Читать книгу The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 8

It was the morning after the tragedy, and two men were standing in the little study of Hazelmoor.

Inspector Narracott looked round him. A little frown appeared upon his forehead.

‘Ye-es,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Ye-es.’

Inspector Narracott was a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persistence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him success where many another man might have failed.

He was a tall man with a quiet manner, rather far-away grey eyes, and a slow soft Devonshire voice.

Summoned from Exeter to take charge of the case, he had arrived on the first train that morning. The roads had been impassable for cars, even with chains, otherwise he would have arrived the night before. He was standing now in Captain Trevelyan’s study having just completed his examination of the room. With him was Sergeant Pollock of the Exhampton police.

‘Ye-es,’ said Inspector Narracott.

A ray of pale wintry sunshine came in through the window. Outside was the snowy landscape. There was a fence about a hundred yards from the window and beyond it the steep ascending slope of the snow-covered hillside.

Inspector Narracott bent once more over the body which had been left for his inspection. An athletic man himself, he recognized the athlete’s type, the broad shoulders, narrow flanks, and the good muscular development. The head was small and well set on the shoulders, and the pointed naval beard was carefully trimmed. Captain Trevelyan’s age, he had ascertained, was sixty, but he looked not much more than fifty-one or two.

‘Ah!’ said Sergeant Pollock.

The other turned on him.

‘What is your view of it?’

‘Well—’ Sergeant Pollock scratched his head. He was a cautious man, unwilling to advance further than necessary.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘as I see it, sir, I should say that the man came to the window, forced the lock, and started rifling the room. Captain Trevelyan, I suppose, must have been upstairs. Doubtless the burglar thought the house was empty—’

‘Where is Captain Trevelyan’s bedroom situated?’

‘Upstairs, sir. Over this room.’

‘At the present time of year it is dark at four o’clock. If Captain Trevelyan was up in his bedroom the electric light would have been on, the burglar would have seen it as he approached this window.’

‘You mean he’d have waited.’

‘No man in his senses would break into a house with a light in it. If anyone forced this window—he did it because he thought the house was empty.’

Sergeant Pollock scratched his head.

‘Seems a bit odd, I admit. But there it is.’

‘We’ll let it pass for the moment. Go on.’

‘Well, suppose the Captain hears a noise downstairs. He comes down to investigate. The burglar hears him coming. He snatches up that bolster arrangement, gets behind the door, and as the Captain enters the room strikes him down from behind.’

Inspector Narracott nodded.

‘Yes, that’s true enough. He was struck down when he was facing the window. But all the same, Pollock, I don’t like it.’

‘No, sir?’

‘No, as I say, I don’t believe in houses that are broken into at five o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘We-ell, he may have thought it a good opportunity—’

‘It is not a question of opportunity—slipping in because he found a window unlatched. It was deliberate house-breaking—look at the confusion everywhere—what would a burglar go for first? The pantry where the silver is kept.’

‘That’s true enough,’ admitted the Sergeant.

‘And this confusion—this chaos,’ continued Narracott, ‘these drawers pulled out and their contents scattered. Pah! It’s bunkum.’

‘Bunkum?’

‘Look at the window, Sergeant. That window was not locked and forced open! It was merely shut and then splintered from the outside to give the appearance of forcing.’

Pollock examined the latch of the window closely, uttering an ejaculation to himself as he did so.

‘You are right, sir,’ he said with respect in his voice. ‘Who’d have thought of that now!’

‘Someone who wishes to throw dust in our eyes—and hasn’t succeeded.’

Sergeant Pollock was grateful for the ‘our’. In such small ways did Inspector Narracott endear himself to his subordinates.

‘Then it wasn’t burglary. You mean, sir, it was an inside job.’

Inspector Narracott nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The only curious thing is, though, that I think the murderer did actually enter by the window. As you and Graves reported, and as I can still see for myself, there are damp patches still visible where the snow melted and was trodden in by the murderer’s boots. These damp patches are only in this room. Constable Graves was quite positive that there was nothing of the kind in the hall when he and Dr Warren passed through it. In this room he noticed them immediately. In that case it seems clear that the murderer was admitted by Captain Trevelyan through the window. Therefore it must have been someone whom Captain Trevelyan knew. You are a local man, Sergeant, can you tell me if Captain Trevelyan was a man who made enemies easily?’

