Читать книгу The Secret of Sheen - John Laurence Pritchard - Страница 8

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John Pellington was as well trained a servant as any man could wish to have. In fact the possession of Pellington by Sir Richard Lulworth made more than one of the baronet’s wide circle of acquaintances break the tenth commandment. Several things made the baronet’s manservant stand out above all other menservants. First, his physical characteristics. Pellington wore a monocle. His left eye had been partly blinded at Ypres when pulling Major Sir Richard Lulworth out of the way of a well-aimed hand grenade.

If Pellington’s monocle attracted attention it is no less certain that his moustache attracted nearly as much. Red, waxed, pointed, and of inordinate length and straightness, it filled small boys with terror and inspired retired major-generals to a temporary fierceness of manner entirely foreign to their natures. Add to that that Pellington had a backbone like a piece of steel tubing, and a sound eye that the Ancient Mariner would not have been ashamed of, and you have the chief physical characteristics of the man. The only incongruity about him was his voice, soft and quiet, where one would have expected something strident, something which would carry against a hundred mile an hour wind.

But if Pellington’s physical characteristics were remarkable, his other qualities were even more so. He was methodical in everything and therefore punctual to the minute. He could drive a car more safely on two wheels round a hair-pin corner than the average man could drive at ten miles an hour on four wheels at Brooklands. What Pellington did not know about the art of wrangling and the niceties of suppressio veri, suggestio falsi on occasions, had long ago ceased to be knowledge. And with it all he was as unruffled in an emergency as one expects a man with a monocle to be, a valet who had been sent down from heaven to a waiting world in general and for the exclusive use of Sir Richard Lulworth in particular, and a man who had only one enduring thought in the world, to serve that master as he deserved to be served—well.

When Pellington, however, entered the baronet’s bedroom as the clocks of the big house were striking eight the following morning his face wore a worried look, and his moustache sagged just a trifle at the ends as he placed the tray of tea and toast on the table at the bedside. He pulled the curtains back with an unusual rattle and opened wide the French windows on to the narrow balcony with a bang which threatened to shatter the glass in them.

Plainly John Pellington was ruffled.

As it has just been said that he was as unruffled in an emergency as one expects a man with a monocle to be, the only thing to add is that Pellington was not wearing his monocle as he entered his master’s bedroom.

At the noisy opening of the windows the baronet opened his eyes and for a moment gazed lazily at the ceiling. Then he sat up in bed and stared with astonishment at his valet.

“Hallo, Pellington, broken your eyeglass?”

“No, sir. I forgot to put it on, in a manner of speaking.”

“Forgot—to—put—it—on?” repeated Sir Richard jestingly. “Do my ears deceive me, Pellington, when you say you’ve forgotten something? What on earth is the matter? Has there been an earthquake, or have you fallen in love with the cook?”

“Neither, sir,” replied Pellington. “Mr. Leonard Bilsiter was found murdered this morning.”

The keen grey eyes of Sir Richard Lulworth looked steadily into the face of his servant. If they had flickered at all it was so little that even Pellington, who knew every movement of his master’s face, could not have sworn to it. There was a look of distress on the valet’s face as Lulworth flung back the bedclothes.

“Give me my dressing-gown,” he said quickly, “and tell me what you know.”

“He was found a quarter of an hour ago, sir, by Culvering, who went to call him. Stabbed through the heart, I understand. His lordship asks if you will be so good as to join him in the library as soon as possible, with the other gentlemen. Her ladyship is breaking the news to the ladies.”

“Bilsiter murdered!” cried the other. “You are sure it is murder, Pellington? It’s unbelievable!”

“I am repeating his lordships words,” answered the valet. “Dr. Bessbury has been telephoned for, and Inspector Lanner from Beaconsfield. His lordship has locked the door after he viewed the body.”

Lulworth suppressed a shudder at the words.

“I’ll dress at once, Pellington,” he said slowly. “This is dreadful news. Tell his lordship I shall be down in ten minutes.”

Swiftly the other turned and walked towards the door. There he half-swung round as though about to speak, but the baronet was bending over the dressing-table, looking into the glass, and with a shake of his head the valet went out.

