Crime at Tattenham Corner (7 page)

The door into her room stood open. Forbes was near the window, apparently holding something up to the light. She turned as the sisters entered, and for a moment Sophie fancied she looked discomposed. She recovered herself immediately, however, and came forward.

“You look tired, my lady, quite worn out. A little
sal volatile
and a rest in your favourite chair –”

She drew one up to the open window as she spoke.

Her tone was sympathetic, but Clare Dolphin, watching her, saw a look of triumph gleam for a moment in her eyes.

Sophie lay back in her chair and submitted to her maid's ministrations without the protest her sister had half expected. Presently she looked up.

“I am all right now, Clare. Forbes will look after me. And then I must be alone. It seems to me that I have not had a moment to think since John –” 

Mrs. Dolphin did not look quite pleased. “Oh, very well, then, if you don't want me I will go home. Goodness knows, I have plenty to do. But I didn't like the idea of your being alone.”

“You are very kind.” Sophie received her sister's kisses passively, rather than returned them. “But – but, you see, there is so much that I shall have to do alone now.”

“Oh, well, I will come in again some time this evening, just to see how you are.”

She shut the door with a decided jerk as she went out.

Sophie sat up. Her languor had momentarily disappeared. “What was that you were looking at when we came in, Forbes?”

Forbes hesitated.

“Well, I had just found your frock, my lady. The one you wore for dinner on June 2nd. I found it all crushed together at the bottom of the wardrobe. It is in a fearful state, my lady. The front breadth is right out.”

She shook the dilapidated garment before Sophie's unwilling eyes as she spoke. One glance was enough to show its hopeless condition – dirty, covered with mud-stains. There were still a few ominous dark stains left on the bodice, and the front breadth hung literally in rags.

“What am I to do with it, my lady? I really can hardly touch it.” 

“It is in a terrible state,” Sophie said, staring at it with fascinated eyes. “I knew it was in a mess, but I had no idea that it was as bad as this. Of course I wore it when I went to Oxley. That, and my purple coat with the beaver collar over it. And of course we did a lot of walking in and out. They – they wanted me to see everything. Earlier in the day it had been raining.”

“Yes, of course, my lady.” But the maid was not satisfied. “Just look at the front, my lady, all in rags!”

Sophie gazed at it in silence for a minute. “It – there are lots of thorn bushes near the stables, and we left the car a little way away. I suppose I got my frock caught on the bushes going back.”

“It looks as if it had been cut, my lady, as if some one had taken a knife and hacked at it,” the maid objected, holding out one side.

Lady Burslem sat back and closed her eyes. ' “Well, I am sure I do not know what has happened to it. Put it in the rag-bag, please, Forbes, or wherever you put such things. I don't care what becomes of it. I do not suppose I shall ever wear white again. You can take that white and gilt frock of mine that you f liked so much when it came home last week. It will do for you when you go to a dance with your young man.”

“Oh, my lady, and you have never had it on. It does seem a shame. I shall love to have it. Not that I shall be going to any dances now. Tom and me, we lost too much over Peep o' Day.”

“Ah! I must have a talk with you about that later on, Forbes.” Lady Burslem's accession of energy left her suddenly. “I will have some more
sal volatile
, and – and then I will see you again later.”

When at last the maid had retired Sophie sat up and looked round her cautiously. Her cheeks were burning now and her eyes were fever bright. She went across to the door and locked it. Then she came slowly back, her eyes fixed on her dressing-case.

“I must!” she whispered to herself. “I must make sure.”

She opened the case. Everything looked just as usual. She felt for the spring that opened the secret drawer. Was it her fancy, or did it work more stiffly than usual? It moved with a sort of creak that she did not seem to have noticed before. And then she uttered an exclamation of horror and dismay. She had put that long strip of satin with its ugly, brown stain in the drawer. Yes, there was – there could be – no mistake about that. And now the drawer was empty!

Frantically she pulled it out. She shook it. She turned it topsy-turvy and felt behind it.

In vain – no silk was there!

“Sir Charles Stanyard?” Inspector Stoddart said inquiringly.

“He is expecting you, sir.”

The manservant preceded Stoddart and Harbord along the passage, and opened the door at the end.

