The Ginger Cat Mystery (7 page)

“You knew nothing about his intention of changing into a lounge suit as if he was going to go out that night?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“As far as you know he didn't go out?” asked Vereker with sudden earnestness.

“To all appearances he didn't. Crowley, the butler, locked up as usual and no one can let themselves in after that unless he gives orders for one of the doors to be left open. Still, I wouldn't be positive.”

“Why did he change his clothes, I wonder?” remarked Vereker almost to himself.

“Possibly changed his mind after he'd changed his clothes,” suggested Tapp helpfully and after a period of hesitation added, “It wasn't the first time, either.”

“You mean he sometimes changed from evening dress into a lounge suit after dinner?”

“Not so frequently of late, but at one time nearly every night. When I was looking after old Mr. Cornell, I used to keep an eye on Mr. Frank's clothes and shoes. Nearly every morning I used to find he'd changed because he left the lounge suit on a chair where I used to find it next morning. More often it was on the floor, for he was a very untidy young gentleman.”

“Which lounge suit did he wear?”

“He has four or five, sir, all in the wardrobe. It might be any one of them according to his fancy.”

“Which pair of shoes did he wear the night he was killed?” asked Vereker, glancing at several pairs arranged on a boot rack.

“A pair of heavy brown brogues. They're there under that chair, sir. The inspector put them there.”

Vereker at once crossed the room to the chair and picked up the pair of shoes. After a brief glance at them he laid them down again, a curious look of satisfaction on his lean face. He then made a closer survey of the room; opened the window, looked out and shut it again. He examined the catch and was about to move away from the window when his eye caught sight of three parallel scratches on the paint of one of the jambs. Pulling out his magnifying glass, he scrutinized these scratches and measured them with a small steel tape. At the same time he began to hum the waltz from
Faust
, a sure sign that he was mildly excited. Turning away from the window he picked up Frank Cornell's brown brogues once more and turned them over to look at the soles and heels. Instantly his humming ceased and his brow was furrowed in thought. He replaced the shoes and turned to Tapp, who was watching him as closely as a cat watches a mouse.

“You're sure these are the shoes Mr. Frank Cornell wore on that Sunday night, Tapp?”

“Certain, sir,” replied the valet.

“That's very interesting,” continued Vereker enigmatically and walked round the room. He looked critically at the pictures on the wall, noted the two shot-guns, a twelve-bore and a sixteen, which stood on the right side of the wardrobe and a bag of golf clubs on the left. At sight of the golf clubs Vereker at once crossed the room and pulling out the driver addressed an imaginary ball. Replacing the club, he repeated the pantomime with a brassie and a putter. Then he turned to the dress suit on the bed and looked at it critically.

“How old was Mr. Frank Cornell, Tapp?” he asked.

“Twenty-three last birthday, sir.”

“A small, light man?”

“About five foot six, I should say, and not more than nine stone weight at the most.”

Without further remark Vereker turned to the mantelpiece on which stood four photographs in silver frames. They were of four young women of about Frank Cornell's own age. The one farthest on the left Vereker recognized as Miss Stella Cornell to whom he had spoken that morning in the paddock near the bungalow. The one on the extreme right was taken in theatrical costume and remembering that Frank Cornell's fiancée was an aspirant to the stage he picked up the photo and looked carefully at it.

“This is Miss Valerie Mayo, I suppose?” he asked, turning to Tapp.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who these two ladies in the centre are, Tapp?”

“No, sir,” replied Tapp after looking at them. “Must have been two of Mr. Frank's latest friends. Except for the photo of Miss Stella, who's his cousin, I think he changed the others every time he came down from London.”

“A gay Lothario, eh?” exclaimed Vereker.

“If that means a bit of a lad, sir, I should say yes.”

“Strange how these small men have a tremendous capacity for affection. Did you find him an easy master to get on with, Tapp?”

“Yes, sir, one of the easiest. No one could help liking him. He was always ready for a joke and a laugh and simply threw his money away. That's why he was such a favourite with the ladies. He was young and he'd have learned better if he had lived.”

