Eye-Witnesses
Poole realized that before pinning the crime of murdering Sir Garth
Fratten to any individual, he must first find out, or at any rate try
to find out, how that murder had been committed. It was clear enough
_when_ it was done but, so far, in spite of the presence of a number
of witnesses, it was not at all clear _how_ it was done.
In addition to Hessel, a number of witnesses had written to or
communicated in other ways with the police, offering to give evidence
at the inquest as to the “accident” on the Duke of York’s Steps.
Preliminary investigations had suggested that none of these witnesses
had any very different story to tell than had already been provided by
Hessel, and it had not been thought necessary to call them for the
initial stages of the Coroner’s enquiry. Poole, however, had their
addresses and, on the morning after his interview with Inez
Fratten—and his failure to interview Ryland—he determined to make a
round of visits and go exhaustively into the question of what the
eye-witnesses of the accident had seen.
The first name on his list was that of Mr. Thomas Lossett, of 31
Gassington Road, Surbiton, employed at Tyler, Potts and Co., the
Piccadilly hatters. Mr. Lossett proved to be what was popularly known
as the “hat-lusher” at this celebrated establishment—that is to say,
he wore a white apron and a paper cap and ironed or blocked the hats
of the firm’s aristocratic clients. By permission of the manager, whom
Poole took into his confidence, the detective was allowed to interview
Mr. Lossett in a small room set aside for the storage of customers’
own silk hats when out of town—from the comparative emptiness of the
shelves Poole deduced that the practice of silk-hat farming was in
decline.
Mr. Lossett was a loquacious gentleman of about fifty. He was, it
appeared, in a position to give an exact account of the incident
because he had been only a few yards away from Sir Garth when the
accident occurred. He had first noticed the gentlemen as they stood
underneath the Column before beginning the descent of the steps. He
was on his way from Piccadilly to Waterloo—he often walked, if it were
a fine evening, being a firm believer in the value of pedestrian
exercise—and his attention had been attracted to the two gentlemen by
the fact that they both wore top-hats—a comparatively rare phenomenon
on a week-day in these degenerate times. Descending the broad steps a
little behind and to the side of them, his attention had never really
left them and he had been fully aware of the hurried descent of a man
in a light overcoat and a bowler hat, who stumbled just as he was
passing the two gentlemen and knocked against Sir Garth Fratten—as Mr.
Lossett had afterwards discovered the taller of the two to have been.
Poole questioned Mr. Lossett closely on the actual impact, and
obtained a very clear statement. Lossett had seen the man before he
actually struck against Sir Garth and was perfectly certain that no
blow had been struck with the hand or with any instrument. He had
stumbled against Sir Garth’s side, rather than his back, and had
clutched the banker’s arm to prevent himself from falling. As for his
appearance, he was decidedly tall and wore a black moustache. He had
spoken in what Mr. Lossett described as a “genteel” voice, had
apologized handsomely, saying that he was in a great hurry to get to
the Admiralty, and, as Sir Garth appeared to be all right, had hurried
off in the direction of that building. Lossett had not himself waited
to see what became of Sir Garth, as he had not too much time in which
to catch his train; he had been intensely surprised to read of the
fatal outcome of the accident, as it had seemed to him so trivial. He
put the time of the accident at somewhere between 6.15 and 6.30.
The detective was distinctly disappointed by this account. It
was so very clear and certain, and gave no indication as to how
the banker had received the fatal blow in his back. No amount of
cross-questioning could shake the hat-lusher on that vital point.
Pondering over the problem which this evidence provided, Poole made
his way to the Haymarket, where he found Mr. Ulred Tarker, a clerk in
the offices of the Trans-Continental Railway Company. Mr. Tarker,
interviewed in the manager’s own room, had not a great deal of light
to throw on the subject. He had not noticed either the two bankers or
the man who had stumbled against them before the occurrence; then,
hearing a commotion behind him, he had looked round and seen what he
believed to be two men supporting a third between them. Two of the
figures were evidently elderly gentlemen of good standing, the third a
younger man, dressed very much as ninety-nine men out of a hundred at
that time and place, in the evening rush to one of the stations, would
be dressed—a dark suit and either a bowler or a trilby hat—Mr. Tarker
was not sure which. Although he had stopped for a second or two to see
what the excitement was about, Mr. Tarker had soon realized that it
was nothing interesting and had gone on his way, not noticing anything
more about any of the three figures concerned. He had not seen any
blow struck, but then he had not looked round till after the accident.