They saw a comfortable-looking room, apparently furnished as a study, and a pleasant-looking, fair, young man sitting at the top of the table. He looked up as they entered.

“Good morning, Inspector Stoddart; you wanted to see me?”

“I did, Sir Charles. I am in charge of the Burslem case.”

Stanyard raised his eyebrows. “Indeed, I fail to see the connexion. Unless, as somebody said to me plainly the other day, you imagine that I shot Sir John Burslem, so that my horse might win the Derby.”

“If I thought that I should hardly be here,” Stoddart said gravely. “But because it is my duty to trace every, even the very slenderest, clue that may help to elucidate the mystery of Sir John Burslem's death, I must ask you to give me some account of your movements on the night of June 2nd.”

“On June 2nd.” Sir Charles Stanyard frowned, as if the effort to remember was too strenuous for him. “Well, I went over to Epsom in the afternoon. I wanted to see how Perlyon was after his journey. Epsom is rather a long way from Maybank, you know, and old Tom Burton, best trainer in the world, brought Perlyon across country in a sort of glorified horse-box, wired to me that the colt was a bit nervous, so I went down to see him. I was detained on the way, so I did not get there till after six. I found Perlyon in first-rate trim, quieted down wonderfully, and as fresh as paint. Naturally I was a bit bucked, and when Tom Burton asked me to have a bit of dinner with him, and then go round and see what news we could pick up about the other gee-gees, particularly Peep o' Day, well, I stopped.”

“Ah!” Stoddart looked at him closely. “Did you see Sir John Burslem?”

“No, I did not!” Stanyard said emphatically. “And I may tell you, inspector, that even if I had wanted to win the Derby badly enough to risk my neck for it, there was no need for me to kill Sir John Burslem. Perlyon is a real first-class colt, well bred on both sides by Crown Royal out of Irish Pearl. He could have licked Peep o' Day hollow, given him ten pounds and beaten him. I hope they may meet as four-year-olds next year, and then you will see.”

“Well, I was only told that Peep o' Day was the favourite,” the inspector returned phlegmatically. “What I know about horseflesh might be written on a threepenny bit. Beyond putting a trifle on the Derby, like everybody else, I never do any betting. May I ask what you did after your walk round with Mr. Burton, Sir Charles?”

“Can't say I did much – there was not much to be done,” Stanyard responded. “Stood about, don't you know, talked about Perlyon and Peep o' Day and made up our minds, me and old Tom, to put the shirts off our backs on Perlyon.”

“What time did you start back?”

Stanyard got up and, standing before the empty fireplace, leaned against the high wooden shelf.

“Well, really, do you know, I couldn't say positively – about twelve, or a little after, I should think. The beastly old bus broke down a mile or two out, and I had to spend a good half-hour tinkering at it.”

“Did Sir John Burslem's car pass you?”

“Shouldn't have been any the wiser if it had,” Stanyard retorted. “I shouldn't have recognized Burslem passing quickly in a car. I might have made a shot at him if he had been walking, but just jigging by in a car what chance should I have? Besides, most of the time my old bus was on top of me, and I was poking at her inside; should not have seen Peep o' Day himself, let alone Burslem.”

“But Lady Burslem was with Sir John. You would have known her?”

Stanyard turned his head away, and catching up an ivory ornament from the mantelshelf began to turn it about in his fingers.

“Now you are talking! And I know what you are getting at. Because I was a silly ass about Sophie Carlford in my salad days, you think I am keen enough after all this time to do old Burslem in so that I can marry her myself. As if when a chap had been chucked over once he is dotty enough to go on hankering after the girl. If he is – well, his name will not be Charles Stanyard, and that is all there is to that!”

“You were dancing with Lady Burslem at the Ruthwyn Club a week or two ago.”

“Now, how did you tumble to that?” Sir Charles inquired, staring at him. “Yes, I just came across her by chance talking to a friend of mine. I had nothing against her. Never do bear malice, you know, so I said, ‘Let's have a turn for the sake of old times.' So we did, and that's all there is about that.”

“Thank you for being so frank, Sir Charles.” Stoddart waited a moment as if considering some point, then said:

“And about the row at the Wilton Club a week before Sir John's death?”

