KITTY CLEVEDON AND RONALD THOYNE
I MET Sergeant Gamley, the officer who had called on me in company with
Detective Pepster, and I asked him whether the public would be admitted
freely to the inquest.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose they have the right, but the
accommodation is very limited, very. When the witnesses and the lawyers
and the family and the police and the reporters and people who must be
there are squeezed in there’ll not be a lot of room for outsiders. Did
you want—ah, now, I am looking for another juryman. Stokkins has fallen
ill. How would you like—?”
“Excellent!” I interrupted. “As long as you don’t make me foreman it
will suit me very well. I should like to hear the story in full—being a
neighbour, you know.”
I did not add that it would also afford me an opportunity of seeing the
body without making any obvious attempt in that connection.
It was an ordinary country jury, consisting mostly of farmers, with a
small shopkeeper or two, and Tim Dallott, landlord of the “Waggon and
Horses,” as foreman. We visited the chamber where the body lay, but it
did not add anything to my knowledge except that I was able to form some
idea what the man had looked like in life, which did at least add to the
interest of the mystery.
An inquest is a singularly useless form of inquiry at its best. It is
doubly and trebly so when the police use it, as frequently they do, for
purposes of their own, to conceal the truth rather than reveal it. The
real duty of the jury is to determine the cause of death, for, though it
may declare that So-and-so was a murderer, the actual demands of the law
are satisfied if the jury simply decides that a murder has been
committed. A coroner who knows his business does not travel far outside
the brief allotted him by the police, and generally manages—though not
invariably—to keep his jury within the limits assigned himself.
I have had a long and very varied experience of inquests and was not,
therefore, surprised that the inquiry regarding Sir Philip Clevedon’s
death should be merely formally opened and then immediately adjourned,
for the purpose, it was stated, of a post-mortem examination. I regarded
that as a mere subterfuge—in which, as it happened, I was wrong—and
easily realised that the police did not want as yet to tell all they
knew, which in its turn suggested that they had some sort of a line on
the murderer and did not desire to give him (or her) any information.
Meanwhile I busied myself making some very careful inquiries regarding
Miss Kitty Clevedon. Through her midnight visit to me, I was in
possession of some information so far not within the knowledge of the
police, unless, indeed, she had herself told them, which I doubted; and I
intended, for a bit at all events, to keep it to myself. Exactly what
connection she had with the tragedy I could not say, but I meant that she
should tell me—in which determination I reckoned without Kitty Clevedon.
I met her as she was walking from Cartordale to Hapforth House. She was
warmly clad in furs and, a little flushed by the wind that was blowing
smartly across the moors, was looking very pretty and attractive. She
saw me approaching her and, curiously enough, made no attempt to avoid
me. In point of fact, I expected a direct “cut,” but she stopped as I
drew near and even held out her hand.
“Fancy meeting you, Mr. Holt!” she cried.
“I have just been to Hapforth House,” I replied, wondering what might be
the explanation of her unexpected cordiality, though I fancy that what
she really had in mind was to show that at least she did not fear me.
“I—well, in fact,” I went on, “I wanted a word or two with you.”
“With me!”
“May I turn and walk back part of the way with you?” I asked.
“Why, of course,” she replied. “I always prefer company if I can get it,
and it’s none too plentiful here. I am used to lonely walks, though one
can have too many of them. A woman likes to talk, you know, but one
cannot converse with stone walls.”
She rattled on, rather intent apparently on doing most of the talking, as
if she did not wish to give me an opportunity. But I merely bided my
time, knowing the chance would come; and presently she seemed to realise
that, because she interrupted her flow of chatter and turned as if
waiting for me to speak.
“You wanted—was it about something particular?” she asked.
The words were all right, but the mocking smile in her eyes, and the set
of her pretty lips, rather belied them. She was preparing to meet her
adversary with a woman’s weapons.
“It is about the night of the—of the murder,” I began slowly.
“Yes?” she said.
“And of your visit to my house.”
She put up her hand and with a pretty gesture pushed back an unruly curl,
meeting my gaze firmly and frankly and without any sign of disquiet.
“But—my visit to your house, Mr. Holt. I do not quite understand. Am I
supposed to have visited your house on the night of the—?”
“You intend to deny it?” I asked. “Well, if you consider that worth
while I suppose I could not prove it. After all, it would be merely my
word against yours. But isn’t such a subterfuge between us two just a
little—shall I say—grotesque?”
“Suppose you tell me all about it,” she said quite tranquilly. “Perhaps
I have lost my memory. Such things do happen, don’t they? But then
there is generally a railway accident, isn’t there, or a motor smash.
And I haven’t even knocked my head. Do tell me all about it, Mr. Holt.”
I could not help admiring the skill with which she kept me at
arm’s-length. It was grotesque, of course, as I had said, but it was
wonderfully clever. Whatever her object, she certainly lacked none of
the gifts and qualities of an accomplished actress.
“Doesn’t your attitude suggest,” I said, “that you have—er—something to
conceal?”
“Does it?” she asked, opening her eyes wide. “I wonder what it can be?
