Cosgrove’s Trip North
On leaving Cosgrove Ponson, Inspector Tanner walked slowly up the
shady side of Regent Street, his mind still running on the statement
to which he had just listened. To test its truth was his obvious first
duty, and as he sauntered along he considered the quickest and most
thorough means of doing so. From the very nature of the story he felt
inclined to believe it. Too much independent testimony seemed to be
available for the alibi to be a fraud.
And if this was so, he, Tanner, was on the wrong track, and was
wasting time. He had already lost nearly a week over Austin, and all
the time he was working on these blind alleys the real scent was
getting cold. But as he reviewed the facts he had learnt, he felt he
could hardly have acted otherwise than as he had.
He considered Cosgrove’s statement point by point. Firstly, was it
true he could only have gone to Scotland on the night in question of
all others? In answer to this it should be easy to find out if he
really was at the Duchess of Frothingham’s on the same afternoon. Then
the missing of the train at King’s Cross must be known to several
persons—the clerk at the stationmaster’s office, the barmaid who sold
the cigars, as well possibly as the sleeping-car attendant, and the
telegraph-office clerk, and copies of the wires to Grantham and to
Montrose should be available. He was not sure that confirmation of
Cosgrove’s visit to the Empire would be obtainable, though some
attendant might have noticed him. But there should be ample proof of
his call on Miss Belcher at the Follies Theatre. Not only would there
be the testimony of Miss Belcher herself, but some of the many
attendants must almost certainly have seen him. Then, if Cosgrove was
not actually seen leaving London by the 10.30 p.m., he must have been
observed in that train at Grantham, where his luggage was handed in to
him. Finally, to ensure that he did not leave the train there and
return to Luce Manor, as well as to test the genuineness of the whole
journey, Tanner could see Colonel Archdale, the horse owner of
Montrose.
And then another point struck him. What, he wondered, were the precise
relations between Cosgrove Ponson and Miss Betty Belcher? From their
demeanour at the restaurant, they were certainly on pretty intimate
terms. In this case could Miss Belcher’s testimony to Cosgrove’s call
at the theatre be relied on? Here was what undoubtedly might be a flaw
in the alibi, and he felt he must handle this part of it with special
care.
As he reached this point in his cogitations he arrived at the goal of
his walk—a small but extremely fashionable tobacconist’s in Oxford
Street. Handing in his card, he asked to see the manager.
He was shown into a small, neatly-furnished office, and there after a
few minutes a tall young man in a grey frock coat joined him.
‘Hallo, Tony,’ said the Inspector when the door had closed.
The newcomer greeted his visitor breezily.
‘Why, Tanner, old son,’ he cried, ‘how goes it? You’re a stranger, you
are. And what’s blown you in today?’
‘Business as usual. I want your help.’
‘You bet your life! And when you want help you know the right place to
come. Tony B won’t see you left, eh?’
‘I know that. You’re not as bad as you look.’
The other winked slowly.
‘And what’s little Albert’s trouble this time?’ he asked.
‘Why this,’ Tanner answered, taking out his two little boxes and
shaking the cigarette ends on to the table. ‘I want to know what kind
of cigarettes these are, and when they were smoked.’
‘H’m. Think I’m a blooming crystal-gazer, do you? Or one of those
Zancigs—what do you call ’em?’
As he spoke he was examining the ends with a strong glass. Then he
smelt them, drew out a shred of tobacco from each and tasted it, and
finally picked them up and took them out of the room.
‘Sit tight, Albert,’ he remarked as he left, ‘and keep your little
hands out of mischief till daddy comes back.’
In a few minutes he re-entered and laid the ends down on the table
with beside them a whole cigarette of a dark yellow colour.
‘There you are, sonny,’ he announced. ‘All chips of the old block,
those are.’
‘And what are they?’ Tanner queried, examining the little brown tube
with interest.
