The Ginger Cat Mystery (9 page)

“The doctor admires Mrs. Cornell?” asked Vereker.

“They're absolutely infatuated with one another and can't hide it,” replied Carstairs bluntly. “Anyhow, at the conclusion of the story, Redgrave expressed a desire to see the ghost and Mrs. Cornell said she'd get the keys to the music room. They disappeared together to satisfy the doctor's yearning after the psychic. An hour later, about ten o'clock, Mrs. Cornell returned alone.”

“Was she looking quite normal?” interrupted Vereker quickly.

“Well, yes, on the whole. There might have been a trace of tears in her eyes. At the time I thought she had been crying.”

“No news about the ghost?”

“No. Redgrave had been disappointed. As it was getting late and he had to make a call on a patient on his way home, he left without returning to the drawing-room. Mrs. Cornell made his apologies for him.”

“This friendship with the doctor commenced some time ago, in fact prior to the death of Mrs. Cornell's husband?” asked Vereker.

“Yes. Apart from any moral standpoint, and as far as I know there has been nothing immoral in their relations. It's a very foolish thing for a handsome young doctor who is a bachelor to entertain any kind of friendship, however platonic, with a married woman. It's simply asking for trouble. When the married woman is young and beautiful and her husband very many years her senior the situation is doubly hazardous.”

“Did old John Cornell know anything about it?”

“Frank told me he knew all about it and that, when someone who was anxious about the matter informed him, he angrily retorted that he'd trust Redgrave with his life as well as his wife, adding that when he objected to the friendship it would be time enough for those whom it didn't concern to worry.”

“What did Frank Cornell think of the business?”

“He was wholly indifferent. Up to a very recent date he liked Redgrave and was also on excellent terms with Jo. Jo, by the way, is short for Josephine, Mrs. Cornell's name and Frank always called her by that abbreviation. He never could screw himself up to using the word mother to a woman not very much older than himself.”

“After Mrs. Cornell returned to the drawing-room, what happened?” asked Vereker.

“As the Manor ghost had been so disobliging, conversation petered out and at ten-thirty the ladies said good night and retired. Frank and I sat smoking till eleven and then turned in.”

“You never saw him alive again?”

“No.”

“Strange! Your bedroom is next door to the one he occupied.”

“That's so.”

“You didn't hear him leave his room?”

“When I get into bed I simply shut my ears to all the incidental noises that occur in a house at night. I couldn't have been between the sheets ten minutes before I was sound asleep. In any case the walls of the old place are so thick and sound-proof that the occupant of one room can't hear even loud conversation in the next. I tried this out since the tragedy just to satisfy my curiosity.”

“It's a wonder no one heard the pistol shot!” exclaimed Vereker.

“I don't think so. It's only in the popular detective story that half the house are awake and some of them on the prowl at the moment of a tragedy. Old Mrs. Mayo, who is a light sleeper and highly nervous, said at one o'clock she heard a noise as if I had taken off and flung one of my shoes with a bang on the floor. She occupied the room next to mine on the side nearer the corridor window. She said, like the nervous man in the old story, she lay awake half an hour anxiously waiting for the sound of the other shoe but it failed to happen and she fell asleep without hearing any further noise.”

“Which was Miss Mayo's bedroom?”

“The one opposite her mother's and Mrs. Cornell's is the one next to Mrs. Mayo's at the end of the corridor.”

“Would you hear anyone passing your door in walking along the corridor?” asked Vereker.

“Oh, yes, if you're awake and particularly listening. I hear the maid passing my door as she takes round the morning tea and hot water.”

“Have you any theory as to who shot your friend?” asked Vereker bluntly.

“It's dangerous to express any theory on such a dreadful affair even if you have one,” replied Carstairs guardedly. “I might in turn ask you what's your explanation of the crime. As a detective you must have formulated a theory from the facts you've gathered.”

