The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (68 page)

             
"Let's see," Barnett said, counting on his fingers. "There's Venn and Stanhope and Lord Walbine and Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff—"

             
"And my late master," Quimby said. "Lord John Darby."

             
"He was murdered?" Barnett asked. "I don't remember hearing of it. When did it happen?"

             
"His body was found early in the morning of Tuesday, the fifteenth of February."

             
"By you?"

             
"No, sir. By the Earl of Arundale."

             
"In his bedroom?"

             
"No, sir. In the dining room."

             
"I see." Barnett leaned back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly. He shifted forward again. "What makes you think that your master's death is related to the others?"

             
"His throat was cut. And there was no way for anyone to have got in or out. An impossible crime, Mr. Barnett. The only one who could have committed it was me."

             
Barnett nodded. "I take it you didn't kill Lord John," he said.

             
"No, sir," Quimby said. "He wasn't a particularly easy man to work for, but I had no reason to wish to do myself out of a position. Besides, I can't stand the sight of blood."

             
"I see," Barnett said. "If, then, for some reason you
had
wanted to do his lordship in, you would have used poison."

             
Quimby shook his head. "I couldn't do that to good food," he said. "No, sir; if I ever decide to do anybody in, I fancy I shall use a very large, very blunt instrument."

             
Barnett pulled out his notebook. "May I ask a few questions regarding your late employer and your two friends Lizzard and Margery?" he said.

             
"I will assist you," Quimby said, "because I live in fear that Inspector Lestrade will decide to add a third manservant to the two he already has in quod."

             
"That is one of my questions," Barnett said. "Why hasn't he? That is, why haven't I read anything about the death of Lord John Darby?"

             
Quimby poured himself a glass of sherry from the decanter and then seated himself gingerly on one of the hardback chairs beside the upholstered armchair Barnett had settled into. "That I cannot tell you, Mr. Barnett," he said. "Lord Arundale is a powerful enough man to have the news of the murder quenched, and he has done so. But what his motivation is, I do not know."

             
"Do the police know of the murder?"

             
"I am not sure. I would think not. There is a private inquiry agent working with the police—a Mr. Holmes—who does know about it. He has questioned me extensively. He also thinks Lizzard and Margery are innocent; he told me so."

             
"What did he ask you about?"

             
"Everything you can think of. He asked me how long I had been employed by his lordship, whether his lordship had any enemies that I knew of, what sort of books his lordship liked to read."

             
"Books?"

             
"Yes, sir. That's what he asked."

             
"And what did you reply? What sort of books
did
Lord John like to read?"

             
"I can't recall ever seeing his lordship with a book in his hands, unless it was Bradshaw."

             
"He restricted his reading to the railway timetables, eh?"

             
"His lordship did take a newspaper, sir. The
Daily Gazette."

             
"I see. Can you remark on anything else of note, either in Mr. Holmes's questions or in your responses?"

             
"It's hard for me to tell, sir. Being interrogated is a novel experience for me."

             
"Well then, did Mr. Holmes seem particularly pleased or distressed at any of your responses?"

             
"No, sir. He did compliment me on my powers of observation at one point."

             
"When was that?"

             
"He asked me if anything was missing from the house or from his lordship's person. I replied in the negative, with the possible exception of a thin gold chain that his lordship wore on occasion around his neck. I said I couldn't be sure it was taken, as his lordship didn't always wear it."

             
"Did you check where it was kept when Lord John wasn't wearing it?"

             
"Mr. Holmes asked me that, also. I told him that I couldn't say, because I have no idea where his lordship kept it. His other personal jewelry was kept in a box on the dressing table, but I never saw the chain in there. It was when I mentioned that to him that Mr. Holmes complimented me."

             
"Was the chain found among his lordship's effects?"

             
"I don't believe so. I was present at a preliminary inventory, conducted by the family solicitor, and it was not found at that time."

             
"Did Lord John have anything suspended from this chain?"

             
"Yes, but I cannot tell you what. He always kept it beneath his shirt, next to his skin."

             
"I see," Barnett said. "An interesting idiosyncrasy, although probably bearing no relationship to the crime. The object cannot have been very large, and if it had been of great value, I'm sure its existence would have been known of by some other member of the family."

