Inspector Tanner Grows Suspicious
Inspector Tanner was an early bird. Though on the next morning he did
not attempt to emulate his performance of the day before, half-past
eight o’clock saw him cycling out to the Luce Manor boathouse to
undertake the examination which had been postponed from the previous
evening. Leaving his bicycle among the shrubs at the entrance gate, he
walked down the path which ran along the river bank, and which he had
not yet examined. But here he found nothing of interest.
The boathouse was a modern structure in the Old English style, with
brick sides, half-timbered gables, and a red tiled roof. The door was
in the wall opposite the river, and the Inspector unlocked it, and
entered a chamber of about thirty feet square, lighted from a louvre
in the roof. The water basin occupied about half the floor area, and
was in one corner, leaving an L-shaped wharf, laid down in
granolithic. Along the walls were racks for oars and presses for
rowlocks and fishing tackle. An archway at the end of the basin led
out to the river, and was closed by a grill or portcullis raised by
chains from a small windlass. Two boats were floating in the basin.
For some minutes Tanner stood motionless, noting these details, and
looking round in the hope of seeing something that might help him.
This cursory inspection proving fruitless, he settled down to make a
methodical examination of the entire building.
If, as seemed likely, the man who had made the fifth set of tracks on
the river bank had really entered the house, his muddy boots must
surely have left traces. Tanner therefore began with the floor, and
crawling on his hands and knees backwards and forwards, scrutinised
the cement-coloured surface. It was tiresome work, but at last he
found what he thought looked like footprints. On the quay not far from
the corner of the basin were a number of tiny mud-coloured spots. At
first he could not connect these to make a complete whole, but by
lying down on his face and using a lens he was able to find several
other patches of coagulated sand, which he marked with a pencil; and
when he had finished there showed out on the granolithic the nail
patterns of two clearly marked heels with the corresponding middle
portion of the soles in front. It was evident a man had stood with his
back to the door, and facing the basin, and had remained there long
enough to allow the moisture from the soles of his shoes to run down
the nail heads, and settle on the floor.
It was the work of a few seconds for Tanner to compare these marks
with those of the fifth man on the river bank. They were identical.
He resumed his search. There were no more footmarks, and he made but
one other discovery. In the left-hand corner of the quay, at the very
edge of the basin, and hidden behind the mooring rope of one of the
boats, lay the stump of a cigarette. Clearly the intention had been to
throw it into the basin, but it had just missed going down, and had
fallen unnoticed. Tanner had a good working knowledge of cigarettes,
but this one he could not place. The paper was yellow, and the tobacco
very dark in colour. He thought it looked South American. But he was
pleased with his find, for it seemed to have been but recently smoked,
and as he put it away in his pocket, he thought he had perhaps gained
a clue.
An examination of the door handles and styles, winch handle, backs of
chairs and similar objects with a powdering apparatus revealed several
finger prints, but, alas! all too smudged and blurred to be of use.
Nor could he find anything else of interest.
He was disappointed that the boathouse had yielded so little. It was
true that either the footprint or the cigarette end might prove
valuable, but on the other hand neither were necessarily connected
with the murder. Both might have got there in a perfectly ordinary and
legitimate manner.
He sat down on one of the chairs to consider his next step. There were
three lines of inquiry open to him, and he hesitated as to that on
which to begin. First, there was the general investigation, the
interviewing of the servants, Lady Ponson, Miss Enid, and any others
from whom he might gain information, the examination of Sir William’s
papers, the tracing of his movements for some time previous to his
death, the consideration of his finances, the ascertaining whether
anyone might benefit by his death—all routine details, each step of
which was suggested by his training, and his experience in similar
cases. This work he knew he would have to carry out some time, and
obviously the sooner it was done the better.
Next came the testing of Austin’s alibi. Though he had made a
beginning with this, a great deal remained to be done before he could
feel satisfied as to its truth. And satisfied he must be. The
circumstances were too suspicious for anything less than utter
certainty to suffice.
As he turned the matter over in his mind he slowly came to the
conclusion that he could work on these two points simultaneously. The
same information would, to some extent at least, be required for both,
and the same people would have to be interviewed.
