THE STORY OF A QUARREL
THE inquest, as far as it had gone, afforded no leading at all. We had
not even learned how the poison had been administered, for though there
had been some suggestion of possible juggling with the whisky bottle and
glass, there had been nothing definite. But it was the hatpin that
puzzled me most. One might regard it as certain, at all events, that Sir
Philip Clevedon, even if he had voluntarily taken the poison, had not
thereafter stabbed himself. One could only suppose that it was the
murderer’s effort to make absolutely sure that his work was complete.
Without the hatpin it might have been odds in favour of suicide.
Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper, was a tall woman, something past
middle-age, with black hair lightly streaked with grey, and dark eyes of
a peculiarly penetrating quality. I wondered for a moment if or where I
had seen her before, and then I realised that it was her likeness to her
niece that had impressed me. She was very alert, both mentally and
physically, answered the questions in full and without hesitation, and
yet with a curious air of detachment as if, after all, it were no
particular business of hers. She described events already dealt with
here, and generally corroborated the evidence that had gone before.
“I want to ask you now about this hatpin,” the coroner said, picking up
the pretty but sinister little weapon. “You were the first to discover
the—the use to which it had been put.”
“Yes, I saw it and called Mr. Chinley’s attention to it.”
“Had you seen it before?”
“Not that I can recollect.”
“You had a visitor during the evening?”
“Yes, Miss Clevedon.”
“Did she remove her hat?”
“Yes, she had been caught in the rain, and her hat was very wet. I
advised her to take it off and dry it before my fire.”
“Did she do that?”
“Yes.”
“When Miss Clevedon took off her hat, did you see her remove the pin?”
“I cannot remember.”
“Did you see where she put it down?”
“No.”
“You did not see her put it on the table, for instance, or the
mantelpiece?”
“No.”
“You did not notice it lying about after she had gone?”
“No.”
“Did Miss Clevedon see Sir Philip?”
“She went to his study.”
“Do you know whether she saw him?”
“No, she went straight out after that, and did not return to my room.”
“Did Miss Clevedon resume her hat before she went to the study?”
“No, she was carrying it in her hand.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes, I remember her remarking that it was still damp, and that she would
put it on when she got outside.”
“You do not recollect whether she had the hatpin in her hand?”
“No, I do not remember that.”
“Did Sir Philip Clevedon have any other visitors?”
“One, earlier in the evening.”
“Before or after dinner?”
“Before dinner—about six o’clock.”
“Were you present at their interview?”
“No, I was in the little room that leads off the study.”
“What is that room used for?”
“Only to store books. It is completely lined with shelves that are full
of books. I was engaged dusting them.”
“You heard someone enter the study?”
“Yes”
“Could you overhear the conversation?”
“Not while they spoke in ordinary tones; only when they raised their
voices.”
“Did you recognise the visitor?”
“Yes, it was Mr. Thoyne.”
I glanced at Thoyne, who had started from his seat as if with intention
to intervene, then resumed it again as one who had thought better of it.
“Were they—was it a friendly interview?”
“Well—they disagreed—”
“I protest, Mr. Coroner,” Thoyne cried explosively, rising to his feet.
“If you desire to give evidence later—” the coroner began suavely.
“I have no desire to give evidence—I have none to give,” Thoyne cried.
“This interview which was purely private, took place hours before the—the
tragedy, and had nothing to do with it.”
“Please be silent, Mr. Thoyne,” the coroner said a little sharply, “and
allow me to conduct the inquiry in my own way. You shall, if you desire,
have an opportunity later.”
He turned again to Mrs. Halfleet.
“You said that Sir Philip and Mr. Thoyne disagreed—did you learn the
cause of the—?”
This brought Thoyne once again to his feet and I did not wonder at it.
The coroner had evidently his own particular method of conducting an
inquiry.
“Once again I protest, Mr. Coroner,” he said, his face flushed darkly
with anger. “This was a purely private conversation and had nothing to
do with—”
The coroner took absolutely no notice of him this time but simply
repeated his question to Mrs. Halfleet though in a slightly different
form.
“Did you gather over what it was that Mr. Thoyne and Sir Philip
Clevedon—quarrelled?”
“There was no quarrel,” Thoyne interjected.
“It was over—a lady,” Mrs. Halfleet responded slowly.
I began now to see something of the drift of this apparently irregular
questioning. There was more behind it all than appeared to the casual
observer. I glanced almost furtively at Miss Kitty Clevedon but found
her perfectly calm and tranquil though her face was dead white.
“Was the lady’s name mentioned?”
“No.”
Curiously enough, the coroner did not appear to be disappointed by that
reply and it also had the effect of quietening Ronald Thoyne. His lips
moved in a quick smile and he settled himself back in his chair with an
air of obvious satisfaction. What they might say about himself
apparently did not worry him.
“Could you hear what they said when they raised their voices?”