             
"That is probably so," Quimby agreed.

             
"What I find most interesting is the secrecy," Barnett said. "I can see why the murderer wouldn't wish to advertise, but why the Earl of Arundale would want to suppress knowledge of a murder I don't know. But I will do my best to find out. I suppose there is no chance that this earl did your boss in?"

             
"Did him in? No, sir. The homicide assuredly occurred before the arrival of the earl."

             
"Pity," said Barnett, with the heartlessness of a true newspaperman. "Now, about Lizzard and Margery. How well do you know them?"

             
"Fairly well," Quimby said. "As well as one can get to know somebody in a short time. We are all in the same boat, so to speak, and it gave us a strong community of interest. We were possessed of a great desire to discover who committed the murders, and how they were accomplished, even before we discovered that we ourselves might be blamed for them."

             
"Did you come to any conclusions?" Barnett asked.

             
"No, sir, unfortunately not. Of course, it is not a field that we are particularly competent in. That is why I was so pleased to discover that Mr. Holmes is taking an interest in the problem. He is highly thought of."

             
"In your own mind there is no chance that either of your friends might actually have had a hand in the, ah, crimes?"

             
"No chance, sir. Neither of them had a motive. On the contrary, they both lost good positions upon the deaths of their employers."

             
"Scotland Yard contends that they were paid off by some third person to either commit the deeds themselves or allow someone else access to the bedrooms."

             
"I cannot believe that, Mr. Barnett. Neither of them is the sort of man who would murder his employer. Also, neither of them was in a position where a desire for immediate financial gain would outweigh the need for security of employment."

             
"I understood that Margery was an inveterate racecourse-goer."

             
"Yes, sir. He has what I believe is called a 'system,' sir. Has put away quite a little nest egg with it."

             
"You mean he wins?"

             
"Not invariably, but certainly more than he loses.
"

             
"
And what about Lizzard? Word is that he has a lady friend in Wembley."

             
"Mr. Lizzard is seeing a lady who lives in Wembley, sir. That's true enough."

             
"Was his butler's salary sufficient for his, ah, needs in this regard?"

             
Quimby pondered this for a moment. "Actually, sir," he said, "the size of Mr. Lizzard's salary is not relevant in this case, the lady in question being the sole owner and proprietress of a public house. She has asked Mr. Lizzard to come into the business as her partner, feeling, as she says, that the presence of a man about the establishment is desirable."

             
"It sounds like a subtle proposal of marriage," Barnett commented.

             
"I have no doubt that matrimony is in the lady's mind," Quimby
said, "but the offer is a straightforward business offer. I would assume that she's waiting for Mr. Lizzard to do the proposing."

             
"An enviable position for the gentleman to be in," Barnett said, "if he is fond of the lady. And it would certainly seem from that as though Lizzard was not in any desperate need of funds."

             
"I would say that was so," Quimby said.

             
"Thank you for your assistance in this," Barnett said. "Is there anything else that has come to your attention during these past weeks that I have neglected to ask about that you think might have any bearing, however slight, on the question of the murders of your employers?"

             
"Well, sir," Quimby said, "as I declared before, the field of criminal investigation is out of my provenance; I really can't say what would be of interest to the trained investigator." He paused. "There is one thing, however, which I find interesting."

             
"And that is?"

             
"Well, sir, it's possibly only indirectly related to the murders themselves, but it is curious just the same. There has been another gentleman here asking questions. And despite the lack of publicity given to the subject, he seemed to know the details of the killing of my master, Lord John Darby."

             
"That is curious," Barnett agreed.

             
"Not only that, sir, but there's something even more curious about it."

             
"Yes?" Barnett urged.

             
"Well, sir, he called himself Mr. Plantagenet, but he was the spitting image of Lord John. Could have been his brother."

The fever called "Living" Is conquered at last.

— Edgar Allan Poe

             
The night had been long and physically exhausting; but his sport was the game of life, the game of truth, the devil's game, the only game worth the playing. And this night the game had been piquant and especially fine. Desmond Chauvelin had been loath to leave the squalid building wherein lay concealed his very private club.