Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (19 page)

 
          
 
Utterson rose, stiff-kneed after his long
attendance before the fire. As he moved toward the door of the library, his
shadow joined the others in their silent parade.

 
          
 
Once he reached the hall beyond, the knocking
sounded again. The front door was being tapped upon rather than pounded; but to
Utterson, unaccustomed as he was to any disturbance at this hour, the noise
seemed loud enough to wake the dead.
But not those scullery
sluggards asleep in their beds backstairs.
Now, in Pope's absence, he'd
have to do the honors himself.
Most irregular.
High
time to have it out with the servant concerning his nightly meanderings; either
that or add a footman to the staff.

 
          
 
A footman would have turned up the gaslight,
or at least carried a candle, but Utterson groped his way along the hall aided
only by the faint glow issuing from the library entrance behind him.

 
          
 
The tempo of the rapping increased its
urgency, ceasing as the solicitor unlocked the door, only to be replaced by the
first chime of the church bell.

 
          
 
He opened the front door. There was a
shadow-shape on the stoop. Now the shape became a figure as it moved forward
into the dim light. The church bell boomed as Utterson stared, incredulous.

 
          
 
"You—?" he gasped.

 
          
 
But the word was lost in the clang of the bell
and the crack of the blow that crushed his skull.

 
          
 
A shock.
A truly dreadful shock.

 
          
 
Hester put the newspaper down beside the
service of a meal she would never finish.

 
          
 
Bertha had brought the paper as Hester seated
herself at the table for breakfast. Unaccustomed as she was to such niceties
and the convenience of a personal attendant, Hester did her best to appear at
ease. Scanning the newspaper was part of the pretense. Actually she had never
before enjoyed a late breakfast in all her life, and enjoyment ended before it
began, once she read the story.

 
          
 
The item itself was
brief,
signifying a hasty last-minute insertion, presumably just before the paper went
to press, but the shock that followed her reading was prolonged. Now she sat
stunned, striving for comprehension.

 
          
 
Utterson dead?
The body lying on his own doorstep last night discovered
by—Inspector Newcomen?

           
 
Hester shook her head, both in refusal of what
she had read and reluctance to peruse it again. Nonetheless she steeled herself
to lift the paper and examine the item once more.

 
          
 
Utterson . . . Gaunt Street residence . . .
The solicitor's person seemingly battered by a blunt instrument . . .
discovered shortly after the commission of the deed by Inspector Newcomen of
Scotland Yard, who also apprehended a suspect . . . name being withheld pending
further investigation . . .

 
          
 
Suspect. She had been too distraught to note
this detail at first reading. But it wasn't a detail, not if Inspector Newcomen
had the possible murderer in custody. How did the inspector chance to be in the
vicinity at the time? And why would anyone wish to do away with Mr. Utterson?

 
          
 
"Begging your pardon, miss—is something
wrong?"

 
          
 
Hester glanced up, startled by the sound of
her maid's voice. Bertha Tompkins's concern was evident in her glance as well
as her voice, and Hester attempted the semblance of a smile.

 
          
 
"It's nothing," she said. "I'm
quite all right."

 
          
 
"If breakfast's not to your liking, I'd
best tell Mrs. Dorset what you'd prefer—"

 
          
 
"That won't be necessary." Hester
shook her head. She was about to say more but the sound of door chimes claimed
her attention.

 
          
 
"Excuse me, miss." Bertha wheeled
and made her exit, leaving Hester to reflect upon the necessity of finding an
immediate replacement for her footman, who had departed despite her request
that he remain for a month. It had not occurred to her that Bradshaw's duties
would have to be assumed by other members of the staff, thus disrupting the
order of the household. But then there was so much she was being forced to
learn, forced to accept. And now, the shock of this morning's news—

 
          
 
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, she
turned to Bertha as the maid halted in the doorway. "There's someone
wishes to see you, miss.
A Mr. Prothore.
Shall I show
him in?"

 
          
 
"No need." Albert Prothore's voice
sounded from the hall as he brushed past Bertha. The action itself was something
Hester would not have expected from such a proper gentleman, nor was she
prepared for the sight of his haggard features and agitated demeanor.

 
          
 
"Forgive this intrusion." His words
came quickly. "I must speak to you at once. Utterson—"

 
          
 
"I know." Hester nodded,
then
gestured toward the table. "There is an account in
the newspaper." She paused, frowning. "Who could have done such a
horrible thing—battering that poor man to death? Who is this suspect?"

 
          
 
"I am," Prothore said. "But I
didn't kill him."

 
          
 
This was a morning for shocks. Hester heard a
strange voice murmuring in a monotone. "Please be seated."

 
          
 
It took a moment for her to realize that the
voice was her own. As Albert Prothore responded to her invitation, she managed
to regain a measure of control, if not composure. "Might I ask Bertha to
fetch you something to eat?"

 
          
 
"Thank you, but that will not be
necessary." Prothore shook his head. As he did so Hester noted his
loosened cravat, the faintly perceptible stubble of beard, the dislodged strand
of hair banding his upper forehead. This was not at all in accordance with the
image he was usually at such pains to maintain. Yet seeing him thus she was
strangely moved, much as if she would like to take him by the hand to assure
him that matters certainly could not be as bad as they seemed. What would his
Aunt Agatha say if she saw him in such a sorry state?