But there was a third point which, equally urgently, required
attention. The man who had made the fifth line of footsteps must be
traced. And here, again, no time should be lost in getting to work.
Tanner felt he could not take on this inquiry with the others. There
was work in it alone for another man. He therefore decided he would
wire for an assistant to whom he could hand over this portion of the
case.
But as he was here he might as well begin the interviewing of the
Manor servants. He therefore left the boathouse, and walked slowly up
to the terrace under the great trees of the lawn, past long herbaceous
borders, and through the Dutch garden with its geometrically shaped
beds, its boxwood edgings, and its masses of rich colour. Approached
from the front, the old house looked its best. Though somewhat heavy
and formal in detail, its proportion was admirable, and it had an air
of security and comfort strangely at variance with the tragic
happening which had overtaken its owner. Tanner labelled it one of the
‘stately homes of England’ as he crossed the terrace to the ornate
porch and pulled the bell.
Parkes opened the door. The Inspector introduced himself, and
courteously asked for an interview. With equal politeness, and an
evident desire to help, Parkes brought his visitor to his own sanctum
and told his story. But to Tanner most of it was already known.
Indeed, on a very few points only did he add to his knowledge of the
case.
The first was that on the previous Friday, five days before his death,
Sir William had become depressed and irritable, as if some trouble was
weighing on his mind. The change had occurred quite suddenly between
breakfast and lunch and had continued until the end. To Parkes the
cause was unknown.
The second matter was more interesting and suggestive, but less
tangible. When Tanner was interrogating the butler about Austin Ponson
he noticed that certain of the latter’s replies were not so
spontaneous as those to earlier questions. In particular, when he
asked whether during his call at Luce Manor on Sunday evening Austin
had seemed worried or depressed, Parkes, though he replied in the
negative, seemed so uncomfortable that the Inspector began to doubt if
he was speaking the truth. He was not certain, but the thought crossed
his mind that the butler knew something which he was holding back. At
this stage Tanner was anxious not to arouse suspicion that he was
interested in Austin. He therefore changed the subject and made
inquiries about Cosgrove. But of him he learnt nothing except that he
had not been at Luce Manor for over a month.
From the butler Tanner found out also that neither Austin Ponson nor
anyone at Luce Manor smoked dark-coloured cigarettes.
The Inspector next interviewed Innes. Having heard the valet’s
statement, which was almost identical with Parkes’s, he began to
question him in the hope of learning something further.
‘I wonder, Mr Innes,’ he asked, ‘if you can tell me what upset Sir
William between breakfast and lunch this day week?’
The valet stared.
‘You weren’t long getting hold of that,’ he commented. ‘Yes, I can
tell you; or partly at least. He got a letter with the morning
delivery. I bring them up to him when they come about half-nine. There
were about half a dozen, and he took them and looked over the
envelopes as usual. When he saw one he sort of scowled, and he tore it
open and read it. I don’t know what was in it, but it fairly gave him
the pip and he didn’t get over it. He was kind of worried right up to
the end.’
‘You didn’t notice the handwriting or the postmark?’
‘No.’
‘What letters come by that delivery?’
‘London, but that means all parts.’
‘That was Friday of last week. Now can you tell me Sir William’s
movements since?’
‘Friday there was a dinner party on—about half a dozen people—and
bridge afterwards. Then Saturday Sir William went up to town. Sunday
was a quiet day. Mr Austin dined and stayed the evening. Monday Sir
William went up to town again. Tuesday and Wednesday he stayed here
alone. He was quite alone, for her ladyship and Miss Enid went up to
town on Tuesday.’
‘Were all these things in accordance with Sir William’s custom? To go
to London two days running, for example?’
‘He went now and again; I can’t remember him going two days running.’
The valet hesitated, then went on: ‘There was another thing struck me
about that, but I don’t know if there’s anything in it. When he did
go, it was nearly always in the car. I only remember him going by
train when the car was out of order, and then he groused about it. But
these two days he went by train though the car was there and the
chauffeur doing nothing.’