‘No, sir, I should say he hadn’t an enemy in the world. A bit keen on money, and a bit of a martinet—wouldn’t stand for any slackness or incivility—but bless my soul, he was respected for that.’

‘No enemies,’ said Narracott thoughtfully.

‘Not here, that is.’

‘Very true—we don’t know what enemies he may have made during his naval career. It’s my experience, Sergeant, that a man who makes enemies in one place will make them in another, but I agree that we can’t put that possibility entirely aside. We come logically now to the next motive—the most common motive for every crime—gain. Captain Trevelyan was, I understand, a rich man?’

‘Very warm indeed by all accounts. But close. Not an easy man to touch for a subscription.’

‘Ah!’ said Narracott thoughtfully.

‘Pity it snowed as it did,’ said the Sergeant. ‘But for that we’d have had his footprints as something to go on.’

‘There was no one else in the house?’ asked the Inspector.

‘No. For the last five years Captain Trevelyan has only had one servant—retired naval chap. Up at Sittaford House a woman came in daily, but this chap, Evans, cooked and looked after his master. About a month ago he got married—much to the Captain’s annoyance. I believe that’s one of the reasons he let Sittaford House to this South African lady. He wouldn’t have any woman living in the house. Evans lives just round the corner here in Fore Street with his wife, and comes in daily to do for his master. I’ve got him here now for you to see. His statement is that he left here at half past two yesterday afternoon, the Captain having no further need for him.’

‘Yes, I shall want to see him. He may be able to tell us something—useful.’

Sergeant Pollock looked at his superior officer curiously. There was something so odd about his tone.

‘You think—’ he began.

‘I think,’ said Inspector Narracott deliberately, ‘that there’s a lot more in this case than meets the eye.’

‘In what way, sir?’

But the Inspector refused to be drawn.

‘You say this man, Evans, is here now?’

‘He’s waiting in the dining-room.’

‘Good. I’ll see him straight away. What sort of a fellow is he?’

Sergeant Pollock was better at reporting facts than at descriptive accuracy.

‘He’s a retired naval chap. Ugly customer in a scrap, I should say.’

‘Does he drink?’

‘Never been the worse for it that I know of.’

‘What about this wife of his? Not a fancy of the Captain’s or anything of that sort?’

‘Oh! no, sir, nothing of that kind about Captain Trevelyan. He wasn’t that kind at all. He was known as a woman hater, if anything.’

‘And Evans was supposed to be devoted to his master?’

‘That’s the general idea, sir, and I think it would be known if he wasn’t. Exhampton’s a small place.’

Inspector Narracott nodded.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing more to be seen here. I’ll interview Evans and I’ll take a look at the rest of the house and after that we will go over to the Three Crowns and see this Major Burnaby. That remark of his about the time was curious. Twenty-five past five, eh? He must know something he hasn’t told, or why should he suggest the time of the crime so accurately?’

The two men moved towards the door.

‘It’s a rum business,’ said Sergeant Pollock, his eye wandering to the littered floor. ‘All this burglary fake!’

‘It’s not that that strikes me as odd,’ said Narracott, ‘under the circumstances it was probably the natural thing to do. No—what strikes me as odd is the window.’

‘The window, sir?’

‘Yes. Why should the murderer go to the window? Assuming it was someone Trevelyan knew and admitted without question, why not go to the front door? To get round to this window from the road on a night like last night would have been a difficult and unpleasant proceeding with the snow lying as thick as it does. Yet there must have been some reason.’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Pollock, ‘the man didn’t want to be seen turning in to the house from the road.’

‘There wouldn’t be many people about yesterday afternoon to see him. Nobody who could help it was out of doors. No—there’s some other reason. Well, perhaps it will come to light in due course.’