Читать книгу THE CRIME AT TATTENHAM CORNER (Murder Mystery Classic) - Annie Haynes - Страница 6

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"I rang Sir Charles Stanyard up an hour ago, but he is not in town."

Inspector Stoddart was the speaker. He had been out for some time and had just returned. He was sitting before his desk in his room at Scotland Yard, and as he looked up at Harbord his expression was worried, troubled.

Harbord had also been out since early morning, pursuing a different line of investigation. He carried a small brown parcel, which he laid upon the inspector's desk. Stoddart did not take it up. Instead he sat back in his chair and drummed absently on the open flap of his desk as he looked up at Harbord.

"This case does not get any easier, Alfred."

"It does not, sir," his subordinate agreed with emphasis.

"I have just come from the lawyers, Weldon & Furnival of Spencer's Inn," Stoddart went on almost as if he were talking to himself, his eyes not looking at Harbord now, but staring straight in front of him at a map of Old London pasted on the wall opposite.

Harbord waited.

"Weldon & Furnival were Sir John's lawyers," Stoddart continued. "Weldon transacted most of the business. I went to get the paper Lady Burslem said Sir John signed when they came home, which he told her to take care of and which she had given to Mr. Weldon. Well, I had some trouble in persuading Mr. Weldon even to let me see it. He utterly declined to let me bring it away."

"But could he refuse?" Harbord questioned doubtfully.

"Not ultimately, of course. Still, he can put a good many difficulties in our way, as he did. But the point of the whole matter is this"—the inspector paused a moment, and then went on impressively—"that paper was a short will, drawn up apparently in Sir John's own handwriting, leaving everything of which he died possessed to his wife, appointing her sole executor and residuary legatee. His daughter—his only child—is not even mentioned."

"What an extraordinary thing!" Harbord exclaimed. "Why on earth should he make a new will at that time of night? Did he know he was in some danger?"

Stoddart nodded. "Exactly the questions I have been putting to myself, but I can find no answer to them. More especially as he had already made one will since his marriage with Miss Carlford. This former one was drawn up by Mr. Weldon. It left Lady Burslem and his daughter well provided for, but the bulk of his fortune was to be held in trust for any son that might be born to him. Only in the case of his second marriage, like his first, failing to provide him with an heir, was his property to be divided equally between Lady Burslem and his daughter Pamela and any other daughters he might have. It appears to be, on the face of it, a far more satisfactory arrangement, and the questions one cannot help asking oneself are: Why did he want to make a hurried fresh will in that last moment? And had he any reason to suppose that it was his last moment?"

"Could it have been a duel?" Harbord said in a puzzled tone.

"Hardly!" The inspector laughed satirically. "The duellist does not throw his dead opponent in a ditch and go off with his car. Besides, who would fight a duel in these days?

"I don't know," Harbord said in a befogged tone. Then, brightening up, "I beg your pardon, sir. Of course it was an idiotic suggestion. But this case so bristles with impossibilities that goodness knows what we shall come to before we have finished with it."

"I hope at any rate we shall keep our heads," the inspector said dryly. "This last will is witnessed by James, the second footman, and Ellerby, Sir John's man."

"It is a queer affair altogether," Harbord concluded, "and I'm afraid a little discovery I made down at Hughlin's Wood this morning will not throw any additional light on the matter."

The inspector pricked up his ears. "Discovery! What was it?"

"Well, I proceeded on the lines you suggested," Harbord went on, "and I have found a man who saw two cars, both two-seaters, coming from Oxley at a great pace towards Hughlin's Wood. Each of them had two occupants, a man and a woman. But he did not notice numbers or anything else that would help us to identify either of them. At last I began to think he had taken something that had made him see double. Finding I could make nothing more of him, I thought I would take another look at the ditch and its surroundings. On the other side of the ditch from the road, behind one of those old trees, I found this."

He took up the parcel he had brought in and carefully unwrapping it held up the contents.

The inspector stared. "What's that?"

"One of those wretched little handbags that women carry about and are always leaving behind them," Harbord explained. "And it has just got the usual rubbish they put in them, lip-stick, powder-puff, and what-not. But one thing that most of them haven't got is this."

He held out a betting slip—on it was scrawled in pencil:

"Put me a fiver on Peep o' Day, fiver each way on Perlyon."

"She wouldn't want to make bets after the race was run, would she? Particularly as Peep o' Day was scratched."

The inspector did not look impressed.

"No, but that might have been written out beforehand and forgotten."

"Of course it might," Harbord agreed with a crest-fallen air. "But nobody has had the chance to lay the bag where it was found since the murder. And the boys from the Beacon School had been playing rounders among the trees on that very afternoon of June 2nd. A couple of masters were with them, and both masters and boys agreed there was no bag there then. They say they could not have helped seeing it if there had been, as that particular tree was one of their goals."

The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "Umph! Pretty strong evidence that some woman was there on the evening or night of June 2nd. But it does not take us any further."