‘It is curious, that,’ Tanner agreed. ‘Now, Mr Austin’s coming on
Sunday. You saw him, I suppose?’
‘Yes, both when he was coming and leaving.’
‘Ah, that is fortunate. You could tell, then, if he seemed just in his
ordinary humour, or if anything had upset him?’
‘I only saw him for just a moment. It would be hard to form an opinion
in the time.’
Inspector Tanner was keenly interested. He thought he recognised a
sudden reserve in the man’s tone and manner, and he remembered that he
had had the same impression about Parkes, when the butler was asked a
similar question. He suspected both men were withholding information.
Something apparently had occurred on that Sunday night. He decided to
bluff.
‘It would be a kindness, Mr Innes, if you would tell me just what
happened on that night.’
The valet started, and an uneasy expression passed over his face.
Neither were lost on the Inspector.
‘I don’t know of anything special,’ Innes answered. ‘Just what are you
getting at?’
The Inspector bluffed again.
‘Mr Austin was upset too? Come now, Mr Innes, you’ll agree to that,
surely?’
‘Well, he may have been a bit.’
‘Was that when he was going or on arrival and departure both?’
‘He seemed a bit absent-minded when he was going, but, Lord! Mr
Tanner, what’s that? He may have been feeling a bit seedy, or had a
headache, or half a dozen things.’
The man seemed nervous and ill at ease. More strongly than ever
Inspector Tanner felt there was more to come. He racked his brains to
guess what might have happened, and to frame leading questions.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He bent forward and tapped the valet
on the knee.
‘Now, Mr Innes, about the trouble they had that night. You might tell
me what you know.’
The valet gave his questioner a sour look.
‘I suppose Parkes told you about that,’ he grumbled, ‘but I think he
might have kept his mouth shut. It’s no business of yours, or mine
either.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I heard them in the study. Their voices were raised, and that’s all
there’s of it.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘I only heard a word or two. I didn’t wait to listen.’
‘Of course not, Mr Innes. But people can’t help overhearing things.
What was it you heard?’
The valet seemed to be considering his answer. At last he replied:
‘I heard Mr Austin say, “My God, sir, she’s not.” That’s every blessed
word, so now you know it all.’
His manner had altered, and Tanner felt this was the truth.
So the father and son had been quarrelling that Sunday evening about a
woman! That was a suggestive fact, and it was evident from his
hesitation that Innes thought so too. Then Tanner remembered that
Austin had told him it was on the previous day that he had proposed to
Miss Lois Drew, and been accepted. Could he have been telling Sir
William, and could the latter have objected to the match? He continued
his questions.
‘Thank you, Mr Innes. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. But I don’t see
that it helps us very much after all. Now about Sir William’s visits
to town. Can you give me any hint of his business there?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve been up with him, I suppose?’
‘Lord, yes. Scores of times.’
‘Where does he usually lunch?’
‘Sometimes the Savoy, but usually at one of his clubs, the St George
or the Empire.’
‘I have done at last, Mr Innes. Could you just tell me in conclusion
the trains Sir William travelled up and down by on Saturday and
Monday, and also how he was dressed on each occasion?’
The deceased gentleman, it appeared, had gone by the same train on
each occasion, the 10.55 from Halford. He had motored to the station
direct on the Saturday, but on the Monday had on his way made a call
at the local branch of the Midland Counties Bank. On Saturday, he had
returned comparatively early, but on Monday he had not reached home
till close on dinner time.
Having received this information, the Inspector expressed his
indebtedness to the other’s forbearance and good nature. Innes, who
had seemed rather ruffled by the catechism, was mollified.
‘I’m afraid,’ Tanner went on, ‘I shall have to have a look over Sir
William’s papers, but not now. I’ll come on Sunday, and take a long
quiet day at it. Now I wonder could I see Mr Smith, your boatman?’
‘Why, certainly. Let’s see; it’s quarter-past one. He’ll be at his
dinner. I’ll show you his house if you come along.’
They went to a trim, clematis-covered cottage at the back of the yard,
and there found the boatman-gardener. Tanner questioned him in detail,
but without learning anything fresh.
