The Intervention of Inez
As the room cleared, at the adjournment of the Inquest, Chief
Inspector Barrod turned to his subordinate.
“There you are, Poole,” he said. “I’ve given you a start on that young
fellow. You stick to it now and don’t leave go till you’ve got him.
You’ll have to keep him shadowed now.”
“Very well, sir, I’ve arranged to go round and see him at his house
this evening—I’ll go into that girl question then. If you’ll excuse
me, sir, I just want to catch Mr. Menticle to get a bit more out of
him about this parentage business.”
“Yes, you’ll want that. I slipped a line to the Coroner not to press
it too far in Court; we’ve done enough for the moment, as far as the
public’s concerned.”
The Inspector caught Mr. Menticle before he had left the precincts of
the Yard and the latter invited him to walk down the Embankment with
him towards the City.
“All in my way,” he said, “and a minute’s tram run back for you. I
always walk down this bit of the Embankment on an autumn evening if I
can—one of the loveliest views I know—London at its best.”
“Yes, sir; I wonder how many of us would have realized that if it
hadn’t been for Whistler.”
They walked on for a minute or so in silence.
“You want me to amplify about Sir Garth and Mr. Ryland,” said the
lawyer.
“I do, sir, but in the first place I’d like to know why you didn’t
tell me when I came to see you on Friday,” said the detective dryly.
“You didn’t ask me, Inspector,” replied Mr. Menticle with a chuckle,
“and yet I told you no lies. If you could review our conversation now
you would find that I never referred to them as father and son—always
as Sir Garth and Mr. Ryland.”
“I see, sir. I suppose you had some object. It seems a pity.”
“I still hoped that there was nothing behind your inquiries—that you
would drop the case.”
“It makes it harder than ever for us to drop a case, sir, when we find
that information is being withheld from us,” said Poole quietly.
“Yes, yes, Inspector. I accept your rebuke; it would have been wiser
to have been quite frank. Now about the past; there is really not much
that I did not say in Court, though I noticed that the Coroner was not
pressing me. Sir Garth Fratten was, as you know, married twice, his
first wife dying in 1902 and his second in 1918. By the second wife he
had one daughter, Miss Inez Fratten, born in 1905, but by his first
wife he had no child. A child was, however, born to her a short time
before their marriage. Sir Garth was, I believe, aware of what was
about to occur before he asked her to marry him—he was deeply attached
to his first wife, almost worshipped her—and, he adopted the child as
his own son. That was Ryland Fratten. Sir Garth could, of course, make
him his heir or co-heir, but that is quite a different thing to his
becoming the automatic heir in the event of intestacy. It was for a
similar reason, I believe, that Sir Garth refused the suggested offer
of a baronetcy—he did not wish it known that Ryland was not his son.
That is all, I think.”
“Did Ryland know that he was not Sir Garth’s son?”
“To the best of my belief he did not. Unless in that last quarrel that
they had, Sir Garth divulged the fact to him; he did not tell me one
way or the other, but evidently the break was very complete.”
“Can you tell me who was Ryland’s father?”
Mr. Menticle shook his head.
“I never knew. I doubt if anyone does know, unless the man himself is
still alive.”
As there appeared to be nothing more to be learnt in this direction,
Poole said good-night to Mr. Menticle and returned to the Yard. After
arranging for the shadowing of Ryland Fratten, the detective made his
way to Queen Anne’s Gate to keep his appointment. The butler, who
evidently recognized him and had had his instructions, showed him
straight into the morning-room, which was empty. He had not been
waiting a minute, however, when the door opened and Inez Fratten came
in. Poole inwardly cursed the butler for his stupidity, but Inez’s
first words explained what had happened.
“I’m so sorry to butt in, Mr. Poole,” she said. “I know you’ve come to
see Ryland but I want to see you first. Ry came back from the
inquest—I wasn’t there, you know; Mr. Menticle said I wasn’t needed—in
an awful state. He seems to think that the police suspect him of
murdering father. I needn’t tell you what nonsense that is, but I do
want to know what has made him get that impression.”
Poole fidgeted from one foot to the other. This was a new experience.
Inez looked at him with growing wonder.
“Good heavens, Mr. Poole,” she said, “surely _you_ don’t think that?”
Her voice was strained and anxious, but her eyes were full of courage.
Poole thought what a glorious creature she was and how much he would
like to have such a sister to stick up for him when he was in trouble.
“It isn’t what I think, Miss Fratten,” he said, realizing that he must
say something. “The investigation has not got very far yet—we
certainly haven’t reached the stage of accusing anybody.”
“But you are frightening Ryland; you must be, or he wouldn’t be in
such a state. I don’t mean that he’s _frightened_,” she hurried to
correct an unfortunate impression, “but he’s frightfully miserable.
What is it?”
“I’m afraid I really can’t tell you, Miss Fratten. I’m not at liberty
to . . .”
“Oh, rot!” Inez tapped the floor impatiently with her foot. “I don’t
want any deadly secrets, but I must know why you have got your knives
into Ry. Come, Mr. Poole, you must see that I’ve got to know—put
yourself in my place. He’s my brother—all I’ve got now. And who can I
ask except you? You must tell me.”
