.
“Miss Fratten will be down in a few minutes, sir. Will you step this
way, sir, please?”
He led the way into the morning-room; Poole followed and Mangane
brought up the rear. When the door had closed behind the butler,
Mangane took the detective’s arm and gave it a friendly shake.
“Now, Puddles,” he said, “tell me all about it, and drop this ‘sir’
nonsense.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” replied Poole. “If I don’t sink
myself completely in my identity as a policeman it may make my
position impossibly difficult if I run across any of my old friends in
an official capacity. I thought at one time of changing my name when I
joined the Force but that seemed making rather a mystery of the
business. It’s possible, for instance, that I may have to question
you, among other people. That’s absolutely confidential at the moment,
please. But if I do, you can see for yourself that I can only do it as
an unidentified policeman. You understand that, don’t you—sir?”
Mangane slowly nodded his head.
“Yes, I see,” he said. “You’re probably right, though I don’t like it.
If at any time you do relax your . . .”
He was interrupted by the opening of the door into the hall. Inez
Fratten walked in, Poole’s note in her hand. Her eyebrows lifted
slightly as she saw the two men talking together. Mangane evidently
divined at once what was passing in her mind—the suspicion that he
might be trying to “pump” the detective as to his business there.
“Inspector Poole and I are old friends, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I
haven’t seen him for a great many years, though.”
Inez’s face at once cleared and broke into a smile.
“How jolly,” she said. “Then I shan’t be afraid of him. It makes me
feel fearfully inquisitive though; I can’t help imagining that he ran
you in at some time in your indiscreet past.”
She laughed lightly, and Poole fell an instant victim to her charm.
Mangane threw a glance of enquiry at the detective, who nodded.
“We were at Oxford together,” said Mangane.
Inez just checked herself in time from an exclamation that would have
been hardly polite to the policeman.
“Better than ever,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve met again.”
“I’m afraid it’s not much use to us,” said Mangane. “Poole insists
upon remaining a policeman with a number and no old friends. I’ve no
doubt he wouldn’t have let me tell about Oxford if he hadn’t known
that you must be wondering why we were talking to each other. But I
mustn’t stop here talking; you’ve got business, of course.”
He touched Poole’s shoulder and walked quickly out of the room. Inez
made a mental note that he had gone up a step.
Poole’s interview with Inez Fratten did not reveal anything fresh. She
talked about her advertisement and told him that she had not yet had
any reply to it. She explained how Mr. Hessel had told her and her
brother of the accident to their father in the City, and had warned
them to stop him, if they could, from taking on some fresh work that
he was contemplating; she did not tell him of the stormy interview
that Ryland had had with her father on the same evening nor of the
difficulty she had had in getting into touch with her brother again
after that unfortunate occurrence; she explained how she had
cross-questioned her father about his illness and how the latter had
at last testily advised her to find out all about it from Sir Horace
Spavage; finally, how Ryland had, at her request, gone up and
interviewed Sir Horace—she was laid up with a chill and could not go
herself—and had brought her back a note explaining all about the
aneurism.
“I was horribly frightened about it,” she said, “but father was quite
hopeless—you couldn’t turn him, once he had made up his mind to a
thing. I feel pretty sure that he would have killed himself with
overwork, even if it hadn’t been for this accident. That doesn’t make
me any the less want to get hold of the rotter who knocked into him,
and hasn’t the decency to come and say he’s sorry,” she added
vindictively.
“I expect we shall find him, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “In the
meantime, will you tell me the name of your father’s solicitor?”
And with the name and address of Mr. Septimus Menticle of Lincoln’s
Inn, Poole took his departure.
Mr. Menticle, however, was not in, and Poole was wondering what else
he could do to further the enquiry when it occurred to him that Sir
Leward had added the name of Mr. Leopold Hessel to the list of his
preliminary investigations. The detective had gathered that Mr. Hessel
was a director of Fratten’s Bank, so turned his steps now in that
direction. He was lucky enough to find Mr. Hessel still in the bank.
As soon as Poole had explained his business, the banker motioned him
to a chair and sent for an extra supply of tea.