On his return to Halford for lunch Tanner telephoned to Scotland Yard
for assistance, and it was arranged that Detective-Sergeant Longwell
should be sent down by the first train. The Inspector met him on his
arrival, and explained what he wanted done, showing him the casts of
the fifth man’s footsteps.
‘I want you,’ he said, ‘to find the man who made those tracks. You need
not mind about the Manor people, I shall attend to them. Get round the
country, and make inquiries in the neighbouring towns and villages.
Particularly work the railway stations and garages. The man will be
small, and of the working classes in all probability, and he will
certainly have had very wet and muddy boots and trousers on account of
walking through the stream. It’s not conclusive, but the fact that he
missed the stepping-stones by so great a distance, points to his being
a stranger to the locality. But in any case he shouldn’t be hard to
trace. Keep in touch with me through the Halford police station.’
That afternoon and the next morning the Inspector saw all the other
servants at Luce Manor, both indoor and out, but here again without
result. In the case of the men he took prints from their boots to
compare with those he had found on the river bank. This was a tedious
operation, involving troublesome explanations and reassurances, but at
last it was done, and Tanner was able to say with certainty that three
of the four men who had walked together were the butler, the valet,
and the gardener, while the tracks of the fifth man, who had stood in
the boathouse, were not made by anyone belonging to the estate. It was
probable, therefore, that this fifth man was concerned in the tragedy,
and Tanner was glad he had lost no time in setting Sergeant Longwell
to work to trace him.
In the afternoon the Inspector called at Austin’s villa, and
interviewed first Lady Ponson, and secondly Enid. Apologising
courteously for his intrusion, he questioned both ladies on all the
points about which he was in doubt, but once more without gaining any
fresh information. Both had noticed Sir William had not been quite up
to his usual form for a few days before their departure for London,
but both had put it down to some trifling physical indisposition, and
neither could throw light on any possible cause of worry to him. Asked
if he had an enemy who might have been giving him annoyance, they
emphatically negatived the suggestion, saying that as far as they knew
Sir William had been universally beloved. As they had been in London
on the night in question, they of course knew nothing of the actual
details of the tragedy.
Inspector Tanner was sure from the bearing and manner of both ladies
that they were telling him the absolute truth, and really were
ignorant of anything which might have been at the bottom of the
affair. They clearly were terribly shocked and distressed, and he made
his interview as short as possible.
The next day was Sunday, and, as he had mentioned to the valet, Tanner
determined to spend it in going over the late Sir William’s papers. He
brought the sergeant out to help him, and they were soon settled in
the library, immersed in their work. Tanner, seated at the big roll
top desk, went through paper after paper, while the sergeant, with the
keys found on the body, unlocked drawers and carried their contents to
the desk for his superior’s inspection. The work was tedious, but they
kept hard at it, and when after some time Parkes came into the room,
they found with surprise that it was nearly two o’clock.
‘What about a bite of lunch, gentlemen?’ the butler invited them. ‘I
should be pleased if you would join me.’
‘Very good of you, I’m sure, Mr Parkes,’ Tanner answered. ‘We’ll be
through in ten minutes.’
‘And have you found anything to help you?’ went on Parkes, running his
eye over the open safe and drawers.
‘Not a blessed thing. There’s not the slightest hint of anything out
of the common that I can see.’
‘Well, come to my room when you’re ready.’
On the previous day Parkes had shown the Inspector over the house, and
among other things Tanner had noticed large framed photographs of Sir
William, Austin, and Cosgrove. Before following the butler he slipped
up to the room in which these were hanging and, deftly removing the
frames, noted the photographer’s name. Then locking up the library
they went to lunch, soon afterwards taking their leave.
Though Tanner’s statement to Parkes that he had made no helpful
discovery among Sir William’s papers was true, he had noticed one
thing which had puzzled him. He had been turning over the blocks of
the dead man’s cheque book, and he had found that on the previous
Monday and Tuesday—the two days before the tragedy—Sir William had
written two cheques, both payable to self. That dated for the Monday
was for £100, and that for the Tuesday for no less a sum than £3000.