‘Costly rubies, rich and rare,’ his friend assured him. ‘They’re what
we call “Muriquis,” and they’re made in Rio by a firm called Oliveira.
There ain’t many in this village, I tell you. Who are you trailing
now? Is it Henry Ford or only his Majesty the King?’
‘Neither,’ Tanner returned seriously, ‘it’s that Ponson case I’m on.’
‘Never heard of it. But Ponson knows his way about in cigarettes
anyway, you bet your life.’
‘And how long since they were smoked? Can you tell me that?’
‘Nope. Not Tony B. This one about an hour; this one about a week at a
guess. But don’t you take all you hear for gospel. I don’t know, as
the girl said when her lover proposed.’
Tanner, though more bored with his friend’s conversation every time he
met him, remained chatting for some minutes. The two men had been at
school together, and the Inspector kept up the acquaintanceship
because of the valuable information he frequently got on matters
connected with tobacco. But as soon as possible he took his leave,
breathing a sigh of relief when he found himself once more in the
street.
His interest was considerably aroused by the news he had just
received. The suspicions he had entertained of Cosgrove had been
somewhat lulled to rest by the latter’s story. But the fact that the
cigarette-end found in the boathouse at Luce Manor was of that same
rare kind which Cosgrove smoked revived all his doubts, and made him
more than ever resolved to test the alibi to the utmost limit of his
ability.
Before leaving Halford, Tanner had written to the photographers whose
names he had found on the prints in the drawing-room at Luce Manor,
ordering copies of Sir William’s, Austin’s, and Cosgrove’s
photographs. The studio was in Regent Street, and hailing a taxi,
Tanner drove there. The photographs were ready, and he put one of each
in his pocket. Also he selected prints of three or four other men as
like in appearance to the cousins as he could find. Then he went on to
the Duchess of Frothingham’s house in Park Lane.
He saw her Grace’s butler, and representing himself as a reporter on
the staff of a well-known society journal, asked for a list of the
guests present at the ‘At Home’ on the Wednesday of the murder,
discreetly insinuating that he was prepared to pay for the trouble
given. The addendum had the desired effect, and after a considerable
delay a copy of the list was in Tanner’s hands. A glance at it showed
Cosgrove’s name among the others, and a few judicious questions
established the fact that he had actually been present.
Once more in the street, Tanner looked at his watch. It was after six
o’clock.
‘A little dinner and then the Empire,’ he said to himself as he turned
into Piccadilly. He had decided his first step must be to apply to
those sources of information which could not possibly be interested in
Cosgrove’s affairs; afterwards, if need be, hearing what Miss Belcher
had to say on the same subject.
A couple of hours later he reached the Empire. Here he made exhaustive
inquiries, but without finding anyone who had seen his man. But he was
not greatly disappointed, as he had already realised that confirmation
of this part of the alibi was problematical, if not unlikely.
Returning to his taxi, he continued his journey till he reached King’s
Cross. It was just nine o’clock, and the great station was partially
deserted, there being a lull in the traffic about that hour. For the
first time that day Tanner felt cool, and he began to realise that he
was tired. But apart from the general urgency of his business, he
expected the persons he wished to see were on evening duty, and he
decided he must finish his inquiries then and there. He therefore went
to the stationmaster’s office, and sent in his card. A dark,
intelligent looking young man with an alert manner received him, and
to him Tanner explained his business.
‘I did hear something about it,’ the young man returned. ‘If you will
wait a moment I’ll make inquiries.’
He left the room, returning presently with a clerk.
‘Mr Williams here remembers the affair. He dealt with it. Tell this
gentleman what you know, Williams.’
‘On Wednesday evening, the 7th instant, about 7.20 or 25,’ began
Williams, ‘a man called at the office and said he had booked a berth
to Montrose on the 7.15 p.m., but that he had missed the train while
in the refreshment room. He said his suit-case and waterproof had gone
on in the train, and he asked what I would advise him to do.’
