Richardson's First Case (5 page)

At that moment there was a tinkle of the office telephone bell. Morden put the receiver to his ear. “Yes, yes,” he said in his gentle voice. “Mr. Foster is here in this room. He's just been telling us about the case. Yes, Mr. Beckett and myself. You'd like us all to come. Now? Good.” He put down the receiver. “The A.C.C. wants us to come round to his room.”

They trooped along through the swing doors to the room facing the big granite stairway. It was a larger room than the others and the Office of Works, with a nice discrimination in the relative ranks of the hierarchy, had accorded it an armchair, a turkey carpet, and a mahogany writing table which had been furnished during the war with a miniature telephone exchange and private wires to various government departments. Sir William Lorimer, the assistant commissioner, was an active and intelligent-looking person of about fifty with an easy manner and a sense of humour. He was not alone. In the leather armchair sat a long-legged young man, deeply bronzed and entirely unimpressed by his surroundings.

“Good morning, everybody,” said Lorimer.

“Hallo, Morden!” exclaimed the young man in the chair, jumping up and shaking hands. “I haven't seen you for an age. I asked for you when I came in, but they told me you were engaged, and so I asked to see your chief.”

“All the better,” said Lorimer. “Please bring up those chairs and let us sit in conclave. I want to talk to you about this Catchpool case. I suppose that you've formed a theory?”

“We were talking it over when you rang me up,” said Morden. “Mr. Beckett thinks that the case is ready for the inquest. Mr. Foster is not so sure. I have an open mind so far, but, of course, if the inquest is held we don't want an adjournment.”

“The stunt newspapers seem to have tried the case already and found the jury's verdict for them,” observed Lorimer. “Why do you think the case complete, Mr. Beckett?”

“Well, Sir William, there was only one key to the shop—the key which Catchpool had. There was no evidence of breaking in. The dead woman could only have entered the shop when the husband was there to let her in.”

“And the husband was killed at five-thirty? Well, I've a bombshell to burst on that theory. This gentleman, Lieutenant Kennedy, a naval officer from Greenwich, who knew Mrs. Catchpool, tells me that she was seen alive after six o'clock.”

Beckett's jaw dropped. “Did you see her, sir, may I ask?”

“No, I didn't, because I wasn't there. The person who did see her was her nephew, Lieutenant Michael Sharp, who is a personal friend of mine.”

“Did he tell you that he'd seen her?”

“No, he didn't; he was coming down the steps of a bus at Marble Arch when he saw his aunt passing. He was saying good-bye to a lady who was going on by the bus, and he turned round to her and said, ‘There's Aunt Emily; I'll try and catch her.'”

“And he caught her?” asked Beckett eagerly.

“We don't know: he's on his way to the Mediterranean.”

The three professionals wilted at this unexpected reply. “Excuse me, sir,” said Foster, “did the lady who was with him see the aunt?”

“She didn't. There were hundreds of people on the pavement, but she's ready to swear that Michael Sharp saw her, and so for the matter of that am I.”

“I don't think that you're likely to be called upon to do that,” observed Lorimer dryly. “The rules of evidence—”

“Oh, I know all about that,” broke in the visitor, “but when I saw in some damned sensation paper that old man Catchpool was supposed to have done the poor lady in and I knew he hadn't, I thought it my duty to come round and keep you people straight.”

Morden spoke for the first time. “You say that Lieutenant Sharp is on the way to the Mediterranean. Where's his first port of call?”

“Oh, they'll put in at Gib, but he'll have just the same evidence to give as I've given you.”

“He may have mistaken some other lady in the crowd for his aunt,” was Beckett's observation.

“Now, how could he? She was his only aunt—the aunt who took him across her knee and smacked him from the cradle; the aunt who sent him to Osborne and Dartmouth; who watched over him like a mother. He couldn't have been mistaken.”

“Not if he caught her up and spoke to her,” said Morden, “but we don't know that he did. We shall have to get the Admiralty to stop him by telegraph at Gibraltar and send him home, but it'll hang things up terribly. I think that Inspector Foster had better see this young lady first.”