“Have you any idea who killed him, Tapp?” asked Vereker, suddenly turning round and looking the man straight in the eyes.

The unexpected question seemed to throw Tapp off his guard. His face, which Vereker had already noticed was not a particularly open one, at once assumed a shifty and apprehensive look.

“I know nothing about the business, sir,” he said after a moment's hesitation.

“Of course not. If you did, you'd have informed the police inspector. But you've thought about the matter like everyone else, I should say, and I naturally presumed you'd have formed some kind of theory.”

“Not in my line, sir. When the young gentleman was found dead, I thought it must be suicide and I says to myself that's what comes of getting into debt with drink and young women. Seeing they can't find the pistol it must be murder, I suppose.”

“How do you know Mr. Frank Cornell was in debt, Tapp?” asked Vereker quietly.

“Well, sir, he said as much to me himself. When he was looking very down in the mouth only a few days ago I asked him if he was feeling unwell. ‘No, Tapp, not what you'd call unwell,' he said and asked me, ‘Have you ever been up to the eyes in debt, Tapp?' ‘No, sir, thank God,' I said and he replied, ‘Well, never get up to the eyes in debt. It's worse than feeling unwell; it's more like frizzling in hell—in a supercharged hell,' was the words, to be accurate.”

For some moments there was silence while Vereker stood lost in thought and then, as if waking from a day-dream, he said, “Is the music room always locked, Tapp?”

“Always, sir. Occasionally Mrs. Cornell has it dusted and aired, but that's very seldom.”

“Do you know why it's kept locked?”

“Supposed to be haunted, sir. Mr. John Cornell was a keen spiritualist and it was his orders that it was to be kept locked.”

“Anyone ever seen the ghost?”

“Only Mrs. Cornell. Not long ago she went into the room after dark to look for some music and came out in hysterics. She said when she opened the door the piano suddenly began to play very softly. She looked up and saw a young woman in her wedding dress sitting at the instrument.”

“Very romantic,” remarked Vereker smiling. “I wonder how many ghosts wander about in their wedding dresses. Their name must be legion. As it's broad daylight and I'm not easily scared, I think I'll have a good look at the music room. Who keeps the key?”

“The butler, sir. Shall I get it for you?”

“Thanks. I'll wait for you on the half-landing.”

Tapp having disappeared, Vereker promptly opened the bedroom wardrobe and swiftly examined every lounge suit it contained one by one. In the midst of this operation he suddenly uttered an exclamation of surprise and, picking off some almost invisible object from one of the garments, inserted it in his pocket book between a sheet of folded notepaper. Satisfied that nothing more was to be learned here, he replaced the suits in the wardrobe and proceeded leisurely down the half-flight of stairs to the small landing off which the music room opened. Examining the door, he noticed the large, old-fashioned keyhole of the lock, and taking a lead pencil from his pocket pushed it through as if to remove some obstruction. Then bending down he peered into the room, noting the fairly wide angle of vision the aperture permitted. He stood erect once more and was musing as to what type of story had given rise to the Marston ghost, when Crawley, the old butler, appeared at the foot of the stairs and ascended as quickly as his stiff limbs would allow. In his hand he held two keys, a large, old-fashioned one and a smaller, modern one. On reaching the half-landing, he apologized to Vereker for keeping him waiting.

“Had to search for the keys, sir,” he explained. “Mrs. Cornell used them last and forgot to give them back direct to me. Instead of putting them on the usual nail she left them on one of the shelves of my pantry.”

“When did she use them last, Crawley?” asked Vereker casually.

“Just the other day. In fact, the very night Mr. Frank was killed, sir. It was some time after dinner she asked for them and said that Doctor Redgrave who was dining at the house that night was going to try his luck with the Manor ghost. He had never seen a spook before and was anxious to see one.”

“Did she replace the keys that night?”

“No, sir. After locking up the other doors, I remembered the music room keys and glanced to see if they had been put back. They weren't there and not wishing to trouble madam about the matter I let it slip.”