As the door closed behind him Lulworth turned swiftly and whistled softly to himself.

“Now what the devil’s the matter with Pellington?” he muttered to himself. “And what was he going to say when he stopped at the door? It takes more than murder to upset him, and he’s pretty badly upset if I am any judge of him. Well, I suppose he will tell me later on.”

Lulworth gulped down his tea as he dressed and ruminated about the news the valet had brought. His first thoughts were, frankly, of relief—relief for Avril’s sake. It was better that the man should be murdered than she should marry him, he reflected. He recalled his words of the night before, “By to-morrow anything might happen.” Well, that was the one thing he did not expect to happen. He had no false ideas about the dead man. If any man deserved to be murdered, undoubtedly Bilsiter was the man. At least two deaths were to his discredit, and though the coroners’ juries had brought in verdicts of suicide in both cases, there was no doubt that the moneylender was morally responsible for their deaths. If half the ugly stories going round about him were true it was surprising his life had not been attempted before.

Lulworth wasted little time in dressing, nor did he allow his thoughts to speculate too much upon the man, except in so far as his death affected Avril. He could imagine the mingled relief and horror with which she would receive the news, horror that any man should meet his end as Bilsiter had done, relief that she was not called upon to give an answer to his proposal of marriage.

Lulworth wondered if she would now tell him what the dead man had said to her the previous evening, wondered how her brother would take the news. Somehow, at the thought of young Abbleway, his heart sank within him. He had no doubt in his own mind that Tommy Abbleway was the cause of the whole trouble between Avril and the murdered man, and inevitably he linked the names of Bilsiter and Avril’s brother. The significance of his thoughts jarred on him, and he forced himself to pay attention to the actual details of his dressing, to keep himself from thinking things which brought a chill to his heart.

As he entered the library he found Lord Rowmands already there, talking to Sturridge, and to another guest named Penricarde, a retired K.C.

“Good morning, Richard, this is a bad business,” said the peer.

His face was drawn and he spoke in subdued tones as though death itself was in the room.

“Dreadful,” replied Lulworth. “I have only heard the bare news from my man. It has come as a shock.”

“Culvering came and told me, just as I had finished dressing,” continued Rowmands shakily. “I went up immediately. He must have been dead some time. His hand was perfectly cold. I—I came away and locked the door and sent for the police and Doctor Bessbury.”

“How was he—murdered?” asked the baronet.

“Stabbed. Knife in his chest, awful.”

Lord Rowmands finished at a gulp the glass of whiskey he was holding.

“It’s shaken me more than a little, I must admit,” he continued.

“No—idea who—”

Lulworth left the rest of the sentence unspoken as Rowmands shook his head.

“Culvering reported that one of the windows of the pantry was open,” he said. “So a burglar might have got in that way. But there’s no report of anything missing.”

“He may have entered Bilsiter’s room first,” commented Sturridge quietly. “Or it may have been someone who had a grudge against him. There were some nasty tales going round about him. Plenty of people, if half the tales I have heard are true, had motive enough.”

“Good Heavens, Sturridge, you don’t suggest because someone owed Bilsiter money they would murder him,” cried Rowmands. “It’s unbelievable.”

“I am afraid I must agree with Sturridge,” broke in Penricarde, the K.C. “My experience has taught me that, at any rate. Money is one of the biggest motives for murder. Not so big as the eternal triangle, but big. I expect, in fact, that one of the first things the police will do will be to make inquiries who those people are who were under Bilsiter’s thumb, if there is no other obvious solution.”

Lulworth was the only one who noticed the sudden change of expression on Rowmands’ face. He had little doubt in his own mind what the cause was. The dead man had not been admitted as a guest to the great house because he was a welcome guest. It was doubtful if he were that anywhere. To a man of Lulworth’s keen perception, and indeed to many of his guests who were thicker skinned, it was clear that Lord Rowmands was not exactly happy over the presence of Bilsiter in the house. Lulworth realised at once that inevitably, in the beginning, at any rate, suspicion might be directed towards the peer, revolting though the whole idea might be to those who knew Lord Rowmands intimately, knew his fine instincts, his great character. But, like many of the great men of England who had a stake in her soil and was part of her soul, he had been hit by the coming of the Great War and the aftermath of commercialisation. It would not be difficult to put two and two together—that Bilsiter had been invited because Lord Rowmands wanted money.