“I haven't got as far as that yet,” said Vereker cautiously, “but the time will doubtless come. Just now you hinted that Frank Cornell's relations with his stepmother and Doctor Redgrave had not been altogether cordial. What caused the friction?”

“That's a very curious story and one that I don't feel I ought to divulge in the nature of the circumstances. Apart from my friendship with Frank the affair was no concern of mine,” replied Carstairs and lit another cigarette.

“It might throw some light on the business and help me in my investigation. If the story assists in the slightest way in bringing the murderer to justice, I think you can feel you're doing the right thing in divulging it. As his friend you might even say it was your duty. What do you think?”

“I'm listening to the voice of the charmer and he's charming ever so wisely,” remarked Carstairs and for some minutes sat in meditative silence. At length he suddenly drew himself together as if he had made a difficult and momentous decision. “Perhaps you're right, Vereker,” he said with animation, “but I should like to make one or two preliminary remarks. In the first place I'm not sure whether the story I'm about to tell you has any bearing whatever on the subsequent murder of my friend. I have my own ideas which I shan't express, but you can draw your own inferences from my remarks. Secondly, whatever happens this must be a secret between ourselves. The facts may help you and they may not, but whatever you do you mustn't disclose that I told you. Do you agree to the terms?”

“I give you my word of honour,” replied Vereker sincerely.

“That's enough for me. I know I can rely on you,” said Carstairs, and having poured out coffee, passed Vereker his cigar-case. He then moved his chair round to the other side of the table so that he could speak more intimately.

“Of course you've heard all about the exhumation of John Cornell's body?” he asked.

“Yes, I've read all about that and naturally wondered whether it had any connection with the shooting of Frank Cornell.”

“A natural question for a detective to ask, I should say. I've been wondering, too, but let me explain. You know all about the exhumation, the examination by the Home Office analyst, his report and the verdict of the coroner's jury. Doctor Redgrave gave pneumonia as the cause of old John Cornell's death and he may have made that statement in all sincerity. We must keep an open mind and make no charges we can't substantiate. But behind the scenes is a very strange story. John Cornell was in perfect health only a few days prior to his sudden death. His illness began with a headache, persistent vomiting and convulsions. For a day or so he was wildly delirious, then fell into a profound coma and died within a week. Now these symptoms are probably the symptoms of pneumonia and as everyone knows pneumonia is a deadly business, especially with a man of his advanced years. He was buried and nothing more was said or thought about the matter for the time being. Six months later came the bombshell of the exhumation. This was due to representations made by his blind brother, David Cornell, to the Home Office which was compelled to take action in the matter. A very curious set of circumstances led to this action on David Cornell's part. In the first place, though he was never very friendly with his brother's young wife, he was never openly hostile, though he freely expressed his opinion to his brother and to all and sundry that he thought it was a very imprudent marriage for a man of his years to contract. Like most of us he thought the young woman was making a
mariage de convenance
or, to put it bluntly, was after the old boy's moneybags. From Jo's subsequent behaviour we were most of us, I speak especially for myself, inclined to think we had judged the young lady very harshly. She was an affectionate and good wife to John Cornell. Some time after their arrival at Marston, Dr. Redgrave appeared on the scene and soon he and Mrs. Cornell became very friendly. This friendship arose out of Redgrave's interest in her domestic improvements in the Manor. He's a man of great refinement with a special knowledge of what we may call the growth of the English house. He had been here in Marston some years before the Cornells bought the place and always had a great love for the beautiful old building. But he's a very handsome and charming man as well, and it wasn't long before Jo showed openly that she had conceived a great admiration for him as a man apart from any qualifications he might have on theories of house renovation. He, in turn, undoubtedly began to admire Jo as a woman. I can quite understand all this. Redgrave ought at this point to have looked at things dispassionately and from a worldly point of view. But as someone has said, love's not an affair of the intellect and instead of avoiding any risks of a scandal he stuck obstinately to his friendship. Sometimes the very best women and men can do this and do it successfully, but the sudden death of John Cornell coming at a period when it was clear that his wife and Dr. Redgrave were in love was, to put it in any way you like, a difficult thing for the world to swallow without some kind of suspicious comment. The whole affair might have ended there quite harmlessly if I hadn't unfortunately come on the scene.”