Oh, yes, the night of the—the tragedy. Are you suggesting by any chance
that I murdered Sir Philip—is that what you mean, Mr. Holt? Speak out if
it is—please do not hesitate.”
“I did not say that.”
“But then what have I to do with it all?” she demanded, stamping her foot
as if she were really angry. “You must tell me what you mean, Mr. Holt.
You have said too much not to say more. What is it you suspect? You
hint at this and hint at that, but say nothing straight out. It is a
cowardly way to attack a woman.”
Her voice broke artistically, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears.
It was all very cleverly done, and I confess I admired her, though that
did not turn me from my purpose. I have had to deal with women in all
sorts of moods and every possible disguise, though Kitty Clevedon at that
moment was less a woman than a clue in skirts and furs.
“The matter is quite simple,” I said, deliberately brutal, in the hope of
startling her out of her calm. “I was only wondering what view the
police, for example, would take of your midnight adventure.”
“You had better go and tell them,” she flamed out. “They might believe
you, you know.”
“You were in my house on that night,” I said, and waited to see if she
would deny the visit even to me.
“So you said before,” she retorted.
“Do you, then, wish to deny that you were in my house on that night?”
“Would you believe me if I did deny it?”
“Of course not—how could I?”
“Then why should I trouble to deny it? You ask me a question and answer
it for me, and tell me you will not believe me unless I adopt your
answer. That is a convenient method of cross-examining—put the question
and invent the answer.”
“And yet you will not deny it—why not deny it and have done with it?”
“Mr. Holt,” she said slowly, “I do not know what you mean.”
That was definite enough, and we walked along for some minutes in
silence, the while I considered whether I should press her further just
then or carry my inquiries in another direction. I was, however,
relieved of the responsibility of immediate decision, for at that moment
a man turned the bend of the road and, seeing us there, came towards us
and greeted Kitty with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. She on
her part welcomed him joyfully, though whether that was from pleasure at
seeing him or because he provided a way of escape from further
questioning, I did not attempt to decide.
The new-comer was tall and rather heavily built and gave an impression of
immense physical strength. His manner was bluff and frank and his eyes
kindly and intelligent, but the lines of his mouth were hard, as of a man
who had had to fight his way and would be little likely to give quarter
to an opponent. He looked like one who wanted much anything he did want,
and would leave nothing undone that might secure it. “Honest in a way,
but a tough customer,” was my own private summary, and I wondered who the
man was.
“I was just going to Hapforth House,” he said, smiling, as he addressed
Kitty Clevedon, though the stare he bestowed on me was none too friendly.
I noticed that Kitty made no move to introduce us.
“Oh, yes, Auntie told me she was expecting you—some business matter,
isn’t it?” she said. “I warn you there may be a warm half-hour before
you. Good-bye, Mr. Holt. It was very kind of you to come this far with
me. Mr. Thoyne is going my way.”
I accepted my dismissal smilingly and made a careful note in my mind of
the man’s name. Anyone with whom Miss Kitty Clevedon was acquainted
became a person of interest worth knowing. On my way to Stone Hollow I
met Dr. Crawford, a Scot, rough of tongue and occasionally almost brutal
in manner; but he was implicitly trusted by the Dale folk, who regarded
suavity and gentleness with suspicion, and politeness as a form of
hypocrisy. He had come to them from a country even wilder and sterner
than their own, and was thus able to fit in with their moods and to
understand their temperament, which, to strangers, seemed to be
compounded of a mixture of sullenness and stupidity. He was one of the
very few people in the Dale with whom I had struck up any sort of
intimacy, possibly because he had been my late aunt’s medical attendant
and a witness to the will that had given me Stone Hollow.
“Do you happen to know a man named Thoyne?” I asked after a few
preliminary remarks.
“Yes; don’t you know him?”
“Am I supposed to? Is he one of those persons whom not to know is proof
of one’s own insignificance?”
“Oh, I would not say that, though it is a little curious that you should
have been some weeks in Cartordale without hearing about Ronald Thoyne.”
“Well, apparently I have heard about him,” I replied, “or I shouldn’t be
asking you questions regarding him.”
“I am not exactly one of his intimates,” Dr. Crawford said. “He is an
American who fought in the war with the French Army before the Yanks came
in. He was wounded or gassed, or possibly it was shell-shock. At all
events he came to England and was for some time in hospital, but he seems
perfectly fit again now. He settled here at Lennsdale, which stands away
up there on the hill-side. You can just see the house through that
opening. He is certainly wealthy and gives generously, which is perhaps
one reason why he is popular round here. He is bluff and hearty, but
rather too ready with his fists to fit our modern notions of law and
order. A good man to avoid a quarrel with, I should imagine. He is very
strong on the war and indignant with his own country for holding off as
long as she did. That is about as near a character-sketch as I can give
you.”
“Good. I must make his acquaintance. Is he very friendly with Miss
Kitty Clevedon?”
“Well, there have been rumours—matrimonial—but nothing definite. If they
are formally engaged I haven’t heard of it.”
The doctor turned into a small cottage standing by the roadway, and I
walked on alone to Stone Hollow.