Читать книгу Murder in Four Degrees: Being Entry Number Two in the Case-book of Ronald Camberwell - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 4

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We had our cup of tea and a biscuit or two with it, but we wasted little time over that necessary business, and by a quarter-past eight we were in a taxi-cab and on our way to Cheverdale Lodge. Now, I knew nothing, or next to nothing about Lord Cheverdale, or the Morning Sentinel, or Mr. Thomas Hannington: Chaney, apparently knew a good deal, so I suggested that he should post me up. This he proceeded to do as we sped through the waking town, still obscure in its February haze.

‘Lord Cheverdale, eh?’ said Chaney. ‘Ah, his story makes what they call a romance of the Peerage. It’s pretty well known, though. He used to be plain John Chever. I’ve heard it said that he was originally a small grocer and Italian Warehouseman at some little town in the Midlands. But whatever he was, he got a notion that there was a fortune to be made in tea. He proceeded to make it, and pretty rapidly, too. Don’t know how he did it—lucky speculations in tea shares, I reckon. Then he started a big tea business here in London—haven’t you heard of Chever’s Tea?’

‘Can’t say that I know the style or title of any particular brand of tea,’ I replied. ‘As long as it’s tea, and good tea.’

‘Oh, well, Chever’s Tea’s known the world over,’ continued Chaney. ‘Great big warehouses, offices, and all that. The old man—though he wasn’t old, then—made the fortune, right enough. Then he became a bit ambitious—as such men always do. Went into Parliament. Got a knighthood—for giving money to hospitals. Got a further lift—a baronetcy, for giving money to sanitoriums. Then the Great War came—he did big things in all sorts of ways. And by two years nice plain John Chever had been transformed into John, first Baron Cheverdale. But previous to that he’d founded the Morning Sentinel—to air his views before the British public. He’s a good deal of a crank and a faddist. Social purity—temperance—no betting—all that sort of business. And the man he got as editor, Hannington, who, this Paley fellow says, has been murdered, was a man after his own heart. I’ve come across him once or twice when I was at the Yard and he was a bigger faddist than his employer. Always got some bee in his bonnet—full of enthusiasm for some cause or other. Odd thing he should be found murdered in Lord Cheverdale’s grounds!’

‘And—no clue!’ I remarked.

‘So Paley says,’ replied Chaney, with a sniff. ‘But I reckon little of what Paley says! Our job will be to find a clue. There’s a thing strikes me already—before I know anything of the peculiar facts of the case.’

‘Yes?’ I asked.

‘Hannington,’ continued Chaney, ‘originally a reporter and then sub-editor on the Milthwaite Observer was the sort of man who made enemies. Your cranks and faddists always do. He ran full tilt against a good many things—abuses, he called them. Other people call them vested interests. He was a fanatical teetotaller for one thing. He made himself very unpopular during the later stages of the war. Then he attacked the peace settlement—the Treaty. And lately, as you may have noticed, if you read the Morning Sentinel——’

‘I don’t!’ I interrupted. ‘Never seen it, except on the bookstalls.’

‘Oh, well, it’s an awful puritanical rag,’ said Chaney, ‘but anyway, Hannington has of late been attacking the Bolshevist movement, tooth and nail. That’s the sort of man he was—couldn’t do anything by halves; must always go to extremes. And, of course, old Lord Cheverdale, being a man of similar views, backed him up. Shouldn’t wonder at all if this is a political murder. But here we are at Cheverdale Lodge.’

Cheverdale Lodge was approached from the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park—a big Georgian Mansion, embowered in tall trees and surrounded by extensive grounds so thickly planted with smaller trees and shrubs that the house itself could not be seen until you were close to it. It was approached by a carriage drive which wound in and out through the grounds, gardens and lawns; from this drive paths went off in various directions through the shrubberies. Chaney and I, after bidding our cabman wait for us in the Inner Circle, walked the length of the drive to the house; as we passed along I caught sight of a policeman’s helmet amongst the undergrowth on the right, and drew his attention to it.

‘Scene of the murder, no doubt,’ he remarked. ‘Got it roped off, I guess, and set a guard over it. We shall see!’

Paley met us at the door of the house, and at sight of us turned and beckoned to someone within the hall. A youthful-looking footman came forward.

‘This,’ said Paley, pointing to him as we came up, ‘is the man who found Mr. Hannington’s dead body—Harris, one of our footmen. Do you wish to question him first, or will you inspect the spot where the body was found?’

‘We’ll see the place first, Mr. Paley, and talk to Harris afterwards,’ replied Chaney. ‘Is Harris free to come with us?’

Paley turned to the footman.

‘Show Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell where you found Mr. Hannington’s body, and tell them all about it,’ he said. Then he turned to us. ‘I can’t give you any time myself,’ he went on. ‘Lord Cheverdale is so much upset by this business that he can’t attend to anything this morning, and I have a great deal to do. But I am to tell you his wishes. You are to make any enquiries you like here—of anybody. But when you have done here, Lord Cheverdale wishes you to go straight to the Morning Sentinel office and begin exhaustive enquiries there, for he feels sure that it is there, and not here, that relevant facts will be established. Here is a stock of Lord Cheverdale’s cards—on presentation of his card, anywhere at the office, you will have every facility given you. And, later in the day, if Lord Cheverdale feels equal to it, he would like to hold a consultation with you and the official police about the whole thing, as it presents itself to you and to them. I think that’s all I have to say, at present.’