“Well, it's rather a delicate matter. You see Michael is sort of engaged to her, and the aunt, poor woman, didn't exactly smile on the match—said he was far too young to be hampered with a wife or some such rot. Well, if you must see her I'll give you her address.” He wrote it out and tossed it over. “You'll have to call in the evening; she's teaching in a school all day. I'll tell you what: I'll phone to her to come round to our flat this evening, and you can see her there.”

“Can I see her alone, sir?”

“Of course you can if you want to, but none of your third-degree methods, or you'll put the wind up. You'll probably find it better to have me in the room to help her out.”

“No, Kennedy,” said Morden firmly. “We must keep to the rules. Mr. Foster must see her alone.”

“Just as you like, but it would save you all a lot of trouble if you called me at the inquest.”

Lorimer laughed. “I think I can see the coroner's face if we did. No, I think we are doing the only possible thing; we must find out whether your friend caught up his aunt and spoke to her. We can only do that by bringing him home. In the meantime, Mr. Foster had better go over the ground again.” He rose to intimate that the conclave was at end.

“Come into my room before you go,” said Morden as they went down the passage, “and tell me all about yourself.”

Inspector Foster accompanied Beckett to his room. “This is the woolliest kind of mare's nest, Mr. Foster. It's the kind of thing that's always happening to us—sidetracking us when a case is complete. You'll see when that young man is brought home that he never overtook the woman he saw, and we shall be exactly where we were before.”

“Well, Mr. Beckett, I can't say that I'm convinced that the husband did that murder. I can't help thinking that something will come along to upset that theory.”

“That's your Scotch caution, Mr. Foster. Have you forgotten your own report on what the dead woman's servant told you? Let me refresh your memory by reading it to you.”

“You mean Sergeant Reed's report, sir. I didn't see the woman myself.”

“No, but you read it. Here it is—the statement of Katharine Winter. ‘I was daily help to Mrs. Catchpool. She was as kind a mistress as any woman could have, but she had a lot to put up with from her husband, who was a violent-tempered old man that never said a civil word to anyone. He was here on the afternoon of the day before her death and was in one of his vilest tempers. You see, the lawyers had made him give her a flat rent free to live in, and he wanted to sell the whole house, but instead of a flat he wanted her to move into what was no better than a couple of attics in another house. Naturally, she wouldn't turn out. I heard him say, “I'll give you till tomorrow to agree, and if you don't I'll have you out if I have to throw you out into the street with my own hands.” Those were his very words. He was the cruellest and the meanest old man I ever met—the sort that would skin a flea. Well, on the day of her death she told me that she was going to see him and she was determined to defy him. I tried to dissuade her. I said with a man like that you never know what he might do—why not go to the magistrate about it? But you couldn't shake her when once she was set on a thing; she was determined to defy him to his face, and we know what happened.'”

Beckett put down the report. “Now, in the face of that woman's statement, what have we more probable than that the husband had a violent quarrel with her and strangled her? I suppose she struck Reed as a reliable witness?”

“Yes, sir, but he said that she was strongly prejudiced against Catchpool, and you know what women of that class are when they are prejudiced.”

“She may be, but how else can you account for the wife having got into the shop when the husband carried the only key.”

“Well, sir, you remember the evidence about that young man, Arthur Harris; he was the man Catchpool was on his way to see; his was the only note of hand missing from the file. One witness of the accident declared that he heard Catchpool say ‘Very well, then, I'll call a policeman.' Suppose—it's only a suggestion—that Arthur Harris, who, mind you, told a lie about not knowing the old man—suppose he met him in the street, snatched the key from him, ran to the shop, leaving the door open in his hurry, and started looking for his note of hand and, just as he found it, the wife walked in and began to scream for the police, as she would when she saw a strange man ransacking the drawers. Then, seeing what he'd done when he took her by the throat to stop her screaming, he had the sense to lock the door after him and take the key.”

