Who Killed Charmian Karslake? (16 page)

A keen observer might have seen a gleam of relief in the inspector's face.

“I am sorry to hear that, superintendent,” he said politely. “I don't suppose we shall make any exciting discoveries today.”

“I hope as nobody else will be attacked,” Superintendent Bower said solemnly.

They turned into the Bull Ring together; then the superintendent went across to the police station. The other two walked more slowly past the church and along to the High Street. Instead of turning up this, however, somewhat to his companion's surprise the inspector kept along Burton Street, which was more or less a continuation of the one by which they had come from the Abbey.

“There's a Mrs. Mary Gwender lives along here,” the inspector said, gazing up at the names over the quaint little shop doors.

“Yes?” Harbord said interrogatively.

“You noticed the name on the box lid that our worthy friend” – with a backward jerk of his head – “found in the shrubbery?”

Harbord nodded. “McCall and Saunders, wasn't it?”

“It was,” Stoddart assented. “Well, though the address was not readable, it looked as if the box might have been at the side of the pool some time too. I made out that McCall and Saunders was the name of a very big firm of wholesale confectionery in Queen Anne Street, Birmingham. I rang them up. At first they didn't seem able to help me at all. They said it would mean searching their books back it might be for years. At last, however, I convinced them it was a police matter and would have to be thoroughly gone into. They set to work on their books and an hour ago they rang me up. It seems that just before Christmas a large purchase of these boxes which contained what is known in the trade as ‘‘mixed goodies' was made by a Mrs. Mary Gwender of Hepton. She has a small business in Burton Street, Hepton, I was informed. She had been a customer of McCall and Saunders for years, but her orders had usually been very small, rarely if ever exceeding a dozen boxes of mixed goodies or perhaps of chocolates and a few pounds of loose sweets; therefore the size of this order made it remarkable. I had previously, as I thought, been round to all the sweet shops there are in Hepton – Goodman's, Murray's and Reynolds', without success. This Mrs. Gwender's must be a very small affair, or I should not have overlooked it. They didn't have a number, just Mrs. Mary Gwender, Burton Street. But I fancy that Hepton does not bother itself much about numbers.”

They walked on, the inspector's keen eyes glancing from side to side until they reached the end of Burton Street and could see the open country beyond. Then in the very last block a couple of doors from the end they came upon the name they were seeking, Mary Gwender, in dingy, unobtrusive letters, over a small, stone-built house little more than a cottage. It stood down a step, and there was a flat, stone-paved space in front of the door. An oblong, many-paned window at the side held a few boxes of pins, needle-cases, cards of buttons, reels of cotton, and such-like small articles. Across the middle of the window there ran a narrow shelf on which were ranged a few glass jars of sweets.

“Well, this is a rum sort of place,” the inspector said as he stepped down.

Though it was obviously a shop there was no hospitable, open door. Instead, it was firmly closed and was apparently to be unfastened by turning the brass knob. The inspector hesitated and then applied his knuckles to the old door from which the paint was peeling off in large blisters. After a pause they heard shuffling footsteps crossing the floor towards them. The door was opened gingerly a very little way and there peeped out at them an ancient, withered face surmounted by a curious sort of headgear which might be supposed to be a cap, and which probably had been white in the earlier stages of its existence.

The inspector took off his hat politely.

“Mrs. Mary Gwender?”

The door was opened wider.

“Yes, that's me,” a thin old voice piped out. “What be you gentlemen a-wanting? I ain't been doin' nothin' wrong.”

“I am sure of that, Mrs. Gwender,” the inspector said reassuringly. He managed to insert his shoulder between the old lady and the doorpost. “You will ask us in, won't you? And I want a few of those delicious-looking sweets of yours for my children.”

“Eh! They are good.” The old crone moved aside and let him push the door open. “Though I says it as shouldn't, you won't find nothing better anywhere than Mary Gwender's cough balls, all home-made too.”