For some minutes Carstairs sat in lugubrious silence.

“Yes, I was the
deus ex machina
that indirectly caused all the trouble,” he said at length. “All my life I've been dogged by this unhappy fate of causing trouble—sometimes quite unintentionally. In that respect I must have been born under some malignant star, but I'm not going to excuse myself. It has happened and can't be helped now. To return to the subject, old Cornell's sudden death gave rise to a certain amount of secret suspicion among those acquainted with the circumstances. Passion has always been one of the most powerful motives for murder and even if there was not one iota of foundation for suspicion in this case, it was almost certain to arise in some minds. I knew nothing of Redgrave and not very much about Jo, and though I'm not prone to suspicion, old Cornell's death struck me as strange, especially when Frank told me of the symptoms. However, we discussed the subject and then in a repentant mood dismissed it as unworthy of ourselves. For a time neither of us referred to it again. Then last July, Frank asked me down to the Manor as his guest. I accepted the invitation and came. I sometimes wish I'd never set eyes on the place, but it's no use indulging in these idle regrets. I came and ran up against George Tapp who had been John Cornell's valet for over a year.”

“To interrupt you for a minute, Carstairs, may I ask how John Cornell left his money?” suddenly questioned Vereker.

“Jo, of course, had been well provided for by a marriage settlement, but she benefited again very considerably by her husband's death. Frank was the residuary legatee and became a wealthy man. Old David Cornell got an addition to his yearly income and Stella received a legacy of five thousand pounds clear of death duties.”

“Was any proviso made about Frank predeceasing his stepmother?” asked Vereker.

“Yes. Old John Cornell, knowing his son's ability to spend recklessly, took care to leave his money in the hands of trustees. Frank could only squander the interest on the capital and I believe some of his creditors have garnished him. In case of his death the whole of the capital reverted without any reservations to his stepmother, Jo.”

“And now for the life of me, I can't guess what part George Tapp could play in your story,” said Vereker.

“I'm going to tell you about George Tapp. He's one of Nature's saturnine jokes. About a year previous to his death, John Cornell lost his old valet and was looking for another. He was making inquiries to this end when Doctor Redgrave suddenly discovered the right man for him. He told Jo that he knew the very man for the job and Jo told John Cornell. To cut the story short, Tapp arrived and was the perfect valet. John Cornell was essentially a kindly man and he liked George Tapp immensely. He almost treated Tapp as a companion. Everything went well until I arrived at Marston Manor on my first visit after Frank had become its owner. Tapp was now Frank's valet and a very good one, too. But I had met Tapp before in very peculiar and distressing circumstances. At the time, my mother and I and my sister had a very nice house at Richmond. It was not a magnificent place for we weren't what you call wealthy, but it suited us admirably and was very comfortable. We had been in Richmond only a year when a very serious epidemic of disease broke out. Its victims were generally people of mature years and the young. Both my mother and my sister caught this epidemic and died. At first it was thought to be a kind of influenza germ, but after a very careful investigation by medical experts it was found to be cerebro-spinal fever, or meningitis, a most deadly infectious disease. Now it's a peculiarity of this disease that an epidemic is generally caused by what is called a germ-carrier, and after considerable trouble and difficulty the germ-carrier was tracked down. That man was poor George Tapp. He was a milk roundsman in our district and I knew him well by sight. Formerly he had been a gentleman's valet, but after the war he came back to look for another job as his master had been killed in the battle of the Somme. Being a countryman and knowing all about the sale of milk, for he had taken round milk as a boy in his native village, he took the job in Richmond as a stop gap until he could return to valeting.”

“Did Tapp know he was a germ-carrier when the medical inquiry tracked him down?” asked Vereker, deeply interested in this strange story.