Poole took a minute to think over his position. Obviously he could not
give away the cards that the police held. Still, he would like to help
the girl if he could do so consistently with his duty, and it was
possible that he might get useful information at the same time.
“I’ll do what I can, Miss Fratten,” he said at last, “and you might be
able to help. As you yourself appear to have suspected from the first,
your father’s death was not due to an accident—it was deliberately
brought about—and apparently by somebody who knew and took advantage
of his dangerous state of health. Having established that much, we
have to look about for a probable author of the crime. When there is
nothing more direct to go on, one usually turns first to two
considerations: motive and opportunity. Taking motive first, the most
direct line to follow is pecuniary advantage—the will. In Sir Garth’s
will, the only people who benefit largely are yourself and your
brother, Mr. Ryland Fratten. That is nothing in itself, but there are
one or two other points that make it impossible for us to overlook Mr.
Fratten in our search.”
“And me, I suppose,” said Inez.
“The ‘other points’ that I spoke of don’t refer to you, Miss Fratten.”
“What are they?”
“I can’t tell you that. That’s motive—not so important by itself, but
combined with opportunity, very vital. Now, this is where you may be
able to help, Miss Fratten—your brother as well as us. At the inquest
this afternoon Mr. Fratten was asked where he had been at the time
that your father was killed. He answered that he was in St. James’s
Park—not half a mile from the spot—waiting for a lady to pick him up
in a car. He wouldn’t give her name.”
“Good Lord,” said Inez, “sounds thin doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“But then you don’t know Ryland. He’s a hopeless fool about women. You
want me to find out about her?”
“I’m not asking you to, Miss Fratten. But if your brother really has a
sound explanation of what certainly sounds like a very poor alibi—the
sooner we know about it the better.”
“I’ll do what I can. But look here, Mr. Poole, why should you put so
much emphasis on the will as a motive? Surely there may be plenty of
others?”
“Plenty. I only gave that as the first step. If you know of anything
else—if you can make any other suggestion that would give us a line to
work on, I should be only too grateful.”
Inez curled herself into one corner of the big sofa.
“I wish you’d smoke or something,” she said—“while I’m thinking.”
Poole did not fall in with this suggestion but he sat down on the
nearest chair. He was not sure what his chief would think of the line
he was taking, but for the moment, it was very pleasant to sit and
look at this delicious young creature, with the attractive frown of
thought on her brow.
“There’s just one thing that occurs to me,” she said at last. “For
more than a week before he died, my father seemed rather worried about
something. He’d given up working after dinner for some time, but
during the time I’m speaking of, he used to go off to his study soon
after dinner and stay there till nearly bedtime. I went in once to see
what he was up to and try to get him out of it—it wasn’t good for him.
He’d got a whole pile of papers on his desk—balance sheets and things,
and he was making a lot of notes on some foolscap. It wasn’t like him
to be worried—he always took business so calmly. I don’t suppose
there’s anything in it.”
“You don’t know what the papers were?”
“I don’t. Mr. Mangane might, of course.”
“I’ll ask him. Thank you, Miss Fratten. Now what about your brother? I
ought to see him.”
Inez slipped off the sofa to her feet and came towards Poole.
“Let me speak to him first,” she said. “You have a go at Mangane. I
promise he shan’t run away.”
The steady gaze of those calm grey eyes, so close to his, intoxicated
Poole. He felt for a moment an overpowering impulse to say: “Oh don’t,
please, bother any more; I won’t do anything to hurt your brother or
you.” With a wrench he recalled himself to his duty. He must do it,
however unpleasant it was—still, there might be something in the idea
of her seeing her brother first—she might make him talk. He decided to
take the risk.
“Very well, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
Guided by Inez, Poole found Mangane in his slip of an office on the
other side of the study. When the girl had departed Mangane turned to
his visitor with a sardonic smile.
“Well, Inspector, what can I do for you? Shall I be out of order if I
ask you to sit down and have a smoke?”
“I’d like to smoke a pipe more than I can say,” replied Poole with a
smile. “I haven’t had one since breakfast. Not even when I took the
jury into the mortuary. I’m very glad to find you, sir.”
Mangane shrugged his shoulders.
“If you must, you must,” he said.
“I want to ask you about Sir Garth’s business affairs. Have you any
reason to suppose that one can get a line there as to the motive of
his murder?”
“You’re convinced that it was murder?”
“Must have been—look at the wound—the bruising.”
“Couldn’t it have been done when he fell?”
“Hardly. The localized nature of . . .” Poole checked himself.
“Anyhow, for the moment we are assuming that. Now, had he any business
enemies?”
“Heaps I should think. But I don’t know of any. What I actually mean
is that he must have run up against people from time to time, but I’ve
never heard of anyone bearing him any malice.”
“You can’t suggest anything?”
“I can’t.”
“About his business papers—his personal ones; what’s become of them?”