"No, perhaps not. But what do you make of this?"

Harbord dived into the bag again and brought out another bit of paper.

On it was scrawled in what looked like the same writing as that on the other: "Will probably leave Oxley a little after twelve. Should reach the Wood in ten minutes."

Stoddart knit his brows. "As I said before, it seems strong evidence that some person was lurking there on the night of the tragedy. But I suppose you don't suggest that the owner of this thing"—giving the bag a contemptuous flick—"waited there under the trees and took a pot-shot at Sir John Burslem as he passed in his car, then pulled him out and flung him into a ditch. Besides, you are forgetting when Sir John left Oxley soon after twelve he had his wife with him. He drove her home, drew up and signed his will after that. It was not until he went out again for some inexplicable reason and drove to Hughlin's Wood a second time that he met his death. But the owner of this bag must be traced. It is quite possible that she witnessed the murder, or at any rate knows something of the events that led up to it. The question is, How is this woman to be found? She must have heard of Sir John Burslem's death—the papers are full of nothing else—and she hasn't come forward. The inference is that she has some reason for her silence, and one can scarcely conceive that it is an innocent one."

"Hardly," Harbord assented. He waited silently while Stoddart stood up, took a pipe from the mantelpiece, filled it deliberately and then sat down while he lighted a match.

"There's no doubt a pipe does clear one's brain in a way that this rubbish you younger ones smoke doesn't touch," he said, throwing a cigarette-case over to Harbord. "Help yourself. They are Imperial Regent, quite a new brand, and not bad. So far as I can see, a journey to Oxley is the first thing indicated and a few inquiries as to any strangers who were seen in the neighbourhood that day, or who had made inquiries about Sir John Burslem or his projected visit. Somebody must have given the information away."

"Precisely. But—"

A tap at the door interrupted Harbord before he could finish his sentence. A man in undress uniform opened the door. "A young lady is asking to see the officials in charge of the Burslem case, sir."

"A young lady?" the inspector demanded sharply. "What young lady? What name did she give?"

"I asked her, sir. But she said you did not know her."

"Ask her again."

The man saluted and departed. Stoddart looked across at Harbord.

"Is this your mysterious lady of the Wood and the handbag?"

As he spoke the door opened. "Miss Burslem, sir—Miss Pamela Burslem."

"Sir John's daughter! Show her in at once," the inspector ordered. He drew in his lips as he looked across at Harbord.

Miss Burslem was ushered in in a moment—a tall, slim girl, in a short skirt and with the shingled hair of the period. She looked essentially modern. She glanced at Stoddart, who had risen and put his pipe down, and from him to Harbord.

"Which of you is in charge of the case?" she inquired abruptly. "The case of my father's murder I mean?"

"I am," Stoddart answered. "And Mr. Harbord," with a wave of his hand at the young man, "is my very capable and tried assistant."

"Oh!"

Miss Burslem took the chair nearest her. "Have you found out who is guilty?" she demanded unceremoniously.

"Not yet," the inspector said. "I understood that you were in Italy, otherwise—"

"So I was in Italy," Miss Burslem said abruptly. "You didn't expect me to stay there quietly when my father was murdered, I suppose?"

"No, but I was afraid that you might not have got home in time—"

"We are not living in the days of stage-coaches and sailing boats," the girl said scornfully. "I flew, of course. Reached Croydon this morning and motored straight on."

It was evident to the inspector at a glance that the girl was tired and overwrought. Unlike her stepmother, she did not look as if she had been crying. Instead, her grey eyes were bright, hard and tearless.

"But I will not rest until my father's murderer is punished," she cried impatiently, "and I can tell you who he is—Sir Charles Stanyard, and if my stepmother would speak the truth—"

"Hush! Hush! my dear young lady," the inspector said in real alarm. "Do you know that you might bring grave trouble upon yourself by making such a statement?"

"You mean that Stanyard might bring a libel against me?" Miss Burslem said more quietly. "Now, I am not going to turn hysterical on your hands. Don't be afraid. But"—she pressed her lips together and looked at him squarely in the face before she continued—"I mean my father's murderer to be found and brought to justice if I spend every penny I possess. That is why I came to you at once, as soon as I arrived. Don't think of expense; I am going to offer a reward—oh, a very big reward—the biggest perhaps that has ever been offered, to bring the guilt home—"

The inspector held up his hand. "Miss Burslem, everything will be done that can be done. As for money"—he shrugged his shoulders—"that will make no difference. Common justice for the rich as well as for the poor demands that Sir John's murderer should be found and punished. With regard to offering a reward, it may be useful. But I must tell you that no member of the police force is allowed to take it."