“Now, just what is it you want to know, Inspector?” asked Hessel.
“About the accident—though it was scarcely as much as that
really—before Sir Garth’s death? I’ll tell it you as well as I can,
though it’s extraordinarily difficult to be clear in one’s mind, even
about the most trivial happenings, when one has to be exact. We were
walking from my club in St. James’s Square towards Sir Garth’s house
in Queen Anne’s Gate—you know it, I expect. He always walked home
across the Park in the evening, though generally from his own club. On
this occasion he happened to have had tea in my club and I was walking
part of the way home with him; we got absorbed in a topic of
conversation and I went on with him past the Athenæum and the Duke of
York’s column, though I had not at first intended to go that way. As
we went down the steps, some man, who was apparently in a hurry,
stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, who in his turn knocked against
me.”
“Just one minute, sir, please,” interrupted Poole. “I’d like to get it
quite clear. You say that the man stumbled and fell against Sir Garth.
Could you define that rather more closely? What was the actual degree
of force with which he struck into Sir Garth?”
Hessel thought for a minute.
“It’s just as I said,” he replied—“so difficult to be exact. I was
talking, of course, and not noticing very much what was going on
around me. I think I was just conscious of some slight noise or
commotion—an exclamation, perhaps, and then Fratten staggered against
me. Not very heavily—I don’t think he would have fallen if I had not
been there. But he was upset—clearly shaken—I suppose it was a shock.
The man was very apologetic—seemed quite a decent fellow. As Fratten
appeared to be really none the worse there seemed to be no point in
detaining him—he was in a hurry—and said something about the Admiralty
and a message. He ran on down the steps in that direction and Sir
Garth and I walked slowly on—I took his arm in case he was still
feeling shaken. Just after we had crossed . . .”
“May I interrupt again one minute, sir? Before you leave the incident
on the Duke of York’s Steps—can you say definitely whether or not the
man who stumbled against Sir Garth actually struck him? Struck him
with his fist, that is to say, or some instrument, with sufficient
force to cause his death?”
Hessel stared at the Inspector with surprise.
“I see,” he said. “That’s what you’ve got in your mind? I wonder what
put the idea there—still, I suppose that’s not my business. No, I
should say myself pretty definitely that such a thing did not occur. I
feel quite sure that I must have been aware if any force of that kind
had been used. Besides, there were any number of people about—there is
always a stream of them going that way towards Victoria and Waterloo
at that time of day. Some of them must surely have noticed if any blow
had been struck.”
Poole thought over this point for a moment; it seemed unanswerable.
“I see, sir,” he said. “There really were, then, a lot of witnesses of
the occurrence?”
“Any number. A small crowd collected round us at once.”
“You didn’t take any of their names, I suppose?”
“I didn’t; it never occurred to me to—the whole thing was a pure
accident and at the time I thought it unimportant. If Sir Garth had
fallen dead at once, it might have been different; but, as you know,
he did not do so till after we had crossed the Mall. By that time they
had probably all dispersed, and in any case I am afraid I was so upset
that I didn’t think of it—only of getting him home as quickly as
possible.”
“I quite understand, sir,” said Poole. “Now about the actual death.
You said that you had crossed the Mall.”
“Yes, we crossed the Mall all right and were walking towards the
Guards Memorial when he suddenly staggered, made a sort of choking,
gasping sound and sank to the ground. He nearly pulled me down with
him. I had my arm linked through his, as I told you. I believe he died
almost at once, though I did not realize it at the time.”
“It must have been a great shock for you, sir. I suppose there was no
further accident just before the fall?”
“Oh no, nothing. Evidently it was the result of the shock he received
on the steps. After all, it was only a hundred yards or so away.”
“And the man concerned, of course, had disappeared by then?”
“Absolutely. I never saw or heard of him again.”
Poole thought for a while, trying to find some fresh line of approach.
“It’s probably quite immaterial,” he said at last, “but could you by
any chance tell me what was the subject of your conversation with Sir
Garth that evening? You said that you were so engrossed in it that you
went out of your way.”