‘That’s the man,’ said Tanner, nodding. ‘Yes?’
‘I told him the trains. The next to Montrose was the 10.30 p.m., and
his mistake only meant that he would reach there at 8.24 a.m. instead
of 5.25. But it seemed he wanted to arrive early, and I mentioned the
8.30 p.m. which runs from here to Dundee, suggesting he could go on by
car. But on going into it he decided even this would be too late, and
said he would travel on the 10.30. With regard to his luggage I
offered to wire Grantham, which is the first stop of both the 7.15
p.m. and the 10.30, to have it collected from the sleeping car on the
7.15 p.m., and put into the 10.30. He agreed to this, and I sent the
telegram at once.’
‘Would you know the man if you saw him again?’
‘Yes, I believe I should.’
‘Any of these he?’ and Tanner handed over the half-dozen photographs.
The clerk instantly passed over Sir William’s and those of the
strangers, then he examined Austin’s for some moments with a puzzled
expression, but when he came to Cosgrove’s he hesitated no longer.
‘That’s the man,’ he said, repeating Tanner’s words of a moment
before, ‘I should know him anywhere.’
‘So far so good,’ thought Tanner as he stepped out once more on to the
concourse. ‘Now for the refreshment room.’
He found the platform from which the 7.15 had started on the night in
question, and looked about him. There was little doubt as to where
Cosgrove had gone for his cigars. On the platform itself was a large
sign ‘First-Class-Refreshment Room.’ The Inspector pushed open the
door and entered.
‘Good evening,’ he said, raising his hat politely to the presiding
goddess. ‘I want a few cigars, please.’
‘I have only these,’ the girl answered, placing two partially emptied
boxes before him.
Tanner examined them.
‘I am not much of a judge,’ he informed her, ‘but these look the
lighter. I’ll have half a dozen, please. That is,’ he went on with a
whimsical glance at the clock, ‘if it’s safe.’
The barmaid looked at him as if she thought he was crazy, but she did
not speak and Tanner explained:
‘A friend of mine had an experience here the other night buying
cigars, so he told me. He missed his train over the head of it. I was
wondering if I should do the same.’
A light seemed to dawn on the girl. She laughed.
‘I remember your friend. I couldn’t help smiling, but I was sorry for
him too. He came in here and chose a dozen cigars, and then he looked
up and saw the clock.
‘“Your clock’s fast,” he says.
‘“I _don’t_ think,” I says, and with that he hooked it out of the
door, fair running, and all the cigars lying on the counter. I
couldn’t but laugh at him.’
‘But _he_ didn’t laugh, for he missed his train,’ prompted Tanner.
‘Oh, he missed his train right enough. He came back and showed me his
watch—three minutes slow. But he got his cigars all right.’
Tanner took Austin’s photograph from his pocket, and glancing at it
casually, passed it to the girl.
‘He’s a good old sport, he is,’ he announced, ‘but to look at him
there you wouldn’t think butter would melt in his mouth. What do you
say?’
The girl wrinkled her pretty eyebrows.
‘But that isn’t the man,’ she exclaimed.
Tanner took the card.
‘I’m a blooming idiot,’ he said. ‘I’ve shown you the wrong photo. This
was the one I meant.’ He handed over the print of Cosgrove.
‘Why, yes,’ the girl answered unhesitatingly. ‘That’s him and no
mistake.’
‘He’s a good soul enough,’ went on Tanner, ‘but he was very sick about
that train, I can tell you.’
They conversed for a few moments more as the Inspector lit one of his
purchases. Then with a courteous ‘Goodnight,’ he left the bar.
Whatever else might be true or false in Cosgrove’s statement, thought
Tanner, it was at least bed rock that he had missed the 7.15 train as
he had said. The thing now to be ascertained was whether he really had
travelled by the 10.30.
By dint of persistent inquiries the Inspector found a number of the
men who had been on duty when that train left. But here he was not so
successful. No one so far as he could learn had seen Cosgrove.