Stanyard opened his eyes wider than ever. “I say, you have been pokin' round, haven't you? Well, it was a bit of a ramp – seemed as if the old chap was trying to get me. It was something I said about Peep o' Day and old Matt Harker, and Burslem overheard and came for me. Bad-tempered sort of chap, I should say. But, bless your life, it meant nothing. Should have got over it and been good friends later on, I dare say.”

“Well, you might,” Stoddart said doubtfully. “Now, what about this, Sir Charles?”

He drew a little packet carefully wrapped up in tissue paper from his pocket; he threw off the paper and disclosed a silver cigarette-case with a monogram on the side.

“Is this yours?”

“Why, yes it is,” Stanyard said, taking it from him. “I was wonderin' this morning what had become of the bloomin' thing. How did you come across it, inspector?”

“It was found in Sir John's run-about the day after his death,” the inspector said quietly.

The ivory ornament in Stanyard's hand cracked suddenly. “Oh, I say, that's impossible! How could it have got there?”

“That,” said the inspector very softly, “I thought you could explain, Sir Charles.”

“Well, then, I can't,” said Sir Charles, setting down the broken ornament with a snap and putting the cigarette-case beside it. “I know no more about it than the man in the moon or yourself, inspector; not so much I expect. So that's that! Hadn't you better arrest me and save yourself the trouble of lookin' after me. There's a dirty sort of dodger always at my heels; I guess he's one of your lot.”

The inspector made no answer to this sally. “Then there is nothing more to be done now, Sir Charles,” he said gravely.

When they had left the Mansions and were walking across the Green Park, Stoddart glanced round at his assistant.

“What do you think of that young man, Harbord?”

“I really don't know.” Harbord hesitated. “I thought he was all quite straight and above-board at first; but I didn't quite like his manner over the cigarette-case. He wasn't quite frank about that, I am certain. But he doesn't look like a murderer.”

“Murderers never do. If they did they wouldn't get the chance to murder anybody,” the inspector observed sententiously.

“When was the cigarette-case discovered?” Harbord inquired.

“The day after the murder, as I said – that is to say, on June 4th. The car was found at the parking place in South London, you remember; at least, the car is said to have been found there. A man who hangs about the parking ground looking for odd jobs said he found it in the car afterwards identified as Sir John Burslem's. His account is that when he saw it he took it out, thinking it would be stolen if left there, and that the owner, when he came back, would reward him. Sir John, of course, did not return, and in the hue and cry about the car, and Sir John's mysterious death, he forgot all about the case, until yesterday morning, when he suddenly remembered it and brought it to the Yard.”

“A queer tale, isn't it, sir?” Harbord said doubtfully. “What sort of chap is this man?” 

“Oh, William Dawson, his name is – a good character in the neighbourhood, as far as I can make out. Otherwise, of course, he wouldn't be allowed on the parking ground. And I expect his tale is substantially true, but of course it's impossible of verification.”

“How in the world did it get there?” cogitated Harbord. “I don't see –”

“Nor I,” Stoddart agreed. “Take it all in all, I never met with an affair that bristled with such difficulties as this Burslem case. Granted that Stanyard's case was found in the car, and that, in spite of his denial, Sir Charles Stanyard had been in the Burslem car that night, Sir John himself took the car to the parking ground, so he was alive and well after Stanyard lost the case.”

“That seems one point at which our inquiries might begin,” Harbord said, wrinkling his brows. “Suppose it was not Sir John himself but his murderer who took the car to the garage, the whole affair becomes more simple.”

“Yes. But unfortunately the case does not fall into line with our ideas,” the inspector observed sarcastically. “Dawson's description of Sir John is fairly accurate. He picked his photograph out from a dozen others. The only thing that strikes me as odd is that a woman drove on to the ground almost immediately after Sir John and ranged her car beside the other. He did not take particular notice of her, he said, but he saw her stooping over the car. Then she almost ran off the parking ground and hurried away in the same direction as Sir John Burslem, who had turned to the right. But they didn't appear to know one another, Dawson says. They met when Sir John was going out and she was coming in, and they didn't speak. I don't think it helps us much. It is quite likely that the woman has nothing to do with the case.”