“Ah! That's the sort of stuff I want,” the inspector said, following her into the low, stuffy apartment which held a few chairs and a long board on trestles apparently representing a counter. “All home-made you say, and nothing but good stuff in them I'll warrant. Cough balls, you call 'em – just the very thing for the kids when they get a cold. And those goodies up there” – pointing at one of the bottles in the window with his stick – “did you make those, Mrs. Gwender?”

The old lady shook her palsied head.

“I did not, sir. I never make anything but the cough balls and they keep me pretty busy, for all the children round has got to know of them and comes for them when they has colds.”

“I am not surprised. I'll take a pound, if you please.”

“A pound! I don't sell them in that fashion, sir. Twelve a penny they be and good value, too.”

“That I am sure of, Mrs. Gwender. I will take eight dozen, then, please. And a box of mixed goodies, if you please. I am told there are none in Hepton to come near them. A tin box, those I am speaking of are in.”

Mrs. Gwender shook her head.

“I haven't got any o' the sort, sir. I hev got the little cardboard boxes of chocolates, fourpence each, and the best chocolates at that.”

“You haven't got one of that sort!” the inspector said in a disappointed tone. “And yet I am sure it was here I was told to come for them.” He drew the lid from his pocket. “See, Mrs. Gwender, this is the top of one of them. I was hoping I could get a dozen or so of them. I heard they were so good.”

“Is it that you mean?” The old lady peered forward and took the lid in her shaking old hand. “No, I hain't got any o' them now, sir. I'm out of 'em just at the moment. But that one did come from me, that's right enough.”

“Ah! I thought I hadn't made any mistake,” the inspector said in a satisfied tone. “Now I wonder if you could tell me who bought it, Mrs. Gwender?”

The old lady looked astonished at the question.

“My, how could I. I generally ha' one or two in stock and when they are sold out I get in a few more – a quarter of a dozen maybe. But anybody as is passing might look in for one. They are a bit too much money for the chillern – that's why I don't get more. Eightpence each, that's what they are, and 'tain't often chillern has that to lay out. It's mostly the mothers as buy these. Her ladyship from the Abbey she bought all I had left at Christmas time and gave me a big order for some more, and she bought pretty near all the loose goodies too. Goin' to make pretty muslin bags and put 'em in she was, she said.”

“Her ladyship at the Abbey!” The inspector pricked up his ears. “Her ladyship hasn't any children to give them to. Leastways I should say her little chap is too young.”

“He is a deal!” The old lady shook her head at him. “The father of a family should know it ud be just the death of him.”

“That's what I thought, but I didn't care to say so. Not when I was talking to a lady of your experience. But who did her ladyship want them for then, I wonder?”

“For the Christmas tree as they give to the servants and their friends,” Mrs. Gwender explained. “Her ladyship she come round herself and went into pretty near every shop in the town buying presents. For they give a big party and all sorts o' things to the school-children too.”

“It might have been that she wanted the boxes of sweets for,” the inspector said with a disappointed air.

The old woman nodded.

“Yes! It might be. I can't tell 'ee any more, sir. How many cough balls might it be you said you wanted?”

“Oh, about eight dozen,” the inspector said carelessly.

Mrs. Gwender opened her eyes.

“I haven't that lot by me, bless 'ee. Three dozen maybe I might spare 'ee. But they take time to make and I have my reg'lar customers to think of.”

Three dozen made quite a substantial parcel, however, the cough balls being large and generous value for the money. The inspector paid his threepence and bore the balls off manfully to his hypothetical children.

Outside he looked at Harbord.

“Well?”

Harbord looked back. “Well, sir?”

“We do not seem to be much more forward and yet we are,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “We have a pretty wide field to search through. But I think our best plan will be to go direct to Lady Moreton and see if she can give us any information about the boxes. She may remember something about them and who she gave them to. We can but try.”

Fortune favoured them. As they were going into the library they saw Lady Moreton coming down the hall.

The inspector went forward.

“Can I have a word with your ladyship?”

She looked rather surprised as she assented and turned into the library with them.