The third man, the one not wearing a top-hat, had appeared to him
middle-aged or getting on that way, and probably had a moustache. He
had left the office soon after 6.15 and walked straight to the Duke’s
Steps and so on to Westminster.
That was all, and Poole felt that he had wasted his time.
Katherine Moon, a cashier at the Royal Services Club, Waterloo Place,
proved more interesting. She had waited for a minute or two in
Waterloo Place for a friend to join her; half-past six was the time
arranged; during that time she had noticed a man in a light overcoat
waiting at the corner of Carlton House Terrace, to one side of the
Steps; she had noticed him because for a second she had thought he
might be the friend for whom she was waiting, though she had quickly
seen that he was taller than her friend and wore a moustache, which
her friend did not. That was all that she had seen; she had no real
reason for connecting him with the tragedy and had not at first done
so, but on hearing of the exhumation and having previously read Miss
Fratten’s advertisement, she had put two and two together and wondered
whether they could possibly make four. Poole thought her a
particularly smart girl; there had been so very little really to
connect the two incidents in her mind, and yet the detective felt that
she might well be right.
Four more names remained on the Inspector’s list—three from the
Haymarket neighbourhood, and one from Paddington Square. Poole was
puzzled for a moment to find practically all the witnesses coming from
such a conscribed area, till he realized that the number of people who
would use the Duke of York’s Steps as a homeward route after the day’s
work must be closely limited—it was a distinctly long way to Victoria
or Waterloo and not too close even to St. James’s Park Underground
Station.
Mr. Raffelli, owner of a small antique shop in Haymarket Passage, had
not, it transpired, seen the accident at all, but had been present
when Sir Garth’s body was carried to the car, arriving on the scene
probably five minutes after he fell. More wasted time, thought Poole.
After a hurried luncheon at Appenrodt’s, the detective called on Mr.
Julian Wagglebow, employed in the London Library. Mr. Wagglebow, a
precise old gentleman who disliked being hurried, described how, after
finishing his day’s work, which consisted of indexing a number of
newly-purchased books, at 6 p. m., he had proceeded to Hugh Rees’s
shop in Lower Regent Street, to buy a copy of _The Fond Heart_ for his
daughter, whose birthday it was. Leaving Hugh Rees’s he had walked
down past the Guards Crimean Memorial and the new King Edward statue—a
misleading representation, Mr. Wagglebow thought—to the Duke of York’s
Steps. Being rather short-sighted he was descending the Steps slowly
and carefully when he was startled by someone rushing down past him.
“That man will have an accident if he isn’t careful,” he had thought
to himself, and sure enough, at that very moment, the man had stumbled
and lurched against a gentleman in a top-hat who was walking with
another gentleman, similarly attired, just in front of him, Mr.
Wagglebow.
Poole interrupted at this point, to impress upon his informant the
extreme importance of an _exact_ description of the accident. The
exact description was forthcoming and it was as disappointing as that
of Mr. Lossett, the hat-lusher. The man had _lurched_ against Sir
Garth—rather heavily, it is true, but he had not struck him. No, his
shoulder had not struck Sir Garth in the back; it had been more of a
sideways lurch against Sir Garth’s arm—perhaps at an angle of
forty-five degrees, if the Inspector knew what he meant by
that—between the back of the arm and the side of the arm. That was
natural, because the lurch, although to a certain extent sideways—as
if the ankle had turned over—had also been forwards, because of the
pace at which the man was descending the steps. Mr. Wagglebow was able
to be so precise because, as he had already explained, he had at that
very moment been thinking to himself that if that man were not more
careful he would have an accident, and sure enough he did have one—as
Mr. Wagglebow was watching him.
This certainly was clear evidence and the detective saw that Mr.
Wagglebow would be a difficult man to shake in a witness box. As to
the man’s appearance, Mr. Wagglebow was less clear—he had not been
particularly interested by the individual but rather by the incident,
which had so exactly borne out his warning. He believed that the man
wore an overcoat—he could not say of what colour, but probably not
quite black—and a bowler hat. He had appeared to be of ordinary size
and appearance—a young man, undoubtedly. At the foot of the Steps, Mr.