"Well, if you stand for British justice—" retorted Miss Burslem more equably. "Can't you see the whole thing? Lady Burslem was engaged to Sir Charles Stanyard when they never thought he would come in to the title and the estates. Then she met my father, who fell foolishly, madly in love with her. She threw over Captain Stanyard and married my father. Do you know that she was twenty-one and he was forty-two when she married him? Is it likely that she would care for him?" with the fine scorn of youth for middle age. "And my father's death meant heaps of money for Sir Charles Stanyard. It meant that Perlyon won the Derby instead of Peep o' Day, and they say he was on his colt to any amount. Oh, he knew Peep o' Day wouldn't run!"

"My dear young lady, do you think a man in Sir Charles Stanyard's position would willingly put his neck in a noose for the sake of a few thousand pounds?" Stoddart questioned impressively. "And there is another question: What would your father have said if he heard you bring such a charge?"

"I don't know!"

For one moment Pamela's composure threatened to give way. They could see her throat twitching painfully.

"I haven't seen so much of my father lately," she confessed. "Before his second marriage I was always with him. But since"—forlornly—"I don't think he has wanted me—much." She got up. "Well, that is all. I want to put you on the right track, to tell you to offer the biggest reward that has ever been offered for the discovery of the murderer."

After a moment's hesitation, she held out her hand to the inspector.

He took it in his for a moment.

"We will let you know when it is desirable to offer a reward, Miss Burslem. And in the meantime let me advise you to put all these lamentable ideas out of your head. Believe me, things will not turn out as you expect."

He opened the door and escorted her out of the building.

When he came back he looked at Harbord.

"Nice sort of young person, eh?"

Harbord waited a minute.

"Well, poor girl!" he said at last, "she is evidently overwrought and overstrained, but she has managed to pitch on the obvious clue, hasn't she?"

"She has, but to my mind the obvious clue is generally the wrong one," the inspector observed sententiously.

Meanwhile Pamela had dismissed her car; she felt that she must be alone to think—to try to realize this awful thing that had befallen her. She went to the Embankment and for a while stood watching the sluggish moving waters of the Thames, then almost without knowing what she was doing she turned to the right and in a few minutes found herself in St. James's Park. She was buried deep in thought when, just as she was about to cross one of the bridges, she suddenly collided with a young man coming along quickly from the opposite direction.

He raised his hat with a murmured apology; then stopped short with a sharp exclamation:

"You!"

Pamela stared at him.

"You!" she exclaimed blankly. "What are you doing here?"

The man laughed. He was a tall, fair young man, immaculately garbed and groomed.

"I live near here, don't you know, in Aldwyn Mansions. I am on my way home now. I have just come back from Epsom—looked out for you there, hoped I might see you—and now I meet you on my own doorstep as it were. I should like you to have seen the Derby this year."

"The Derby—don't talk of it!" Pamela's eyes filled with tears. "And Perlyon, I hate Perlyon; I would have done anything—anything to stop him winning."

"You would have liked to have stopped Perlyon winning? Why?"

Pamela did not beat about the bush. "Because Perlyon belongs to the man I dislike most on earth—Charles Stanyard."

The man laughed, his eyes dwelling on the fair, girlish face that had haunted his dreams for the past month.

"Why do you dislike Stanyard, poor beggar?"

"He is not a poor beggar at all," Pamela said decidedly. "He is a terrible man. He has taken care he is not poor. He has destroyed people's lives and happiness to make himself rich—" Her voice broke.

"What?" The man started violently. "Charles Stanyard has—You are getting at me. Do you know him?"

"No, and I don't mean to," Pamela returned uncompromisingly. "Do you?"

"Yes, I know him rather well," the man said after a moment's pause. "He is not up to much, I admit, but I don't see why you should hate him. I should have said he was a harmless sort of chap."

"Perhaps you would not say he was a harmless sort of chap if he had murdered your father!" Pamela retorted.

"Good Lord! murdered your father!" the man ejaculated. "What sort of a story have you got hold of? I know Charles Stanyard pretty well all through, and, whatever his sins may be, I can assure you he is no murderer."

"Well, I think he is, you see," Pamela returned icily. "Perhaps if it were your father he had killed it would make a difference?"

"But why on earth should Charles Stanyard kill your father?"

"Well, some people would tell you because Peep o' Day—"

"What! You don't mean that you are Sir John Burslem's daughter?"

"I am Pamela Burslem," returned the girl with a little air of dignity. "Ah, now you see why I say Sir Charles Stanyard killed my father!"

"On the contrary," the man said with a certain conviction in his tone, "I am quite positive that he did not!"

"Well, you can stick to your opinions and I can stick to mine!" Pamela finished. "Good-bye. I must go home, only"—with a quiver of her lower lip—"it is not home any longer." She turned away for a moment.

In a couple of strides the man had caught her up. "I cannot let you go like this. You don't know how I have thought of you—longed to meet you again ever since that night I danced with you. May I write to you?"

Just the faintest suspicion of one of Pamela's old dimples peeped out. "You forget that I don't know your name. I should not know who the letter came from."

"You don't know my name?" the man repeated in a dazed tone. "No, I was forgetting. My name is Richard Leyton—Dick my friends call me."