“So far as I know, they are all here. Mr. Hessel is his executor; he
has the keys.”
“Has he been through them at all, or taken any away?”
“I don’t think so. He locked the study up and except for a short time,
nobody’s been in there since. The housemaids are getting rather
restive.”
“And no one else could have got at them?”
“No. He sent for me directly the body was carried upstairs—Sir Garth
was brought into the morning-room first, you know, and as soon as the
doctor had finished his examination, the body was carried upstairs.
Hessel sent for me at once and said that he knew Sir Garth had
appointed him sole executor and that it would be well to lock up all
the papers and so on at once. I took him into the study—it’s next door
to the morning-room, you know—between that and this. I took him into
the study and showed him where everything was. We locked everything
up—we got Sir Garth’s keys, by the way—the wall safe was locked
already and so were some of the drawers in his desk. I was able to
show Mr. Hessel pretty well what the different drawers contained—Sir
Garth was a very methodical man. After that we locked all three doors
of the room—the one into the hall, the one into the morning-room, and
this one.”
“So that after that, nobody could have got into the study without Mr.
Hessel’s knowledge and consent. But before that, was the door leading
from the study to the hall locked?”
“Oh no.”
“So that anyone could have got into the study from the hall?”
“Yes.”
“Or, of course, from this room?”
Mangane smiled.
“Or, of course, from this room.”
“But as far as you know, no one did go in there between the time of
Sir Garth’s being brought back and your going in with Mr. Hessel to
lock up?”
“No. Nobody went in through this room, because I was in here myself,
and I certainly didn’t hear anyone go in from the hall.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Poole. “I expect you think I’m being very
fussy, but I want to examine those papers presently and I like to know
first what chance there has been of their being disturbed.”
“Oh they’ve been disturbed. I told you they had, once. The day after
the will was read, Mr. Hessel came here with Menticle, the solicitor,
and we went into the study and together ran through the papers in the
table and in the ‘In’ and ‘Pending’ baskets—just in case anything
wanted attending to at once. There was nothing of importance.”
“You were all three together in the room all the time?”
“Yes; we were only there about a quarter of an hour. Mr. Hessel said
he hadn’t time to do more then. I’ve been trying to get him to come
along and tackle the job but he keeps on putting it off. I believe the
old chap’s really rather upset.”
“I can quite believe it. He told me that Sir Garth had been
extraordinarily good to him.”
Poole paused for a minute to jot something down in his note-book.
“There’s just one thing more I want to ask you,” he continued. “Miss
Fratten says that her father was working rather hard every evening
latterly on something that seemed to worry him. Do you know what that
was?”
“Oh yes,” replied Mangane. “That was about a finance company he
thought of going into—he was looking into its dealings to see if it
was sound. I don’t quite know why he wanted to go into it—beneath his
notice I should have thought. There may have been some personal
reason, of course. I shouldn’t have said he was particularly worried
about it—he was interested, certainly—he always was in anything he
took up.”
Poole nodded.
“What was the company?”
“The Victory Finance Company—quite a small affair, as those things go
nowadays.”
“Did you come across the papers when you went through with Mr. Hessel
and Mr. Menticle?”
“Oh yes, they were all there—with his notes.”
“Could I see them?”
“I should think so—but you’d have to ask Hessel—he’s got the keys.”
The detective nodded and rose to his feet.
“Now if I could just see the butler for a minute,” he said, “and then
perhaps Miss Fratten . . .” He slurred the sentence off; it was better
not to let Mangane know about his allowing the girl to talk to her
brother first.
The dignified Golpin, interviewed in the morning-room, was able to
assure Poole that there were no duplicate keys to the study, that no
one had entered it from the hall between the time of Sir Garth being
brought back and Mr. Hessel locking it up with Mr. Mangane—he had been
in the hall himself all the time, telephoning for the doctor from a
box under the stairs, waiting to admit Sir Horace, etc.—and that Mr.
Hessel had not been back to the house, except for the reading of the
will—when he had certainly not entered the study—and on the occasion
when he, Mr. Menticle and Mr. Mangane had all been into the study
together. The detective thanked him and was asking him to go and
enquire whether Mr. Fratten could now see him, when the door opened
and Inez came in. Poole thought that the girl looked paler than when
she had left him an hour or so before, and there were shadows under
her eyes. But her voice was firm enough.
“Mr. Poole,” she said, when Golpin had disappeared, “I’m going to ask
you for another favour. Will you leave my brother alone tonight? You
won’t get anything more out of him; I haven’t myself—anything really
useful—and I terribly want him not to be more upset. I’m going to find
out more as soon as ever I can, and if you will leave him alone now, I
give you my word of honour that I will tell you everything I find
out—_everything_, even if it doesn’t look well for him. Will you trust
me?”
Poole looked at her. He was taking a big risk if anything went wrong
now—if the man slipped away, unquestioned. But he felt absolutely
certain that the girl was straight and meant what she said. He nodded
his head.
“All right,” he said with a smile. Then, remembering his position,
added more formally: “Very well, Miss Fratten, I will do what you
ask.”