That the deceased should have required such sums immediately prior to
his murder was interesting and suggestive enough, but that was not
all. What had specially intrigued the Inspector’s imagination was the
fact that below the word ‘self’ was in each case one letter only—a
capital X. He looked back through the book, and in every other
instance found below the name the purpose for which the money was
required. These two sums must therefore have been for something so
private that it could be designated only by a sign. It was evidently
something quite definite, as the blocks of other cheques payable to
self bore such legends as ‘personal expenses,’ ‘visit to Edinburgh,’
and so on. What, the Inspector wondered, could it be?
Considerably interested, he went back through some of the completed
books, and at intervals he found other cheques bearing the same
mysterious sign. Without a real hope that it would lead him anywhere
he had set the sergeant to go back over all the blocks he could find,
and make a list of these X cheques, noting the date, number, and
amount. He found they had been drawn during a period of four years,
were all made out to self, and were all for even hundreds, all
excepting the last, varying from £400 down to £100. In all £4600 had
been paid.
It seemed to Inspector Tanner that there was here some secret in Sir
William’s life which might or might not be important. Was it gambling,
he wondered, or perhaps women? From what he had heard of the
deceased’s life and character both these suppositions seemed unlikely,
but, as he said to himself, you never know. He remembered that Innes
had stated Sir William had called at the bank on his way to the train
on the Monday morning, and he wondered if this was to cash the
cheques. He thought that some inquiries there would do no harm.
He went to the bank as soon as it opened next morning and saw the
manager. The cashier recollected Sir William’s visit on the previous
Monday. The deceased gentleman had, it appeared, cashed a cheque for
£100, and on comparing the number, Tanner found it was that belonging
to the X-marked block. He had been paid in Bank of England
fives—twenty of them. None of the officials could tell anything about
the £3000 cheque which apparently had not been cashed, nor indeed
about any of the other X cheques.
Tanner was anxious to learn something of the dead man’s history, see
his will, find out who would benefit by his death, and who, if anyone,
might have a grudge against him. He had discovered when going through
the papers on the previous day that Sir William’s lawyers were Messrs
Greer, Arbuthnot & Greer, of Lincoln’s Inn. To call on them,
therefore, seemed his next step. From the station he telephoned making
an appointment for two o’clock, then, taking the 10.55 a.m. train, he
went up to town.
He saw Mr Arbuthnot, a tall, rather stooped man with strongly marked,
clean-shaven features, a thick crop of lightish hair slightly shot
with grey, and a pair of very keen blue eyes. He bowed his visitor to
a chair.
‘We had your message, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I hope there is nothing
wrong. We look on you Scotland Yard gentlemen rather as stormy
petrels, you know.’ His face as he smiled lit up and became friendly
and human. Tanner took an instinctive liking to him.
‘I dare say you can guess my business, Mr Arbuthnot,’ he began. ‘It is
in connection with the sad death of Sir William Ponson.’
‘Yes?’
Tanner hesitated for a moment.
‘I think, sir,’ he said at last, ‘if you will treat what I am about to
say as confidential, I had better tell you the complication which has
arisen.’
Mr Arbuthnot nodded, and the Inspector went on.
‘You know the circumstances, of course, of Sir William’s death?
Everything seemed to point to an accident. Well, we are not so sure
about it. I am sorry to say there is a suspicion of foul play.’
The lawyer looked up sharply.
‘Foul play?’ he repeated. ‘Good Lord, I hope not!’
‘I’m afraid, sir, there is little doubt of it. The medical evidence
points in that direction at any rate.’
Mr Arbuthnot, it seemed, had been more than merely legal adviser to
the deceased gentleman. They had been close personal friends, and the
solicitor was profoundly shocked by Tanner’s news. It had the effect
of eliciting his warm sympathy with the Inspector’s efforts, and he
hastened to assure the latter of his cordial help and co-operation.
‘Tell me now,’ he concluded, ‘what I can do for you.’
Tanner thanked him, and went on:
‘I want you, sir, if you will be so kind, to tell me what you can
about Sir William—his history, his family, his money affairs, and so
on. May I ask first if you act for the remainder of the family?’