But this was not surprising. Tanner could not and did not expect
confirmation from these men. They had had no dealings with Cosgrove
which would have attracted their attention to him. The point could be
better tested at Grantham, where whoever gave him his luggage should
remember the circumstance.
Inspector Tanner glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to ten. Why,
he thought, when he was so far, should he not carry the thing through
right then? He looked up the time tables. A train left at 10.00 p.m.
for Grantham, arriving at 12.28. The 10.30 p.m., following, reached
the same station ten minutes later, proceeding at 12.43. If he went by
the 10.00 he would have fifteen minutes at Grantham to make inquiries,
and he could go on by the 10.30 to Montrose and interview Colonel
Archdale. And if fifteen minutes proved insufficient for his Grantham
business he could sleep there, and go on in the morning.
Five minutes later he was in the train. Though, compared to that
following, it was a slow train, it only made four stops—at Hatfield,
Hitchin, Huntingdon and Peterborough. A minute before time it drew up
at Grantham.
Here Tanner had even less difficulty than at King’s Cross. An official
at the stationmaster’s office remembered the episode of the telegram,
and was able in a few seconds to find the porter to whom he had
entrusted the matter. This man also clearly recollected the
circumstances and unhesitatingly identified Cosgrove from his
photograph.
‘Just tell me what occurred when you met Mr Ponson, will you?’ asked
Tanner.
‘Well, sir,’ the man answered, ‘I was going along the train with ’is
bag and coat, and ’e comes out of a first-class carriage bare ’eaded,
and when ’e sees the bag ’e says, “that’s my bag, porter,” ’e says,
and ’e gives ’is name. “Shove it in ’ere,” ’e says. ’E ’ad ’is ’at on
the seat for to keep ’is place, and that’s all I knows about it.’
The confirmation seemed so complete that Tanner was tempted to return
to town instead of taking the long journey to Montrose. But before
everything he was thorough. He had paid too dearly in the past for
taking obvious things for granted. In this case every point must be
tested.
Soon, therefore, he was moving slowly out of Grantham on his way
north. He had not been able to get a sleeping berth, but he made
himself as comfortable as possible in the corner of a first-class
compartment, and there he slept almost without moving till the bustle
at Edinburgh aroused him. Here a restaurant car was attached, and
shortly after Tanner moved in and breakfasted.
At Montrose he went to a barber’s and was shaved, then, hiring a car,
he was driven out to the training stables.
Colonel Archdale was an elderly man of a school Tanner had imagined
was extinct—short, red-faced and peppery, and dressed in a check suit
and riding breeches. The Inspector had called at the house, a low,
straggling building of the bungalow type, but had been sent on to find
its master at the stables, half a mile distant.
‘Mornin’,’ the Colonel greeted him, as Tanner handed him his card and
asked for a few moments conversation. ‘Certainly, I’ll go up to the
house with you in a minute.’
‘I shouldn’t, sir, dream of troubling you so far,’ Tanner assured him.
‘Besides, it is not necessary. A minute or two here when you are
disengaged is all I want.’
‘Be gad, sir, you’re modest. Comin’ all the way from London for a
minute or two,’ and calling out some directions to a groom, he led the
way into a kind of small office at the end of the stable.
‘Well, sir,’ he said as he seated himself before a small roll top
desk, and pointed to a chair, ‘and what can I do for you?’
‘I am engaged, sir,’ Tanner answered, ‘in making some confidential
inquiries into the movements of a man, who, I understand, was recently
here—Mr Cosgrove Ponson of London.’
‘He was here’—the Colonel hesitated a moment—‘this day week. And what
the devil has he been doin’?’
‘Nothing, sir, so far as we know. It is the case of another man
altogether, but it is necessary for us to know if Mr Ponson really was
out of London on that day.’
‘Well I’ve told you he was here. Is that evidence enough?’