“Very ingenious,” said Beckett. “It does you credit, but I think you'll admit that there are a few missing links in your chain.”

“I know there are, sir; that is what I'm working on now.”

“T
HAT GANG
of yours,” said Kennedy when he was alone with Morden, “didn't seem much impressed with the valuable stuff I brought them. That's the worst of you professionals: you've no vision. Good Lord! What a heap of papers you've got on your table. That's the way you waste your time. How can a man have vision with his nose buried all day in documents? One has to be out among men to solve mysteries.”

“I suppose that you've never heard of such a thing as the law of evidence.”

“Thank God, no! You want to get at the truth, and you tie yourselves up with a lot of musty laws. Look here, Morden, I don't mind betting you an even bob that if you took me to the scene of that murder I'd put you in the way of solving the whole bally mystery in five minutes. Seriously, why not leave your office table for an hour, run me up to the shop in your car, and then come and lunch with me at the Savoy afterwards? You see, mine will be a fresh eye. All you fellows here get stale dealing with detectives' reports day after day.”

Morden seemed amused. He toyed with the idea of reducing his volatile friend to humility; he toyed with the idea of his hospitality at the Savoy; he picked up the telephone and called for his car. “Come along, then, I'll take you at your word.”

They had scarcely started when a rather dingy visiting card was brought to Sir William Lorimer: “Mr. J. B. Settle, Solicitor, 7 John Street, Adelphi.”

“Did he say what his business was?” he asked the messenger.

“Yes, sir, it was about the Catchpool case.”

“Take him to Mr. Morden.”

“Mr. Morden has just gone out, Sir William, I heard him tell the driver to go to High Street, Marylebone.”

“Very well, show the visitor in.”

Mr. J. B. Settle proved to be an aged person dressed in professional black, carrying a tall hat much in need of ironing. Sir William put his age at at least seventy. “Sit down,” he said hospitably. “You've come to give us information?”

“Rather to ask you for information, Sir William,” the visitor replied in a high, quavering voice. “I was solicitor both to the late John Catchpool and his wife. I drew their wills, and I am the sole executor. You may not know that the late Mr. Catchpool was a man of considerable property.”

“I thought he kept an antique shop in Marylebone.”

“He did, but he was also a registered moneylender, and all his savings were invested in house property. I have not yet been able to make an exact valuation, but on a rough computation I should say that his estate will prove to be at least £80,000.”

“Indeed, and who is the heir?”

“That is the very point that I have come about. His will was made many years ago, and I believe that it still stands. He left everything to his wife if she survived him; otherwise, everything was to go to his nephew, Herbert Reece. The point which I, as executor, have to be guided by is which of the two, the husband or the wife, died first. I read in this morning's paper the theory that the husband killed the wife at some time before 5:30 p.m. and afterwards met his death in a motor accident; but, naturally, I do not attach much importance to newspaper theories. That is why I've taken the liberty of coming to you.”

“The inquest has not yet been held, Mr. Settle. Why not wait for the jury's verdict?”

“I was afraid you might say that, Sir William. Of course, the will cannot be proved until after the inquest, but I wish, if possible, to avoid litigation. Under Mrs. Catchpool's will her property is bequeathed absolutely to her nephew, a lieutenant in the navy, and if she survived her husband, even by a minute, her estate will include all her husband's property as well.”

“What is the nephew's name?”

“Lieutenant Michael Sharp.”

Sir William Lorimer was betrayed into emitting a low whistle. “Why is there any need for haste?”

“I may tell you confidentially, Sir William, that I am being rather pestered by Mr. Catchpool's nephew, Herbert Reece, who regards himself as the sole heir and wishes me as executor to advance money to him to be charged against the estate. Personally, any advice you may be able to give me will greatly relieve me.”

“I think I can say offhand that it would be unwise at this stage to do anything on the supposition that either the husband or the wife died first. In your case I should wait for the evidence given at the inquest, which cannot be long delayed; but what you tell me about the wills is very interesting, and I am much obliged to you.”