Not that the baronet could conceive for one moment that the peer could be guilty of murder. But the mere suspicion, even temporary, was bad enough.

The conversation revolved itself into one or two groups standing about awkwardly talking in low tones, as other guests drifted down into the library. The shock of a murder so close at hand affected them in many different ways. Some seemed awed into silence by the very presence of death in the house. Others, like Penricarde, discussed the probabilities of the murderer being caught, discussed them in a cold-blooded judicial fashion as though they were summing up the pros and cons of a case.

For Lulworth, who had seen death in many forms, the main feeling was for the living left behind, and he felt a sense of relief when one of the servants came in and announced Inspector Lanner and Dr. Bessbury, who had arrived at the house simultaneously.

“Show them into the morning-room, Culvering,” said Lord Rowmands. He turned towards the baronet, and added in a low voice, “Breakfast is ready, Richard. Will you look after things for me while I go along?”

In the pleasant morning-room the peer found Dr. Bessbury and the inspector standing by the window talking, and both turned sharply when he entered the room.

“Good morning, my lord. Your message—” began Lanner.

“I am sorry to give you both so much trouble,” interrupted Rowmands courteously, “but I am afraid one of my guests has been murdered. If you will come with me—”

He spoke wearily, and Dr. Bessbury looked at him keenly.

“If—if you will tell us where to go we shan’t trouble you further,” he said quietly. “The inspector and I are more hardened to this kind of thing. It has been a shock to you. Have you had any breakfast? If not, eat something, no matter how little.”

“I’ll show you first upstairs,” replied the peer. “I must confess it has been a shock to me—and to my guests.”

He led the way up the wide oak-paneled staircase, and halted in front of the bedroom of the dead man.

“Here is the key,” he said quietly. “As soon as Culvering, one of my servants, brought me the news, I—I verified it, and then locked up the room without disturbing anything. You are sure—”

“Quite sure,” interrupted Bessbury firmly. “Please take my advice—breakfast.”

As Rowmands turned away Inspector Lanner inserted the key briskly in the lock and opened the door. He was the modern type of policeman, well-educated, keen, intelligent, a man who had received rapid promotion, and was clearly marked out, in the long run, for the highest post his profession could offer. He stood by the door for a moment, looking round the bedroom, before he stepped full inside, followed by the doctor, and closed and locked the door behind him.

“Don’t want any interruptions,” he said quickly. “Unpleasant sight.”

He nodded towards the bed. The clothes had been partly thrown back, just as if the dead man had begun to get out of bed when he was struck. One leg dangled horribly over the side of the bed, and the two arms were spread out almost at right-angles to the body. He was lying on his back, and the heavy handle of some kind of knife could be seen sticking out of his chest. The blade had been driven through the pyjama jacket. There was hardly any sign of blood.

Bessbury picked up one limp, cold hand thoughtfully, looked into the glassy staring eyes, and then at the position of the knife.

“Must have died at once,” he cried in his deep resonant tones. “The knife in the wound has prevented the blood from flowing.”

“Don’t touch it,” exclaimed Lanner hastily.

“Curious kind of knife,” continued the doctor, pointing with one finger. “Look at that catch there, and the cross-piece. Pretty heavy, I should judge.”

The inspector nodded his agreement.

“We’ll have that out later,” he remarked. “Have to examine it first for prints. How long has he been dead?”

The doctor continued his examination for a few minutes before he replied.

“I should judge between five and six hours,” he said at last.

Lanner looked at his watch.

“A quarter to nine,” he announced. “That would make it between a quarter to three and a quarter to four.”

“Say between half-past two and four o’clock,” continued Bessbury. “It’s not wise to be too definite over these things, especially in the case of sudden death like this. Most people think that doctors can tell the hour of death within a minute or so. Personally, if I guess it within an hour I think I’m coming much nearer than perhaps the signs warrant,” he added cautiously.

