Adventures of Martin Hewitt (11 page)

She was a strongly-built, sullen-looking girl, with prominent eyebrows and
a rather brutal expression of face, consequently her extreme nervous
agitation, her distorted face and her tears were the more noticeable.

“What is all this?” the surgeon asked as they reached the front door of
the house. “Girl in trouble?”

The policeman touched his helmet. “It’s murder, sir, this time,” he said,
“that’s what it is. I’ve sent for the inspector, and I’ve sent for you too,
sir; and of course I couldn’t allow anyone to leave the house till I’d handed
it over to the inspector. Come,” he added to the girl, as he saw her indoors,
“don’t let’s have any more o’ that. It looks bad, I can tell you.”

“Where’s the body?” asked the surgeon.

“First-floor front, sir—bed-sittin’-room. Ship’s captain, I’m told.
Throat cut awful.”

“Come,” said the surgeon, as he prepared to mount the stairs. “You’d
better come up too, Mr. Hewitt. You may spot something that will help if it’s
a difficult case.”

Together they entered the room, and indeed the sight was of a sort that
any maidservant might be excused for running away from. Between the central
table and the fireplace the body lay fully clothed, and the whole room was in
a great state of confusion, drawers lying about with the contents spilt,
boxes open, and papers scattered about. On a table was a bottle and a
glass.

“Robbery, evidently,” the surgeon said as he bent to his task. “See, the
pockets are all emptied and partly protruding at the top. The watch and chain
has been torn off, leaving the swivel in the button-hole.”

“Yes,” Hewitt answered, “that is so.” He had taken a rapid glance about
the room, and was now examining the stove, a register, with close attention.
He shut the trap above it and pushed to the room door. Then very carefully,
by the aid of the feather end of a quill pen which lay on the table, he
shifted the charred remains of a piece or two of paper from the top of the
cold cinders into the fire shovel. He carried them to the sideboard, nearer
the light from the window, and examined them minutely, making a few notes in
his pocket-book, and then, removing the glass shade from an ornament on the
mantelpiece, placed it over them.

“There’s something that
may
be of some use to the police,” he
remarked, “or may not, as the case may be. At any rate there it is, safe from
draughts, if they want it. There’s nothing distinguishable on one piece, but
I think the other has been a cheque.”

The surgeon had concluded his first rapid examination and rose to his
feet. “A very deep cut,” he said, “and done from behind, I think, as he was
sitting in his chair. Death at once, without a doubt, and has been dead seven
or eight hours I should say. Bed not slept in, you see. Couldn’t have done it
himself, that’s certain.”

“The knife,” Hewitt added, “is either gone or hidden. But here is the
inspector.”

The inspector was a stranger to Hewitt, and looked at him inquiringly,
till the surgeon introduced him and mentioned his profession. Then he said,
with the air of one unwillingly relaxing a rule of conduct, “All right,
doctor, if he’s a friend of yours. A little practice for you, eh, Mr.
Hewitt?”

“Yes,” Hewitt answered modestly. “I haven’t had the advantage of any
experience in the police force, and perhaps I may learn. Perhaps also I may
help you.”

This did not seem to strike the inspector as a very luminous probability,
and he stepped to the landing and ordered up the constable to make his full
report. He had brought another man with him, who took charge of the door. By
this time, thinly populated as was the neighbourhood, boys had begun to
collect outside.

The policeman’s story was simple. As he passed on his beat he had been
called by three women who had a light ladder planted against the window-sill
of the room. They feared something was wrong with the occupant of the room,
they said, as they could not make him hear, and his door was locked,
therefore they had brought the ladder to look in at the window, but now each
feared to go and look. Would he, the policeman, do so? He mounted the ladder,
looked in at the window, and saw—what was still visible.

He had then, at the women’s urgent request, entered the house, broken in
the door, and found the body to be dead and cold. He had told the women at
once, and warned them, in the customary manner, that any statement they might
be disposed to volunteer would be noted and used as evidence. The landlady,
who was a widow, and gave her name as Mrs. Beckle, said that the dead man’s
name was Abel Pullin, and that he was a captain in the merchant service, who
had occupied the room as a lodger since the end of last week only, when he
had returned from a voyage. So far as she knew no stranger had been in the
house since she last saw Pullin alive on the previous evening, and the only
person living in the house, who had since gone out, was Mr. Foster, also a
seafaring man, who had been a mate, but for some time had had no ship. He had
gone out an hour or so before the discovery was made—earlier than
usual, and without breakfast. That was all that Mrs. Beckle knew, and the
only other persons in the house were the servant and a Miss Walker, a school
teacher. They knew nothing; but Miss Walker was very anxious to be allowed to
go to her school, which of course he had not allowed till the inspector
should arrive.

“That’s all right,” the inspector said. “And you’re sure the door was
locked?”

“Yes, sir, fast.”

“Key in the lock?”

“No, sir. I haven’t seen any key.”

“Window shut, just as it is now?”

“Yes, sir; nothing’s been touched.”

The inspector walked to the window and opened it. It was a wooden-framed
casement window, fastened by the usual turning catch at the side, with a
heavy bow handle. He just glanced out and then swung the window carelessly to
on its hinges. The catch, however, worked so freely that the handle dropped
and the catch banged against the window frame as he turned away. Hewitt saw
this and closed the casement properly, after a glance at the sill.

The inspector made a rapid examination of the clothing on the body, and
then said, “It’s a singular thing about the key. The door was locked fast,
but there’s no key to be seen inside the room. Seems it must have been locked
from the outside.”

“Perhaps,” Hewitt suggested, “other keys on this lauding tit the lock.
It’s commonly the case in this sort of house.”