 
          
 
But this was no time to entertain frivolous
conjecture. Hester seated herself in a chair facing her visitor across the
table. "You were about to tell me what happened?" she said.

 
          
 
It was mere assumption on her part, but Albert
Prothore needed no further prompting. He spoke rapidly, fatigue betrayed only
by the slight huskiness of his voice.

 
          
 
It was at Sir John Dermond's injunction, he
said, that he ventured into Whitechapel last night. His observations would
undoubtedly interest both his employer and Miss Scrimshaw, but that was not a
matter of consequence at the moment. His only concern was to establish his
whereabouts prior to nine-thirty of yesterday evening. At that time he hailed a
cab on
Commercial
Road
for his homeward journey.

 
          
 
It so happened that his home adjoined Mr.
Utterson's property on the street directly to the north, and as the cab passed
the solicitor's house to go round the square, he noted Utterson's front door
was open and something was lying in its shadow.

 
          
 
Ordering the cabby to wait, he left the
vehicle, hurried up the walk to the open doorway, and there encountered Utterson's
body. The cabby, realizing the nature of his discovery, panicked and sped off.
Prothore bent over the victim, seeking a pulse or some sign of life. And it was
then that Inspector Newcomen drove up in a hack to find him in this
compromising situation and take, him in charge on suspicion of murder.

 
          
 
"The time was shortly after ten,"
Prothore said. There were sharp lines about his mouth. He might be a man on the
verge of asking for help against some strong weight of injustice. Gone was the
very assured young gentleman Hester had heretofore always seen in control of
every and
any situation—at least so in his own estimation.

 
          
 
"I know that because I counted the toll
of bells just before entering
Gaunt Street
. And since then there's scarcely been a
moment free from the inspector's presence. He badgered me with questions for
the greater part of the night. Naturally I denied any involvement in the affair
other than that which I have just recounted to you, and which I swear to be the
truth. It is my misfortune that there is no one who might serve as witness to
my whereabouts during the time I spent in Whitechapel. Apparently this served
to encourage Inspector Newcomen's repeated accusations, despite any denial or
explanation I could offer. The man's insolence is insufferable."

 
          
 
"Of that I am well aware," Hester
responded,
then
fell silent as her visitor continued.

 
          
 
"He did me only a single service,"
Prothore said. "Upon learning of my position at the Home Office, he
withheld my name from the journalists who presented themselves for an account
of the affair early this morning.

 
          
 
"Shortly afterward I was able to repeat
my story when brought up before a magistrate. I own it something of a surprise
that upon hearing the testimony, he ordered that I be released."

 
          
 
"You came here directly?" Hester
said.

 
          
 
Prothore nodded. "It seemed best to
inform you of the circumstances as quickly as possible." He paused,
frowning. "My only concern was that I might be followed."

 
          
 
"Right you are, sir."

 
          
 
At the sound of the familiar
voice Hester rose, turning to face the intruder.
If Inspector Newcomen
was aware of her indignation at his unannounced entry, he gave no sign of it.
In point of fact she was ignored completely as he continued to address
Prothore.

 
          
 
"I was curious as to what you might be up
to if let out of custody," Newcomen said. "And here you are."

 
          
 
"What business is that of yours?"
Now it was Albert Prothore who
rose
, the set of jaw
and shoulders defiant.

 
          
 
"Why, I should think our business is
mutual, at least until this case is settled." The big man seemed unmindful
of Prothore's posture. "You want Mr. Utterson's murderer brought to
justice, the same as myself. Or do you not?"

 
          
 
"I've already answered your questions. I’m
no murderer."

 
          
 
"And I’m no fool." The inspector
regarded Prothore with a squint-eyed stare. "Inquiries were made among
your neighbors. It's been alleged that you and the deceased wasn't on speaking
terms. There's that business of the wall you put up behind the garden. The
solicitor said it was on his side of the property line and meant to take you to
court over the matter."

 
          
 
"True,” Prothore said.
"
But
this is hardly a reason to murder a man in cold blood." He paused for a
moment,
then
continued. "And you, of all people,
are in the best position to testify regarding my innocence. When you
apprehended me you know I didn't have a
weapon—nor
any
means of disposing of one."

 
          
 
Newcomen shrugged.
"The
cabby, perhaps?
Suppose you lied about him taking fright. It may be he
was an accomplice and went running off to dispose of the weapon."

 
          
 
"Rubbish," Prothore said. "I
have no motive."

 
          
 
"Perhaps you do." The inspector
turned to Hester as he spoke. "There's the question of the will. When we
had our chat yesterday afternoon, I told you I meant to have a word with your
solicitor."

 
          
 
Hester met his gaze. "I seem to recall
you saying something of the sort."

 
          
 
"So it's 'seem to,' is it?"
Newcomen's feet shifted, but not his gaze. "I put it to you that the
thought of what Utter-son might tell me was enough to get the wind up. And it
was you who sent Mr. Prothore to silence him."

 
          
 
"That's a damnable lie!" Albert
Prothore's voice was elevated to a most ungentlemanly level. "There was no
communication between us whatsoever. She had nothing to do with this!"

 
          
 
"Am I to take it you acted alone?"