‘For Lady Ponson only.’
Tanner bowed, and Mr Arbuthnot, going to a press, took out a despatch
box labelled ‘Sir William Ponson,’ from which he removed some papers.
Consulting these from time to time for dates and names, he told the
Inspector the following history:
Sir William’s wealth and position, it appeared, had come from very
small beginnings. His father and mother, Mr Arbuthnot believed, had
died while he was quite young, leaving him and his brother John alone
in the world. He had got work as an office boy in a small iron-foundry
at Gateshead, where, owing to his extraordinary industry and energy,
he had worked himself up to the position of manager at the
comparatively early age of twenty-nine. Under his guidance the
concern, which for years had been moribund, had prospered amazingly,
and thirteen years later he was taken into partnership. This
consummation had been reached only six years when the former owner
died, leaving him in sole control. William then sought out his brother
John, who also had prospered, having worked himself up to the
chief-engineership of one of the large Cunarders. William took John
into partnership with the result that, the mechanical side of the work
being reorganised, the firm advanced still more rapidly, the two
brothers becoming wealthy men. William next turned his attention to
civic affairs. He was elected a member of Newcastle Corporation, and
during his time of office as mayor, he received his knighthood on the
occasion of a royal visit to the town. When Sir William was some sixty
years old his brother John died suddenly, and he, not caring to work
on alone, sold his interest in the firm, and moving south, purchased
Luce Manor, where he devoted his still abundant energies to
experiments in the application of machinery to farming.
With regard to his home life, Sir William, thought Mr Arbuthnot, had
been, in his later years at all events, a happy man. He had at the age
of thirty married a widow, a Mrs Ethel Dale. It was believed, though
Mr Arbuthnot could not vouch for it, that there had been quite a
romance about it. According to the generally accepted story, William
Ponson, then a clerk in the iron works, and Tom Dale, a traveller for
the same concern, had both loved the pretty Ethel Osborne, the
daughter of a doctor in the neighbourhood. Dale was outwardly a rather
fascinating personality, good looking, always well dressed, and with
attractive manners, though at heart he was a rotter. But the serious
and somewhat pompous young Ponson had failed to bring his more
sterling merits into prominence, with the result that the lady had
preferred his rival. She married Dale, and regretted it from the first
evening, when he returned drunk to the small seaside hotel at which
they were spending their honeymoon. Things went rapidly from bad to
worse. Dale continued drinking, they got into debt, and Ethel began to
fear her husband’s dismissal, and consequent poverty. Then, after some
three years of unhappiness, Dale was sent to Canada on the business of
the firm. He sailed on the _Numidian_, but off Newfoundland the ship
struck an iceberg, and turning turtle, went to the bottom in thirteen
minutes. There was an appalling casualty list, but to Mrs Dale it
meant release, for her husband’s name was among the drowned.
The lady was left in absolute destitution. Ponson managed to help her
anonymously, then after a couple of years he renewed his suit, and
some time later she capitulated and they were married. There had been
no children to her previous marriage, but now Austin and Enid Ponson
were born.
The two children were very different in disposition. While Enid,
sweet-tempered and charming, was beloved by all, and was her father’s
life and soul, Austin was somewhat difficult. When first he went to a
boarding school, it was a relief to all at home. From Rugby he
progressed to Cambridge, then, as the Inspector had already learnt, he
threw up his studies there and devoted himself to social and
entomological subjects. He had gone back at this time to his father’s
house at Gateshead, but the two rubbed each other up the wrong way,
and Sir William, making his son a handsome allowance, advised him to
live elsewhere. Austin had then taken the villa at Halford, amid
surroundings suitable to the pursuit of his hobbies.
‘But,’ explained Mr Arbuthnot, ‘you must not think from this Austin is
a man of bad or weak character. The separation was due purely to
incompatibility of temperament. Austin, so far as I know, is an
honourable, kindly man, and I have never heard of him doing a shady
thing. He is a hard worker too, and I believe has carried out some
quite valuable original research into the distribution of disease by
insects. Sir William recognised this, hence the allowance, and the
fact that, though they couldn’t pull together, they never really
quarreled.’