“You tried the music room door before you turned in?” asked Vereker.

“Certainly, sir. It was locked all right and that's one of the reasons I didn't bother madam about the keys that night.”

“Didn't Inspector Heather look into the room to-day?” asked Vereker with a shade of surprise.

“That I couldn't say, sir. He went round the house with madam this morning, and if he did, she must have come for the keys and put them back herself. I was over in Marston village all morning about arrangements for the young master's funeral.”

“What did you do about the keys last night? Did you notice they hadn't been replaced on their nail?”

“Bless you, sir, I wasn't worrying about keys last night. I had other things to think about and didn't get to bed till the early hours. The whole house is so upset that I don't know half the time what I'm doing. My memory, too, is getting shocking bad and it's about time I packed up with service.”

“You'd be sorry to leave Mrs. Cornell, wouldn't you?” asked Vereker.

“Yes, sir, in some ways. She's a very nice lady and very good to her servants. Never grumbles but she's firm and will have everything done properly. We all get on very well with madam, but there's no entertaining here like real gentry entertain. You couldn't say we had a wine cellar, leastways not what I'd call a wine cellar. Just a few bottles of this and that for occasions. People nowadays don't seem to know how to live and enjoy themselves decent. This is a dull place. No horses, no dogs, no huntin', no nothing!”

With these remarks and a lugubrious air Crawley inserted the larger key in the music room door, turned it and flung the door open.

“Do you believe in spirits, Crawley?” asked Vereker as he looked round the gloomy, low-ceilinged room.

“If they're good, a drop now and then don't do you no harm, but there's nothing to compare with good wine, sir,” replied the butler, his mind evidently still pursuing its former train of thought.

“I mean ghosts, Crawley,” said Vereker with a broad smile.

“Beg pardon, sir, I thought you was referring to refreshments. Ghosts? Bless my soul, I've lived with ghosts all my life, sir. Last two places I was in both had ghosts hauntin' them.”

“Ever see one, Crawley?”

“Not a ghost of a one, sir, if you'll pardon the joke. I won't say there isn't no such thing, as some do, but with me seeing's believing and I've not seen one yet. Don't particular want to, neither. There's plenty to do with the living without troubling about them that's dead and gone.”

“By the way, Crawley, what's this other key?” asked Vereker as he extracted from the music room door its larger key and another one dangling to it on a small circle of cord.

“For the door leading down into the garden, sir,” replied the butler.

“I see,” remarked Vereker and crossed the room to the door the butler had indicated.

This was a modern door. It opened on to a winding flight of stone steps which led down to the gravel path running through the spacious gardens at the back of the house.

“Were this door and steps here when you came to the Manor, Crawley?” asked Vereker.

“No, sir. That was one of Mr. John Cornell's improvements. Although the room was never used much, Mr. David Cornell used to come and sit here at the piano for hours with Miss Stella. He used to let himself in from the garden by that door. But he said he didn't like the feel of the room. Although he can't see, he said he was sure it was a haunted room, so Mr. John bought him a piano for the bungalow and he hasn't been in the house for over a year now.”

“Has he still got the keys to the doors?” asked Vereker immediately.

“Not that I know of, sir. There was some argument about those duplicate keys. Mr. David said he returned them to Mr. John, and I know for certain they were in my key cupboard for a while. Then they went missing. We never found them and didn't trouble any more about them.”

“I suppose he used to come here and compose,” remarked Vereker.

“That's what he called it, sir. I don't know nothing about music, but all that twiddling about on the keys don't seem music to me. I like a good song like ‘John Peel' and that one which starts with ‘In cellar cool.' But he's a proper musician, I must say. I once came in here when he was working and he asked me what he could play for me. I asked him if he knew ‘My dear old Dutch' and he simply played it right away, I was glad he couldn't see that day because he played it so beautiful the tears were running down my cheeks before he'd finished. I'd lost my old missus just five years before to the very day.”

Crawley heaved a sigh and added, “Yes, sir, he's a proper musician all right.”