He dismissed us with a wave of his hand which began at us and terminated at the footman, and Harris politely bidding us to follow him, we walked away from the door, in silence—cowed, I think, by the private secretary’s somewhat dictatorial manner. And we kept silence, all three, until the footman, turning out of the carriage drive along an asphalted sidepath, narrow and winding, which traversed the shrubberies, led us to where a policeman stood, idly contemplating a roped-off enclosure, some two yards square. There he paused.

‘This is the place, gentlemen!’ he said, pointing to within the ropes. ‘He was lying just there!’

We looked, of course, and, of course, there was nothing to see but a square yard or two of asphalted surface. Chaney glanced at the policeman, who was regarding us with speculative glances.

‘What’s it roped off for?’ he asked.

The policeman shook his helmeted head.

‘Orders!’ he said. ‘Want to examine it for footprints, I reckon.’

‘Likely to find them, aren’t they, on that surface!’ said Chaney, ironically. ‘Might as well expect to find the footprint of a bee or a bluebottle! Well?’ he went on, turning to the footman. ‘You found him, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell about it. How came you to find him?’

‘It was like this, sir. It was my night out, last night. I’d been to the theatre. I walked home, sir. I came along this path——’

‘Stop there,’ said Chaney. ‘This path, now? Where do you get into it?—I mean, from outside the grounds?’

‘From the Inner Circle, sir. There’s a little gate in the fence. This path, sir, is a short cut from the Inner Circle to the house.’

‘Much used?’

‘Most people who come here on foot use it, sir.’

‘This Mr. Hannington, now—would he know it?’

‘Oh, yes, sir—Mr. Hannington knew it well enough.’

‘Well,’ continued Chaney, ‘go on.’

‘I came along this path,’ repeated Harris, ‘and when I got just there I saw it—the body, sir—lying in front of me. It—it was face downwards. I just touched the cheek—it was not exactly cold, but getting that way. Then—well, I ran to the house, sir, and roused them.’

‘Roused—who?’ asked Chaney.

‘Mr. Paley was the only person who was up, sir. He was reading, in the library. I told him. He told me to rouse Walker, the butler, and Smithson, the second footman. When they came down we all came back here. I didn’t know whose body it was until we came back—then I saw it was Mr. Hannington.’

‘Well, what happened then?’ asked Chaney.

‘Mr. Paley telephoned for the police, sir. They weren’t long, and when they came they took charge of everything.’

Chaney glanced at the policeman, who had been listening quietly.

‘Were you one of ’em?’ he asked.

‘No, sir—I only came on duty this morning,’ replied the policeman. ‘Nothing to be seen when I was posted here but—this!’

He pointed to the ropes and stakes, and Chaney turned once more to Harris.

‘What time was it when you found the body?’ he enquired.

‘A little after twelve o’clock, sir. Between twelve and ten minutes past, anyway.’

‘Do you know if Mr. Hannington had been visiting Lord Cheverdale?’

‘Yes, sir, I do know that. He had not. Mr. Walker, the butler, remarked on that point, sir. He said Mr. Hannington hadn’t called, but must have been on his way to the house when he was attacked.’

‘Were you present when the police came, Harris? You were, eh? Well, did you hear anything said?’

‘Yes, sir, I heard one of them—an inspector, I think—say it certainly hadn’t been done for robbery, for Mr. Hannington had his watch and chain, a valuable ring that Lord Cheverdale had given him, and a considerable sum of ready money on him, sir. But there were no papers of any sort in his pockets, and I heard Mr. Paley say to the police that that was a very suspicious thing, for Mr. Hannington always had his pockets bulging with papers.’

‘I suppose none of your people heard anything?’ asked Chaney.

‘No, sir—nobody had heard anything. This is a good way from the house.’

We turned, mechanically, to look at the house, which could just be seen through the trees. As we did so we were conscious of the approach of a lady, who came along in the company of two or three dogs. As she drew nearer, and we made room for her to pass, I took a good look at her. She was a tallish, rather angular woman of probably thirty-five to forty years of age, somewhat vacant of look, and chiefly remarkable for a high nose and very prominent teeth, not to mention a couple of staring light blue eyes. Dressed in rather mannish fashion, in a tailor-made gown of very large checks, she sported a hunting-stock, and carried a dog-whip, and looked altogether more fitted to a rural setting than to Regent’s Park. As she came up she stared hard from me to the others of us, and spoke—to the policeman.

‘Anything new—anything new?’ she demanded. ‘What?—what?’

‘Nothing new, miss,’ replied the policeman.

‘Most extraordinary—most extraordinary!’ said the lady. ‘Extra-ordinary!’

She passed on, and Chaney turned towards the house. He looked at Harris.

‘Lord Cheverdale’s daughter, eh?’ he said. ‘Honourable Miss Chever?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said the footman. ‘His Lordship’s only child, sir.’

Chaney asked no further questions. He walked slowly back along the asphalted path until we came to the carriage drive immediately in front of the house. Then he turned to me.

‘I think we’ll drive down to the Morning Sentinel office,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to be looked into here—at present. Much obliged to you, Harris.’

As we turned away, a window in the house was thrown open. Paley leaned out.

‘Mr. Camberwell! Mr. Chaney!’ he called out. ‘I omitted to tell you—when you get to the Morning Sentinel office, ask for Miss Hetherley! Miss Hetherley—first!’