The slight raising of Hessel’s eyebrows had a curious effect of rebuke
upon the detective.
“If it is material, I can tell you,” he replied. “We were talking of
Sir Garth’s son, Ryland Fratten. He was worried about him. They were a
case of father and son, both very charming people, not understanding
one another. I always thought Sir Garth rather unjust to Ryland.”
Poole had pricked up his ears.
“What was the trouble between them, sir?”
But Hessel evidently thought that he had said enough.
“Ah, Inspector,” he replied, “I don’t think I can enter into what
amounts to little more than gossip—it’s not quite my line. So far as
our conversation that evening went, it concerned Ryland’s affection or
apparent lack of affection for his father. That is what I can tell you
of my own knowledge; beyond that I am not prepared to go.”
Poole decided not to press the point. He tried a fresh tack.
“Sir Garth was a rich man, Mr. Hessel, and of course, in his way, a
powerful man. I suppose it is possible that he may have made enemies?”
But Hessel was not to be drawn. He smiled and shook his head.
“Aren’t we verging a little bit on the melodramatic, Inspector?” he
said. “I suppose your suggestion is that some City magnate hired an
assassin to put a hated rival out of the way. That may have been the
custom a couple of centuries ago, but hardly today—quite apart from
the fact that I can’t see how you make the death out to be anything
but accidental.”
Poole realized that he had now lost the sympathy of his audience; he
wisely decided to go. Thanking the banker for his help and courtesy,
as well as for his tea, the detective made his way out into the
street. When he called upon Mr. Menticle in the afternoon he had
learned that the latter lived in Lincoln’s Inn, as well as working
there, and might well be at home later in the day. He decided now to
try his luck again.
He arrived at Mr. Menticle’s chambers at about six o’clock and found
that the owner had “sported his oak.” In ordinary circumstances Poole,
as an Oxford man, would have respected this appeal for privacy, but as
it was he felt that the chariot wheels of justice must roll through
even this sacred tradition. He knocked firmly on the outer door.
There was no answer to his first knock, but he had the curious feeling
that the silence within had become even more silent. He knocked more
sharply and soon heard footsteps approaching, followed by the opening
of the inner door; he stepped back a pace and the heavy outer door
swung slowly out towards him. In the doorway stood a curious figure,
which might have stepped out of a page of Dickens; an elderly man,
dressed in baggy subfuscous trousers, a worn velvet jacket, and a
tasselled cap, such as Poole imagined to have been extinct since
Balmoral lifted its ban upon smoking. The face underneath the cap,
however, was by no means Victorian; the nose certainly was aquiline
and carried a pair of gold pince-nez, but the skin was clear and
healthy, the mouth sensitive, and the eyes bright and intelligent.
Probably Mr. Menticle amused himself in his solitude by posing as a
participator in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
At the moment there was a frown of displeasure on the lawyer’s fine
brow. He remained in the doorway, waiting for his visitor to explain
his presence.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Poole. “My card will
explain my insistence.”
Mr. Menticle took the card, glanced at it, and, with a short nod,
signed to Poole to come in.
“Shut the outer door behind you,” said Mr. Menticle. “It may prevent
our being disturbed.”
Poole thought he caught a slight emphasis on the “may” and a faint
chuckle from the retreating figure of his host. He followed, and found
himself in a remarkably comfortable room, with a soft carpet, two
easy-chairs, and a blazing wood fire. The walls were lined with
bookcases, with an occasional well-balanced engraving, whilst over the
fireplace hung a photograph of an O.U. Cricket Eleven. Poole checked
with difficulty his natural inclination to go straight up and look at
it.
“Take a chair, Inspector,” said the lawyer, pointing to the least worn
of the two. “You’ve come just in time for a glass of sherry.”
He opened an oak corner cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter,
two tulip sherry-glasses, and a tin of biscuits.
“Amontillado,” he said. “Sound stuff. Not to be found everywhere in
these days.”
The two men lifted their glasses to each other. Poole’s glance lifting
for an instant to the photograph over the fire, Mr. Menticle allowed
his gaze to rest for a time upon his visitor’s face, before he spoke.