‘I rather gathered that from the way the servants spoke,’ Tanner
answered. ‘But there is another Ponson you haven’t
mentioned—Cosgrove.’
‘Cosgrove is the only child of Sir William’s brother John,
consequently he and Austin are first cousins. Cosgrove is the least
estimable member of the family. He was, I am afraid, a bit of a waster
from the first. He did badly at school, and was all but sent down from
college. His father kept some kind of control over him during his
life, but on his death he inherited a large sum of money, and I fear
it had the usual result. He now lives in bachelor quarters in
Knightsbridge, and is reported to be in a rather fast set. I happen to
know he has run through most of his money, and is now considerably
pinched. But he always got on well with Sir William. The old man liked
him, and passed over his follies as mere youthful indiscretions. I
think his disappointment in Austin rather drove him to make a friend
of Cosgrove, but of that of course I can’t be sure. He left Cosgrove a
good slice of his fortune at all events.’
‘That was the next thing, Mr Arbuthnot, I wished to ask you—about the
financial position of the various members of the family.’
‘Obviously, I can give you only very approximate figures. When the
death duties are paid I fancy Sir William’s capital will be worth
about £500,000 to his legatees. He has been up to the present allowing
Austin £1000 a year, and Miss Ponson and Cosgrove £500 each. His will
preserves the same proportion between them—Austin gets £150,000, and
Miss Ponson and Cosgrove £75,000 each, the remainder, about £200,000,
going to Lady Ponson.’
‘Suppose any of these four should die intestate?’
‘If that question should arise the deceased’s share is to be divided
between the survivors in the same proportions as was Sir William’s
money. It is a little complicated, but it would mean for example that
if Austin were to die without leaving a will, Lady Ponson would get
about £90,000 and Cosgrove and Enid £30,000 each of Austin’s
£150,000.’
‘Has Austin any means other than this £1000 a year?’
‘Not very much, I fancy. He has written a good deal on social and
scientific subjects, which must bring him in something, and he had a
legacy of £5000 from his Uncle John. But I don’t suppose he has more
than twelve or thirteen hundred a year.’
‘And Cosgrove? You do not know exactly how he is fixed financially?’
‘No, except that from his point of view he is in low water.’
‘Do you happen to know anything about a Miss Lois Drew of Halford?’
‘Yes,’ the lawyer returned with a grimace, ‘I do. The last day Sir
William was in here he was telling me about her. It appeared Austin
had been smitten by the young lady, and some rumours of it had reached
Sir William. He was extremely annoyed at the idea, because, though he
admitted that so far as he knew Miss Drew was personally all that
could be desired, her social standing was not good. Of course, you and
I may think that rather Victorian, but the old man had achieved so
many of his ambitions, he could not bear to see his last—that of
social position—thwarted. Indeed, he spoke of altering his will if the
matter came to a head.’
‘You didn’t know then that they are engaged?’
The lawyer seemed considerably surprised.
‘You don’t say so? No, I did not know. It was a rumour only Sir
William spoke of.’
‘Austin told me they fixed it up on Saturday week, but it is to be
kept private still.’
There seemed no question, then, about the cause of the quarrel.
Indeed, the more Tanner heard, the more essential the most searching
test of Austin’s alibi became.
‘There is just one other point, Mr Arbuthnot,’ the Inspector went on,
and he told the lawyer about the cheques, marked X. Upon these,
however, the latter could throw no light.
‘And you know of no one who had a quarrel with Sir William, or who for
any reason might desire his death?’
‘No one. Quite the opposite. Sir William was universally liked and
respected.’
Tanner was silent for a moment, considering if he had obtained all the
information he was likely to get from the solicitor. Deciding he had,
he rose.
‘Well, Mr Arbuthnot, let me express my gratitude for the way you have
met me. I am sorry for having been such a nuisance.’
‘All in the day’s work, Mr Tanner,’ the solicitor returned as he shook
hands and bowed his visitor out.
Tanner left Lincoln’s Inn, and after making a call at the Yard, took
the next train back to Halford.