‘Quite, sir, as far as that goes. But I would like also to know some
details to assure myself if his business here was genuine. What was
his business, if I might ask?’
‘You may ask and I’ll tell you too, be gad. He wanted to see Sir
Jocelyn, that’s a three-year-old I’m goin’ to sell. Devilish good bit
of horseflesh too. But he wouldn’t stretch to my figure. I wanted
seven hundred, and he would only go five fifty. So it was no deal.’
‘He came about this time in the morning, I suppose?’
‘Yes, and a confoundedly silly time it was to come. He was to have
been here at six for the morning exercise, but he missed his train, so
he said, in London.’
‘I understood so from him. Just one question more, sir. When was the
arrangement about his visit made?’
‘Some days before; I think it was on Monday evening I got his wire
asking would Thursday suit me.’
‘This is the man you mean, I presume?’ and Tanner took out Cosgrove’s
photograph.
The colonel nodded as he answered: ‘That’s he.’
‘And there was nothing, sir, in the whole episode that seemed to you
suspicious or otherwise than it appeared on the surface?’
‘Not a thing.’
Tanner rose.
‘Allow me then, sir, to express my thanks for your courtesy. That is
all I want to know.’
Declining an invitation to go up to the house for a drink—‘too
devilish risky to keep it here, be gad’—he returned to Montrose and
looked up the trains to London. There was one at 2.29 which,
travelling by Edinburgh and Carlisle, reached St Pancras at 6.30 the
following morning. This, he decided, would suit him admirably, and
when it came in he got on board.
As he sat a little later gazing out on to the smiling Fifeshire
country, he went over once more, point by point, that portion of
Cosgrove’s alibi which he had already checked. So far as he had gone
it certainly seemed to him very complete. In the first place, not only
was the journey north made with, so far as he could ascertain, a quite
genuine purpose, but the selection of that particular night was
reasonably accounted for. The arrangement for it had been made at
least as early as the previous Monday, which, again, would be a
reasonable time in advance. Tanner could see nothing in any way
suspicious or suggestive of a plant about the whole business.
Then, coming to details, the missing of the train at King’s Cross
might of course have been faked, but there was no evidence to support
such a supposition. On the contrary, everything he had learnt seemed
to prove it genuine. But even if it had been a plant, it was
demonstrated beyond a shadow of doubt that Cosgrove _had_ missed the
7.15 p.m. as he said, and that, further, he _had_ travelled to
Montrose by the 10.30. Even as the case stood Tanner felt bound to
accept the alibi, but if he could confirm Cosgrove’s statement of his
visit to his rooms at 7.45 or 8 o’clock, and to the Follies about
10.00, any last shred of doubt that might remain must be dispelled.
This, he decided, would be his next task.
The following morning, therefore, he returned to Knightsbridge. Here,
keeping his eye on Cosgrove’s door, he strolled about for nearly an
hour before he was rewarded by seeing it open and Cosgrove emerge and
disappear towards Piccadilly. He allowed some ten minutes more to
elapse, then he walked to the door and rang. It was opened by the same
dark, clean-shaven butler who had admitted him before. The man
recognised his visitor, evidently with suspicion.
‘Mr Reginald Willoughby, the Albany?’ he asked with sarcasm, and a
thinly veiled insolence in his tone.
‘That’s all right,’ Tanner answered easily. ‘I know my name is not
Willoughby. It’s Tanner’—he handed over his real card—‘and if you’ll
invite me in for a moment or two I’ll show you my credentials so that
you’ll have no more doubt.’
The butler was evidently impressed, and proffering the suggested
invitation, led the way to a small sitting room.
‘Mr Ponson he phoned the Albany,’ he explained, ‘and they said there
weren’t no one of that name there, so we was wondering about your
little game.’
Tanner, following his usual custom, rapidly sized up his man, and
decided how he should deal with him. With the veneer of his calling
removed the Inspector imagined he might prove a braggart, a bully, and
a coward. He therefore took a strong line.