The inspector smiled. He was rather glad to have the co-operation of someone who was not too definite in his statements. Definite statements, he had found, were wont to lead off the track, to narrow down the field of investigation. Lanner liked to have the field as wide as possible, as open as possible, so that he could see what was going on in it and not be confused by a multitude of things happening right under his nose, as it were, and distracting his attention.

“I shan’t make the mistake of fixing the hour too closely,” he said.

Inspector Lanner stood looking thoughtfully at the dead man for a few moments.

“Tell me if you agree with me,” he said at last to Dr. Bessbury. “Look at that depression there.” He pointed to the edge of the bed.

“I am arguing on these lines,” he continued. “That depression makes it seem to me the dead man was sitting on the edge of the bed when he was struck. I feel it is confirmed by the fact that on his right foot, the one on the bed, is his slipper. The other slipper is on the floor there, just where it might have fallen from the other foot.”

Doctor Bessbury followed the other with keen attention. He had been associated with the inspector on one or two cases in the neighbourhood, and he knew the value of Lanner’s deductions from quite slight premises. The inspector was a man with imagination, and though he used it freely to start various lines of investigation, he did not allow it to run away with him. Every line was investigated carefully in turn, and the results of his imagination accepted or rejected as they fitted in with the known facts of the case.

“It is my belief,” continued Lanner, “that the dead man was sitting on the edge of the bed when he was struck. He had his slippers on. He fell back, partly through the actual force of the blow, partly from its effects.”

“In that case both feet would be dangling over the edge of the bed, and he would be lying more across the bed, more at right-angles to it, that is to say,” objected the doctor.

“Yes, I agree, if the murderer had left him so, and fled immediately, and then he might have slipped to the floor,” returned Lanner. “Yes, that’s it, I think. I’m trying to put myself in the murderer’s place. Supposing he was slipping to the floor? There was the danger that the thud would attract attention. A cool murderer would think of that almost automatically, and immediately partly lift the dead man back on to the bed. You see, he’s partly across the bed and partly along it. His head is not on the pillow.”

“It is possible you are right,” said Bessbury thoughtfully.

“If he had just sprung out of bed, or sat up, he wouldn’t have his slippers on. What I am driving at is this: He sat there, on the edge of the bed, talking to his murderer. The man who killed him was a man he knew,” Lanner added triumphantly.

“I think that’s going too far,” objected his companion.

“Maybe, maybe not,” returned Lanner cheerfully, well-pleased with himself. “But it’s something to go upon. And if I am right it rather augurs someone in the house, eh? Someone whom Bilsiter had no apparent cause to fear.”

“He may have heard someone trying his door and sat on the edge of the bed waiting,” said Bessbury.

“In the dark?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the murderer was very lucky in his aim,” pointed out the inspector. “No, no, I don’t agree with you. And if he had switched on the light it would have warned the murderer he had been heard. The chances are he wouldn’t have taken the risk of the alarm being given before he could carry out his purpose.”

“You haven’t even found out the motive yet,” pointed out Bessbury.

“No, that may alter things quite a lot,” agreed the inspector. “Help me to straighten him out a little on the bed, now, will you? We had better pull the clothes over him.”

The two lifted the dead man farther on the bed, and the inspector pulled the turned back clothes over him to hide the staring eyes. As he did so he gave an exclamation:

“Hallo, what’s this?”

Lying on the top of the counterpane, until then hidden by its folds as it had been turned back, was a sheet of paper. The inspector whistled as he read the words on it and passed it over to his companion.

“The problem is not so easy after all,” he said.

On the sheet of paper Doctor Bessbury held were the typewritten words, “Received with thanks, in full settlement. Charity Sheen.”

“That’s the first time he’s committed murder,” cried the inspector sharply. “And by Heaven we’ll get him now.”

“Rather spoils your theory that it is someone in the house, someone the dead man knew,” pointed out the doctor.

Inspector Lanner did not reply at once. His face had a faraway look on it. He was recalling some of the theories which had been formed by the police of the mysterious Charity Sheen, some of the suggestions which had come from Scotland Yard as to his probable identity. One of these had been, “Sheen is probably an educated man, a man about town accustomed to moving in good circles....”

“I am not so sure it does,” he said slowly. “I am rather inclined to think it strengthens my theory.”