Wagglebow had turned to the right towards St. James’s Park Suspension
bridge, and had seen no more of the parties concerned. Allowing for
the time spent in buying the book at Hugh Rees’s Mr. Wagglebow thought
that he could not have reached the Steps before 6.30.
The last name in this neighbourhood was that of Hector Press, of
Haymarket Court. Haymarket Court proved to be a block of bachelor
flats just behind His Majesty’s Theatre, and Mr. Press, a valet
employed in the flats by the management, to look after such of the
residents as had not their own men to valet them. Mr. Press wore a
neat black suit, well oiled hair, and blue chin. His voice was
carefully controlled and he displayed a slight tendency to patronize a
“policeman.” He had, he said, submitted his name as a witness since
reading the account of the inquest in last night’s evening paper,
because he had been struck by a possible discrepancy between the
evidence there given and his own observation. On the evening in
question (something after six—he couldn’t say nearer), he had been
going from Haymarket Court to visit an acquaintance in Queen Anne’s
Mansions—he usually had an hour or two off, between five and seven if
he had got the gentleman’s dress clothes ready—but on reaching the top
of the Duke of York’s Steps, he suddenly remembered that Captain
Dollington required his bag packed for a visit to Newmarket. Shocked
by his forgetfulness, he had whisked quickly round and had been nearly
cannoned into by a gentleman walking just behind him. This gentleman
had evidently been startled or annoyed by the check to his progress
because he had sworn at Mr. Press in a manner that caused the valet to
stare at him as he hurried on. So it was that Mr. Press had seen the
gentleman break into a run down the steps and, a few seconds later, to
stumble and knock against two gentlemen in tall hats who were about
half-way down. The particular point that Mr. Press wished to make was
that this gentleman had been referred to in the evidence as an
Admiralty messenger, or, if not quite that, at any rate the impression
had been given that he was a man of the clerk class, taking a message
to the Admiralty. Now Mr. Press had had great experience of gentlemen
and he not only knew one when he saw one, but still more when he heard
one. The particular oath which had been hurled at him had
unquestionably been a gentleman’s oath and the voice was a gentleman’s
voice. Of that Mr. Press had no doubt at all and he was prepared to
state his opinion on oath. Questioned by Poole, the valet was not
prepared to say for certain that a blow had not been struck but he had
certainly not seen one, though he had been watching the gentleman
right up to the moment of the collision. As to appearance and clothes,
he had no hesitation in saying that the gentleman was of medium
height, about thirty-five years of age, and wore a dark moustache,
together with a bowler hat and an overcoat of medium-grey cloth—the
latter by no means new or well cared for. He had not gone down the
Steps to see what had happened, as he was in a hurry to get back and
pack Captain Dollington’s bag.
Poole felt that this might prove to be the most useful information
that he had yet received, though it still left him in the dark as to
how Sir Garth had come by his injury. His last remaining witness, who
had written from an address in Paddington Square and wished to be
interviewed there, was a clerk employed in the Chief Whip’s office at
the House of Commons. Probably Mr. Coningsby Smythe did not wish it to
get about in the House that the police had been interrogating
him—perhaps he feared that it might damage the credit of the
Government, but Poole did not feel inclined to wait till a late hour
and journey all the way up to Paddington when his information was
waiting for him so close at hand. Accordingly he made his way to the
House and, by the good offices of one of the officials, obtained a few
minutes’ conversation with Mr. Smythe in a corner of the Visitors’
Lobby.
Mr. Smythe, it appeared, had been returning to the House after
delivering an important note to a Minister (Mr. Smythe was very
discreet) at the Carlton Club. As he walked down the Duke of York’s
Steps, he had noticed two gentlemen in top-hats about to cross the
Mall. He had wondered, such was the rarity of the “topper” in these
degenerate days (Mr. Smythe was unconsciously echoing the hat-lusher)
whether the two gentlemen were Members, and had hurried his steps in
order to satisfy his curiosity. They had checked on an island in the
middle of the Mall and he was within ten or fifteen yards of them when
they crossed the second half. His view of them had been interrupted
for a moment by a passing car and the next he saw of them, the taller
of the two was just sinking to his knees, and so to the ground, while
the shorter—Mr. Hessel, it now appeared—tried to hold him up. Mr.