‘I suppose you know,’ he began, without heeding the other’s remark,
‘that Mr Cosgrove Ponson is under serious suspicion of the murder of
his uncle, Sir William, at Luce Manor?’
It was evident this was the last thing the butler had expected to
hear. He stared at the Inspector in amazement.
‘Lord lumme!’ he stammered, ‘is that a fact?’
‘That’s a fact,’ Tanner went on sharply, ‘and I want some information
from you. And let me advise you to give it to me correctly, for if you
don’t you may find yourself in the Old Bailey charged as an accessory
after the fact.’
The man blenched, and Tanner felt that the estimate he had made of his
character was correct.
‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ he growled sulkily.
‘Oh yes, you do. Mr Ponson told me he spent that Wednesday night here,
or a part of it anyway. Is that true?’
Tanner had set his little trap to learn whether the butler had been
primed with a story by Cosgrove. His victim did not answer for a time.
Clearly a struggle was going on in his mind. Then at last he said,
‘Has Mr Cosgrove been arrested?’
The question still further bore out the estimate Tanner had made of
the man’s character. The Inspector could follow the thought which had
prompted it. If the butler was to continue uninterruptedly in his
master’s service, he would rather not have the latter know he had
given him away, but if Cosgrove was already in custody he would keep
on the safe side and tell the truth. Tanner did not assist him to a
conclusion.
‘Never you mind that. You concentrate on avoiding arrest yourself.
Now, will you answer my question?’
After some further urging the statement came. Cosgrove had not spent
the evening in his rooms. He had left about 6.45 to catch the 7.15 at
King’s Cross, but he had returned unexpectedly in about an hour. He
told the butler he had missed his train, and was travelling by a later
one. He had gone out again, almost at once, and the butler had not
seen him for two days.
Tanner asked several searching questions, and ended up completely
satisfied that the man was telling the truth. There was no doubt
whatever that Cosgrove’s story was true in this particular also.
There now remained to be checked only the matter of his visit to the
Follies, and though Tanner was not certain of the necessity for this,
his habit of thoroughness again asserted itself, and he drove to the
theatre. There he learnt that there was no rehearsal that forenoon,
and he went straight on to Chelsea. His ring at the actress’s flat was
answered by a smartly dressed maid, to whom he handed his card, asking
for an interview with her mistress.
The girl disappeared and in a few moments returned.
‘Miss Belcher will see you now, sir.’
He was ushered into a small drawing-room, charmingly furnished in pale
blue, with white enamelled woodwork. The chairs were deep and
luxurious though elegant, the walls panelled with silk and bearing a
few good monochrome drawings, while on the dark polished floor were
thick and, as the Inspector knew, costly rugs. But though everything
in the room was dainty, its outstanding feature was its roses. Roses
were everywhere, massed in great silver bowls and rare old cut-glass
vases.
‘It’s a rose case,’ thought the Inspector whimsically, as he recalled
that in two other sitting rooms he had had to visit—those of Miss Lois
Drew and Cosgrove Ponson—he had found the same decoration, though in
neither case with the same prodigal liberality as here.
He waited for over half an hour and then the door opened and Miss
Belcher appeared.
Seeing her full face in the light from the window, he realised her
beauty as he had not done in the restaurant. Though she was
slightly—Tanner thought comfortable looking, though jealous people
might have used the word stout—her features were so delicately
moulded, her little, pouting mouth so daintily suggestive of dimples,
her light blue eyes so large and appealing, her complexion so creamy,
and above all and crowning all, her hair, so luxuriant and of so
glorious a shade of red gold, that he began to understand the position
she held in the popular favour. She was dressed in a garment which
Tanner imagined was a _négligé_, a flowing robe of light-blue silk
trimmed with the finest lace, beneath which peeped out the tiny toe of
a gilt slipper.
Tanner bowed low.