“That’s so,” the inspector admitted, with the air of encouraging a pupil.
“We’ll see.”

They walked across the landing to the nearest door. It had a small round
brass escutcheon, apparently recently placed there. “Yale lock;” said the
inspector. “That’s no good.” They went to the third door, which stood
ajar.

“Seems to be Mr. Foster’s room,” the inspector remarked; “here’s the key
inside.”

They took it across the landing and tried it. It fitted Captain Pullin’s
lock exactly and easily. “Hullo!” said the inspector, “look at that!”

Hewitt nodded thoughtfully. Just then he became aware of somebody behind
him, who had arrived noiselessly. He turned and saw a mincing little woman,
with a pursed mouth and lofty expression, who took no notice of him but
addressed the inspector. “I shall be glad to know, if you please,” she said,
“when I may leave the house and attend to my duties. My school has already
been open for three-quarters of an hour, and I cannot conceive why I am
detained in this manlier.”

“Very sorry, ma’am,” the inspector replied. “Matter of duty, of course.
Perhaps we shall be able to let you go presently. Meanwhile perhaps you can
help us. You’re not obliged to say anything, of course, but if you do we
shall make a note of it. You didn’t hear any uncommon noise in the night, did
you?”

“Nothing at all. I retired at ten and I was asleep soon after. I know
nothing whatever of the whole horrible affair, and I shall leave the house
entirely as soon as I can arrange.”

“Did you have any opportunity of observing Mr. Pullin’s manners or
habits?” Hewitt asked.

“Indeed, no. I saw nothing of him. But I could hear him very often, and
his language was not of the sort I could tolerate. He seemed to dominate the
whole house with his boorish behaviour, and he was frequently intoxicated. I
had already told Mrs. Beckle that if his stay were to continue mine should
cease. I avoided him, indeed, altogether, and I know nothing of him.”

“Do you know how he came here? Did he know Mrs. Beckle or anybody else in
the house before?”

“That also I can’t say. But Mrs. Beckle, I believe, knew all about him. In
fact I have sometimes thought there was some mysterious connection between
them, though what I cannot say. Certainly I cannot understand a landlady
keeping so troublesome a lodger.”

“You have seen a little more of Mr. Foster, of course?”

“Well, yes. He has been here so much longer. He was more endurable than
was Captain Pullin, certainly, though
he
was not always sober. The two
did not love one another, I believe.”

There the inspector pricked his ears. “They didn’t love one another, you
say, ma’am. Why was that?”

“Oh, I don’t really know. I fancy Mr. Foster wanted to borrow money or
something. He used to say Captain Pullin had plenty of money, and had once
sunk a ship purposely. I don’t know whether or not this was serious, of
course.”

Hewitt looked at her keenly. “Have you ever heard him called Captain
Pullin of the
Egret
?” he asked.

“No, I never heard the name of any vessel.”

“There’s just one thing, Miss Walker,” the inspector said, “that I’m
afraid I must insist on before you go. It’s only a matter of form, of course.
But I must ask you to let me look round your room—I shan’t disturb
it.”

Miss Walker tossed her head. “Very well then,” she said, turning toward
the door with the Yale lock, and producing the key; “there it is.” And she
flung the door open.

The inspector stepped within and took a perfunctory glance round. “That
will do; thank you,” he said; “I am sorry to have kept you. I think you may
go now, Miss Walker. You won’t be leaving here to-day altogether, I
suppose?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Good-morning.”

As she disappeared by the foot of the stairs the inspector remarked in a
jocular undertone, “Needn’t bother about
her.
She isn’t strong enough
to cut a hen’s throat.”

Just then Miss Walker appeared again and attempted to take her umbrella
from the stand—a heavy, tall oaken one. The ribs, however, had become
jammed between the stand and the wall; so Miss Walker, with one hand, calmly
lifted the stand and disengaged the umbrella with the other. “My eyes!”
observed the inspector, “she’s a bit stronger than she looks.”

The surgeon came upon the landing. “I shall send to the mortuary now,” he
said.

“I’ve seen all I want to see here. Have you seen the landlady?”

“No. I think she’s downstairs.”

They went downstairs and found Mrs. Beckle in the back room, much
agitated, though she was not the sort of woman one would expect to find
greatly upset by anything. She was thin, hard and rigid, with the rigidity
and sharpness that women acquire who have a long and lonely struggle with
poverty. She had at first very little to say. Captain Pullin had lodged with
her before. Last night he had been in all the evening and had gone to bed
about half-past eleven, and by a quarter past everybody else had done so, and
the house was fastened up for the night. The front door was fully bolted and
barred, and it was found so in the morning. No stranger had been in the house
for some days. The only person who had left before the discovery was Mr.
Foster, and he went away when only the servant was up.

This was unusual, as he usually took breakfast in the house. What had
frightened the girl so much, she thought, was the fact that after the door
had been burst open she peeped into the room, out of curiosity, and was so
horrified at the sight that she ran out of the house. She had always been a
hardworking girl, though of sullen habits.

The inspector made more particular inquiries as to Mr. Foster, and after
some little reluctance Mrs. Beckle gave her opinion that he was very short of
money indeed. He had lost his ship sometime back through a neglect of duty,
and he was not of altogether sober habits; he had consequently been unable to
get another berth as yet. It was a fact, she admitted, that he owed her a
considerable sum for rent, but he had enough clothes and nautical implements
in his boxes to cover that and more.

Hewitt had been watching Mrs. Beckle’s face very closely, and now suddenly
asked, with pointed emphasis, “How long have you known Mr. Pullin?”

Mrs. Beckle faltered and returned Hewitt’s steadfast gaze with a quick
glance of suspicion. “Oh,” she said, “I have known him, on and off, for a
long time.”