The inspector held out his box lid.

“As far as we can ascertain, this is the top of a box that was given away by you last Christmas.”

“Was it?” Lady Moreton looked at it carefully and then shook her head. “It may have been. I don't know. I have no recollection of such a box. But of course one has a good many things to give away at Christmas and it is impossible to remember –”

“This particular box, or these particular boxes – for I believe you bought several of them – were procured from a small, a very small, shop in Burton Street kept by a Mrs. Mary Gwender.”

Lady Penn-Moreton's face lighted up.

“Of course I remember. Poor old Mary Gwender, she was so pleased and I believe I bought most of her little stock. I think – I feel pretty sure, all Mary Gwender's boxes were put with the things for the Christmas tree.”

“Can you be quite sure, Lady Moreton? This is important.”

Lady Moreton hesitated a moment, then she said positively:

“Yes, I am quite sure they were. I remember thinking that I should want such a lot for the school-children and that it would be better to get them all alike from one of the big shops. But I don't understand. Of what importance is this wretched little tin box?”

“Oh! It is just a trifling affair, but it is intriguing me a good deal just at present. You know any trifle may turn out of importance just now.”

“Of course it may, and I see you do not mean to tell me anything about it. So if you do not want to ask me anything else –” She turned to the door.

The inspector opened it.

“I am much obliged to your ladyship.”

When they were once more alone he turned to Harbord.

“Well, I do not know that we are much forwarder. But I think we are getting a little nearer our goal. Was Mr. John Larpent here for Christmas, I wonder?”

“Or Mr. Richard Moreton?” Harbord supplemented.

“Dicky Moreton was not, I can tell you at once,” the inspector assured him. “He was travelling about on that protracted honeymoon of his. But who knows where those boxes may have got to, or been used for?”

“You must say as little as you can; don't interrupt her, Mr. Juggs, and don't ask her many questions. You will understand that this interview is rather in the nature of an experiment and is only allowed because of the extreme gravity of the surrounding circumstances. You and Mr. Moreton only are to be in the room. I will remain in the passage just outside the door with the nurse and Inspector Stoddart, and at the very first sign of exhaustion touch the bell on the little table beside the bed.”

Mr. Juggs nodded. His weather-beaten face was all puckered up, a tear stood in the corner of his eye. He blew his nose and muttered something about a cold. Dicky was screwing his monocle more firmly into his eye and appeared to be trying to shelter himself behind his father-in-law.

A screen was arranged round the door of the sick-room. Mr. Juggs and his son-in-law went inside, the white-capped nurse came out and at a sign from the doctor Inspector Stoddart, who had been waiting at the end of the passage, joined them. For a minute or two they could hear nothing from the sick-room, but a muttered exclamation came from the millionaire. Then came Mrs. Richard's voice, but so terribly weak and altered:

“It – it is wonderful to see you two. I expect I'm such a fright I have scared the breath out of the two of you.”

“Not you, not you, my girl,” the millionaire replied, steadying his voice and speaking as clearly as his emotion would allow. “What we want to do is to find out who has brought you to this state. Who was it bashed you over, Sadie girl? That's what we want to hear.”

There was a pause. The unseen listeners held their breath. At last came a feeble, little laugh and Sadie's voice:

“Poor old Dad! And I can't help you a bit. For I don't know –”

“Don't know!” Mr. Juggs echoed. “Sadie, I can't get the way of this.”

“How is it you don't know, sweetheart?” Dicky's voice was hardly recognizable; his words came in a slow, halting fashion.

Outside Inspector Stoddart thrust his head forward. The doctor pushed the door a little more open, holding it in his hand.

“Because I didn't see anyone,” Mrs. Richard's weak voice went on, growing a little stronger now. “I was just looking at something – something I had found – and I heard a queer sort of sound behind me – like someone rushing and jumping – and then a great, black thing sprung out upon me and I was knocked down, with a sharp pain that went straight through my head, and I didn't seem to know any more, not till I opened my eyes and found myself here in this bed.”