‘I beg you to pardon this intrusion, madame,’ he said, ‘but my
business is both serious and urgent.’
Without speaking, the actress sank gracefully into a luxurious
arm-chair, indicating with a careless wave of her arm a seat for the
Inspector in front of her. He obeyed her gesture and continued:
‘I have been ordered, madame, to make an investigation into the death
of the late Sir William Ponson of Luce Manor, not far from Luton. I
understand that you are acquainted with his nephew, Mr Cosgrove
Ponson?’ His hostess nodded, still without speaking. Tanner thought
her manner unnecessarily ungracious, and determined to give a hint of
the iron which lurked beneath his velvet exterior.
‘I deeply regret to have to inform you that there is reason to believe
Sir William was murdered, and that grave suspicion rests on Mr
Cosgrove.’
This time the mask of indifference was pierced.
‘But how perfectly outrageous,’ the lady cried, a flicker of anger
passing over her expressive face, ‘and stupid and cruel as well. How
dare you come here and tell me such a thing?’
‘Because I think you may help me to clear him. Please consider the
facts. The medical evidence shows Sir William was murdered some time
after 8.30 on the evening of Wednesday week. We know that Mr Cosgrove
Ponson was financially in low water—in fact, was in debt for a very
large sum, and under threat of exposure and ruin unless he paid up. We
know also he benefited to a considerable extent under Sir William’s
will. Further, in the boathouse from which Sir William’s body was set
adrift, a cigarette end was found—one of a peculiar brand, but little
smoked in England, but which Mr Ponson continually uses, and lastly,
and this is what brings me to you today, Mr Ponson has been unable to
account satisfactorily for his time on the evening in question. He
says he was with you from 8.30 till 9.00, and what I want to ask you
is, Can we get proof of that? I think you will appreciate that proof
of that means proof of his innocence.’
Tanner had been unobtrusively watching his companion while he spoke,
and her demeanour interested him keenly. While he was recounting the
medical evidence and Cosgrove’s financial position she had listened
perfunctorily, as if bored by such trifles being brought to her
notice. But when he mentioned the cigarette she started and a look
first of fear and then of anger showed momentarily in her eyes. It
seemed to Tanner she might have so acted if she knew Cosgrove was
guilty—as if she was aware of and prepared for all he had to say
except this about the cigarette, and that her anger was against
Cosgrove for having smoked under such circumstances. She did not speak
for some moments, and Tanner felt instinctively she had seen his
little trap, and was considering a way out. At last she appeared to
come to a conclusion, and replied in a quiet voice:
‘What Mr Ponson has told you is quite true, or at least almost. He was
at my room at the Follies for about half an hour that evening, but not
quite at the hour you have mentioned. He came about half-past nine,
and left at ten. I know the time because it is the only period in that
play during which I am off the stage.’
She had avoided his trap anyway, and her answer confirmed Cosgrove’s
story. But Tanner recognised he was dealing with a very clever woman,
and he was by no means so convinced of the truth of her statement as
he was of that of the butler. He went on:
‘Obviously, madame, if we have to go before a jury the more
corroborative evidence we can get the better. Now, are there any other
persons who might have seen Mr Ponson at the theatre, and who could be
called to add their testimonies?’
‘I don’t know if anyone else actually saw Mr Ponson,’ she answered,
‘but I should think it likely. Probably the door-keeper did, or one of
the other men. Have you made inquiries?’
‘No, madame. Not yet.’
‘Well, you had better do so,’ and she got up to indicate that the
interview was at an end.
Tanner found himself in the street with a baffled feeling of having
handled the interview badly. But it was at least obvious that the
lady’s advice was good, and somewhat ruefully he drove back to the
Follies.