“What year were you up?” he asked.
Poole stared at him, then broke into a laugh.
“You’re very quick, sir,” he said. “’17 to ’19. St. James’s.”
“Get a blue?”
“Half-blue, sir—Athletic. I played in a Seniors match once, but didn’t
get any further in cricket.”
“’Tics, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now you’ve taken to police work—C.I.D. Very interesting career.
And I suppose you want to forget all about Oxford when you’re on your
job?”
“That’s exactly what I do want, sir. Curiously enough it’s come out
twice today, and I’m rather annoyed with myself for letting it.”
“Well, Inspector, I’ll forget about it now. What did you want to see
me about?”
“It’s about the death of Sir Garth Fratten, sir.”
Poole was watching the lawyer very closely when he said this, and he
thought he saw a shadow of distress or anxiety come into his eyes. He
gave no other sign, however, and the detective continued.
“We have been given to understand that there are some grounds for
uncertainty about the circumstances of the death. I must say frankly
that so far we have very little to go on, but I have been instructed
to make certain preliminary investigations, in which you, sir, as the
family solicitor, naturally take a prominent place.”
Mr. Menticle nodded but did not volunteer any statement.
“There are one or two points, sir,” Poole continued, “which I thought
might help us. In the first place, the will. I could of course, get
particulars from Somerset House, but I shall get a very much clearer
idea of it if you will go through the principal features of it with
me.”
Mr. Menticle gave the suggestion a moment’s thought, then nodded his
head.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can do that. I might refuse, of course, but
you would get the information just the same, by using your powers, and
I should merely have established an atmosphere of hostility.”
He rose, and, leaving the room, presently returned with a bundle of
papers which he laid on the table beside him. Poole could not help
admiring the cool common sense with which his host made a virtue of
necessity.
“The will is a very simple one,” said Mr. Menticle, laying it out on
his knees, and running over its clauses with his finger. “Sir Garth
left comfortable though not large legacies to various distant
relations, to his employees at the bank and to his domestic staff.
There are various bequests to charities and two special legacies of
£5000 each, one to myself and one to his intimate friend, Mr. Leopold
Hessel, whom he appointed his sole executor. But taking all these
together, the total forms a very small portion of his fortune, the
residue of which, after paying all duties, was divided equally between
Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten.”
“His son and daughter?” said Poole and, as Mr. Menticle made no
comment, took silence for consent.
The detective had jotted down the outline of the will as Mr. Menticle
sketched it. He ran his eye over it again.
“And the residue will amount to?” he asked.
“Impossible to say yet. Sir Garth had very wide interests. The death
duties, of course, will vary according to the total amount dutiable.”
“But roughly?”
“Roughly, between four and five hundred thousand pounds, I should
say.”
“So that Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten will each get over
£200,000.”
“Presumably.”
“Large sums,” said Poole, “even in these days. Very large compared
with the other legacies, I gather. What was the largest of those?”
“Mine and Mr. Hessel’s. None of the others amounted to more than an
annuity of £100.”
“Hardly enough to invite murder—still, one never knows. Now, Mr.
Menticle, I am going to ask you a straight question. Do you believe
that any of these legatees, residuary or otherwise, had any inducement
to bring about the premature death of the testator?”
Mr. Menticle rose abruptly from his chair and, walking over to the
window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out on to the November
night. Coming back into the room, he stood in front of the fire, with
one foot on the fender, seeming to seek for inspiration from the
blazing logs.
“That is a very direct question,” he temporized.
“It is,” said the detective, “and I want your answer, please, Mr.
Menticle.” The expression of Poole’s face would have told anyone who
knew him that, having got his grip, nothing now would cause him to
relax it.
At last the lawyer straightened his shoulders and, turning his back to
the fire, looked down at his interlocutor.
“I think I must tell you,” he said, “that a week or so before his
death, Sir Garth instructed me to draw up a new will. I was to have
brought it to him to sign the morning after he actually died.”
“There were important alterations?” Poole’s voice was tense.
“There was one. Ryland Fratten was cut out of the will as a residuary
legatee.”