Smythe had hurried to the spot—had, in fact, been the first there—but
Sir Garth had not spoken, nor even moved again. Mr. Hessel was
evidently deeply distressed, and kept wringing his hands and calling
his friend’s name. He, Mr. Smythe, had suggested calling a doctor, but
at that moment a gentleman had offered a car and he had helped to lift
Sir Garth into it.
Poole was getting impatient, but concealed his feeling.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “But what about the accident; did you see that?”
“But I’ve just told you, Inspector!”
“No, sir; I don’t mean that. The accident on the Steps, when Sir Garth
was knocked into.”
“Oh, no, Inspector, I didn’t see that. I saw Sir Garth practically
die—I thought you would wish to know about it.”
Smothering his annoyance, the detective thanked Mr. Coningsby Smythe
for his information and released him to his important duties. As he
left the House, Poole remembered that there was one name that he had
not got on his list—that of the woman who had caused a disturbance at
the Inquest. It was a hundred to one against her having anything of
importance to say—probably she was one of the many half-witted people
whose object in life is to draw attention to themselves; still, Poole
had been in the Force long enough to learn that it was never safe to
turn one’s back upon the most unpromising source of information.
Returning to the Yard, he obtained the name and address which the
woman had given to the Coroner’s Officer: Miss Griselda Peake, 137
Coxon’s Buildings, Earl’s Court. It was now nearly five o’clock and
Poole felt that the lady would almost certainly be at home for the
sacred office of tea-drinking. He proved to be right; Miss Peake was
at home—in a small room on the seventh floor (no lift) of Coxon’s
Buildings, and received him with great dignity and the offer of
refreshment.
“I have been expecting to hear from Scotland Yard, Officer,” she said.
“I have important information to give and I should have been heard by
the Coroner. I thought him an ill-mannered official, but still I
understand that red-tape is red-tape and I am prepared to meet the
wishes of the authorities.”
Miss Peake spoke calmly, with none of the excited shrillness of her
appearance at the Inquest. Perhaps the environment of her home was
soothing. She was a very small woman, of about fifty-five, dressed in
the period of the nineties. Her long, tight-sleeved dress was youthful
in cut and ornament and probably represented a well-saved relic of her
young days. Possibly her mind had never advanced beyond that age—she
both looked and spoke like a figure from the _Strand Magazine_ in the
days of L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace.
“I was present at the time the outrage was committed on Sir Garth
Fratten,” she said, impressively. “I was standing—two lumps,
Officer?—at the foot of the Steps at the time, or rather, I should
say, half-way between the foot of the Steps and the carriage-way—the
new carriage-way, you know—it has all been altered—Germanized—a grave
mistake I always feel. I happened to be waiting there, watching the
Members on their way from the Cartlon to the House—Mr. Balfour often
passes that way—a great man, Officer, a charming speaker, but I fear
that he will never be a leader. I saw two gentlemen, evidently
Members, coming down the Steps, and the next moment I saw it all. A
dastardly outrage, Officer!”
Miss Peake’s voice rose suddenly in a shrill cry of excitement. Her
eyes blazed and she rose to her feet, nearly pushing over the
tea-table as she did so. Evidently the poor lady’s mind could not
stand excitement.
“A brutal attack!” she cried. “Ruffians—a gang of ruffians—Fenians!”
Suddenly she sank back into her chair, looked dazedly about her, and
passed her hand over her eyes. After a moment, she spoke again in a
dull, level voice.
“The man rushed down the Steps after committing his fell deed,” she
said. “I saw him leap into a waiting vehicle and drive away. The
villains! The cowards! Nihilists! Radicals!”
Once more the excitement had seized her and she broke into shrill
cries, only half intelligible. Poole saw that it was useless to expect
any lucid account from her. Waiting only for a quiet moment in which
to take his leave, he thanked poor little Miss Griselda for her
valuable help, and left her to finish her tea in peace.
“Please tell the Secretary of State that I am at his service at any
time,” said Miss Peake as she ushered him out of the door.