Here he made exhaustive inquiries, but without any very satisfactory
result. The stage door-keeper knew Cosgrove, and said he was a
frequent visitor to Miss Belcher. He remembered he had come two or
three evenings in the week in question at about 9.30, and stayed with
the actress for about half an hour. But he could not be sure whether
or not Wednesday was one of these evenings. Three or four other
attendants had also seen him, but in no case had there been anything
to attract their attention to him, and none of them could say on what
nights he had been there. But Tanner had to admit to himself that he
could hardly expect such information from persons who were not
interested in Cosgrove’s visit.
But on another point he got positive information. His inquiries
established the fact that on the Wednesday night of the murder Miss
Belcher had been on the stage at 9.15. She therefore could not have
been masquerading as Mrs Franklyn’s servant at the Old Ferry.
On the whole the Inspector felt that, in spite of his momentary
suspicion of Miss Belcher’s manner, he must fully accept the alibi.
The evidence of Cosgrove’s missing the 7.15 p.m. train, and travelling
by the 10.30 was overwhelming. The butler’s corroboration of his
master’s return to Knightsbridge was convincing. Though Tanner was not
so sure of Miss Belcher’s statement, it at least agreed with
Cosgrove’s. Further, the lady had not fallen into Tanner’s little trap
about the hour of the call and had disagreed with what he told her
Cosgrove had said.
Then another point struck him. Cosgrove was at Knightsbridge between
7.45 and 8.00, and at King’s Cross at 10.30. Was this evidence alone
not sufficient? Would it have been possible for him to have visited
Luce Manor in the interval? Suppose he had used a fast motor and gone
by road?
Tanner did not think it could have been done. From London to Halford
was thirty-five miles, and there and back made seventy. What speed
could he reckon on? Considering how much of London would have to be
traversed, and the amount of traffic to be expected on so important a
road, Tanner felt sure not more than an average of thirty miles an
hour at the outside. This would take two hours and twenty minutes at
least, leaving from ten to twenty minutes. The motor never would have
risked going up to Luce Manor, as it would have been heard—in fact, no
motor did so. That meant that ten minutes must have been spent in
going from the road to the boathouse, and another ten in returning.
This even if it could be done at all, would leave no time in which to
commit the murder, get out the boat and set the body and the oars
adrift. Tanner considered it carefully, and at last came to the
conclusion the thing would be utterly impossible. Indeed, he did not
believe that an average of thirty miles an hour could be maintained.
No, the alibi was complete. He felt he must unhesitatingly accept it.
Inspector Tanner was a depressed man as he walked slowly back to New
Scotland Yard. Up to the present he saw that he had been on the wrong
track—that all his time and trouble had been lost. He was now as far
off solving the mystery, as when he started the inquiry, indeed
further, for the real scent must now be cooler.
And Sergeant Longwell had been almost equally unsuccessful in his
endeavour to trace the man who had made the fifth line of footprints
on the river bank. With occasional assistance from Tanner the sergeant
had made exhaustive inquiries in all the surrounding country, but
without result. The only thing he had learnt which might have had a
bearing on the matter was that a small, elderly man with a white
goatee beard had taken the 5.47 a.m. train from St Albans to London,
on the morning of the discovery of the crime. From Halford to St
Albans was about fifteen miles, and Longwell’s theory was that this
man—if he were the suspect—had walked during the night to St Albans,
thinking that at a large station a considerable distance from Luce
Manor he would be more likely to escape observation. But there was no
real reason to connect this early traveller with the visitor to the
boathouse. His boots had not been observed. But even if it had been
proved that he was indeed the wanted man, the detectives were no
further on. For the traveller had vanished into thin air at St Albans,
and no trace of him could be found either in London or anywhere else.
That day a note was received at the Yard from the Chief Constable at
Halford, urging that, unless there was some strong reason for its
further adjournment, the inquest should be completed. The delay, it
was pointed out, was objectionable for several reasons, as well as
being needlessly trying to the family. Rather bitterly Tanner wired
his consent to the proposal, and later in the afternoon there was a
message that the adjourned inquiry would take place at 12.00 noon next
day, Saturday.