“I heard Sir Philip say, ‘You are talking nonsense. I cannot compel her
to marry me against her will. The decision rests with her.’ He was not
exactly shouting but was speaking a little more loudly than usual. Mr.
Thoyne seemed angry. ‘You must release her from her promise,’ he said.
His voice was hoarse and he struck the table with his stick as he spoke.
I think Sir Philip stood up from his seat then. I did not see him, of
course, but I seemed to hear him walking up and down. And he spoke
sharply, almost angrily. The words appeared to come with a sort of snap.
‘I have nothing to say in this matter,’ Sir Philip declared. ‘I neither
hold her to her promise nor release her from it. The decision rests
solely with her. If she notifies me that she cannot marry me I have no
power to compel her. But I am not prepared to take your word for it.
The decision must come from herself.’ Mr. Thoyne said ‘That is your last
word, is it?’ to which Sir Philip replied, ‘My first word and my last.
As far as I am concerned I am engaged and remain engaged until the young
lady herself notifies me that the engagement is at an end.’ Then Mr.
Thoyne said, ‘If you don’t release her I shall find a way of making you—I
shall find a way.’”
“Upon which,” Thoyne rapped out sarcastically, “I poisoned him with
prussic acid. It certainly was an effective form of compulsion.”
“Silence!” cried a police officer.
“Silence!” Thoyne echoed irascibly. “It is a time for silence, isn’t it,
when I am virtually accused of murdering Sir Philip Clevedon? This lady
has a marvellous memory, hasn’t she?”
“You will have an opportunity of giving evidence and of denying—” the
coroner began.
“I am denying nothing,” Thoyne interrupted half sullenly. “The story is
all right as far as it goes. Sir Philip Clevedon probably stood nearer a
thrashing than ever in his life before. But I didn’t poison him nor did
I stab him with a hatpin.”
I happened just then to glance casually at Pepster, who was seated a
little behind the coroner and who was watching Thoyne with a keen, intent
gaze as if anxious not to miss the smallest trifle of word or gesture. I
began to read some method into this curiously unconventional inquest
episode.
“And what happened then?” the coroner asked, turning to Mrs. Halfleet.
“Mr. Thoyne went out of the room banging the door behind him.”
“Quite true, Mr. Coroner,” Thoyne cried. “I went home—to get the prussic
acid. I had forgotten to take it with me.”
The coroner took no notice but turned to Mrs. Halfleet.
“Had you heard anything previously of Sir Philip’s engagement?”
“No.”
“Had not heard his name coupled with that of any lady?”
“Never a whisper.”
Mrs. Halfleet was asked a number of further questions, chiefly regarding
household arrangements and with special regard to glasses and bottles.
But she added nothing to the information already set forth. And it all
appeared very tame after the Thoyne sensation. As she left the witness’s
chair, Ronald Thoyne sprang to his feet.
“Do you intend to call me, Mr. Coroner?” he demanded.
“No,” replied the coroner, “I have nothing to ask you. Do you desire to
tender any evidence?”
“No, I know nothing about it.”
“Then,” said the coroner suavely, “we’ll have Lady Clevedon.”
The old lady took her seat in the chair and sat bending a little forward,
her hands on her knees.
“Is this your hatpin, Lady Clevedon?”
“Yes.”
“Do you identify it as your property?”
“I have already told you it is mine.”
“Do you know how it got to White Towers?”
“If you mean did I go and stab—?”
“I did not mean that, Lady Clevedon. I asked you a very simple question.
Do you know how that hatpin got to White Towers?”
“I do not.”
“Did you lend it to anyone?”
“No.”
“But you are sure it is your property?”
“For the third time—yes.”
“Is there any special mark on it?”
“I do not know of any.”
“There might be other pins like it?”
“There isn’t another like it in the world.”
“You knew the late Sir Philip Clevedon well?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you were good friends with him?”
“Nobody was good friends for long with Philip Clevedon. He was—”
She pulled herself up, pursing her lips.
“You were going to say?”
“Something one ought not to say of a man who is dead.”
“Had he any enemies?”
“Plenty, but not of the murdering sort.”
“Had you heard of his engagement?”
“He did not confide in me!”
“You had not heard of it?”
“I had not.”
Again I happened to glance at Pepster and saw him gazing as intently at
Lady Clevedon as he had done at Thoyne. For the most part he had sat
listening to the evidence with partly closed eyes, as if it were very
little concern of his. Only with Ronald Thoyne and now with Lady
Clevedon had he seemed at all keenly interested. Evidently there was
more in Sir Philip’s mysterious engagement—known apparently to Thoyne,
but not to Sir Philip’s own relatives—than had appeared. The coroner
glanced sideways at Pepster, who nodded his head slightly as if answering
an unspoken question in the affirmative, upon which the coroner thanked
Lady Clevedon for her evidence and dismissed her.