The Santa Klaus Murder (15 page)

I thought she was speaking the truth. Just before she went out she turned and said:

“I'm glad to have got this off my chest. You and your wife were always nice to me. I'm glad you know all this. I've had a pretty awful time, but somehow it's a relief to know how I stand. I always thought that Father's death might make a difference, and now I see that it doesn't, and I know I've just got to stay as I am and stick it out. I've made up my mind to it now.”

Poor Dittie! It was a pretty grim prospect, I thought, tied to that morose unbalanced husband. But perhaps, if she could make a job of it, it would be a finer thing than a runaway match with Kenneth Stour.

I was trying to convey this idea to Dittie when we heard a timid knock at the door. I called “Come in!” and Miss Portisham appeared and immediately withdrew in a fluster of apology. Dittie hurried out after her and sent her in. She was carrying a wad of typewritten sheets clipped together.

“I hope I did right to bring this to you, Colonel Halstock?” she inquired. I had forgotten for the moment about what Kenneth called the homework, and I looked surprised.

“My account of the events of—of that terrible day,” she explained. “I do hope it is what you require. I tried my best, as you said, to write just as if nothing had happened. I am afraid you may find that much of what I have put down is trivial, but of course, it is so hard to judge. I did my best to put down just what I saw and noticed.”

Having those neatly typed sheets in my hand, I could not refrain from sitting down to glance through them and see if any significant facts were embedded there. I skipped over a good deal of wordy explanation at the beginning and through what seemed the unimportant events of the morning of Christmas Day, until the sentence,
Sir Osmond then told me he was going to the study
, caught my eye. I read on, and so came to the astounding evidence of the anonymous letter. I think I let out some sudden exclamation of amazement, for I heard a little startled squeak from Miss Portisham and realized that she was still standing there, evidently uncertain whether she had been dismissed or not.

“It's this typewritten letter with no signature which Sir Osmond received on—when was it—Christmas morning,” I explained. “It may be important. Why haven't we heard of it before?”

“Really, I didn't know that it was important. Everything is so—so—unusual. I find it very difficult, Colonel Halstock, to judge what it is right to do. In the ordinary way, of course, I should never have mentioned that letter to anyone, it being evidently Sir Osmond's private business. I was not asked about it, of course, and really it did not come into my mind until I came to write this account, when it struck me that it might have some bearing on the case, though of course, that is only my idea. I hope I did right to mention it now? I should not like to feel I have been guilty of any breach of confidence.”

I wondered what more the girl might have locked away in her confidential safe deposit of a mind, but apparently there was nothing else that she could think of, that she had not mentioned in the account. The facts about the typewritten note seemed to be that Miss Portisham had found it on the hall table, where letters and papers were usually put, and had brought it to Sir Osmond. She assumed that it had come by hand because it had no stamp or postmark, but she did not know who had brought it. It was in an envelope of ordinary kind; in fact, similar to some which were kept in the study and generally used by her for Sir Osmond's business letters. After Sir Osmond had read the letter, he had looked at the envelope rather carefully and had then torn it across and thrown it into the waste-paper basket. The letter he had folded and put in his breast-pocket. Miss Portisham had observed that it was typed on a small sheet of white paper, which also was similar to some kept in the stationery rack on her typewriting table in the study, though she could not be sure that it was exactly the same. He had made no comment on reading the letter, “except a sort of
Hm
!”

“Do you think it had been written on your typewriter?” I asked her.

“Oh, Colonel Halstock, I never thought of such a thing! I naturally thought the letter was brought to the house by someone, who wrote it to make an appointment of some sort; an arrangement to telephone to Sir Osmond at a stated time, I supposed.”

“He didn't say anything about a telephone call?”

“Oh, no. I just thought it must be a telephone call; that seemed most likely. And of course no visitor did come.”

“Nor did any telephone call come through, as far as we know,” I pointed out.

Miss Portisham had last used her typewriter on the morning of the day before Christmas (Tuesday). She had not looked at it after that, she was sure, until she took it away from the study on Boxing Day. The study had been empty on Tuesday afternoon, when Sir Osmond had taken Kit and Enid for a walk and Miss Portisham herself had been busy about the house with arrangements for Christmas Day. She didn't know if any members of the family could type, excepting Jennifer, who had once asked Miss Portisham to show her and had practised occasionally. “Of course, she had not attained any speed,” Miss Portisham explained condescendingly; “but she understood how to work the machine and how to open it and put the cover back. She would never have left it as we found it, with the cover not properly fastened.” Mr. Cheriton could type and had once, on a previous visit, borrowed the machine for some work of his own. He also knew how to put the cover on, Miss Portisham was sure. She did not know whether any of the others had ever used a typewriter.

It struck me that amongst the uninitiated, rather than amongst the practised typists, we should seek the writer of the anonymous letter who had failed to replace the cover properly. Anyone could open the machine and pick out a few words on the keys. I dismissed Miss Portisham and went to tell Rousdon of the latest clue. I warned her not to touch the typewriter again, but feared it was now too late to identify any finger-prints left by the unknown typist.

Remembering that George had spoken very definitely of that expected telephone call, I interrupted him in a gloomy examination of some of his father's papers, and asked him just what he really knew about it. Blandly he admitted that he knew nothing at all. He had heard someone, Miss Portisham probably, say that Sir Osmond was expecting a telephone call and had assumed that it must be so and had, with a great effort of his generally limited imagination, further supposed that his father had arranged for the call himself. I couldn't make him realize that he was definitely misleading us in giving “information” of this sort. He maintained that he had it from a reliable source and so he “knew” it perfectly well—until it turned out that what he knew was wrong.

“We all make mistakes,” said George, “but Miss Portisham, the lady who is always right, seems to have made this one. No use blaming me. Might as well blame me for putting my money on a dead cert. that ties his legs in a knot. It's not my fault.”

I had to leave it at that.

Chapter Sixteen

The “Homework”

by Col. Halstock

It was now past midday, with a gleam of sunshine brightening the wintry garden; most of the Flaxmere party had strolled out to see what was going on down by the pool. There was no sign of Jennifer or Miss Melbury, but Eleanor, wrapped in furs, was seated becomingly on a bench and Sir David hung over the back of it, inspecting the procedure morosely and conjecturing, as I passed by, that they were “hoping to hook the missing murderer, I suppose!” Patricia, also in furs, fussed about amongst the children on the edge of the pool, whilst Gordon Stickland made a fool of himself, prancing on the end of the diving board, to amuse the children, who skipped about delightedly. Carol came racing down a path, her golden hair tossing, with Kit in chase. Kit informed me in a shrill squeak that they were fishing for Santa Klaus' beard. Carol greeted me cheerfully. She is one of those girls who always give the impression of being well turned out, though one knows she has very little money to do it on. She favours a tailor-made style, which my wife tells me is the most difficult to do cheaply, but she has one of those slick, lithe figures which clothes seem to mould themselves on to.

I detached Rousdon from supervision of the dragging operations and strolled with him round to the far side of the pool. He told me that although they had been dragging for an hour and had brought up a miscellaneous catch, including a thermos flask and a roll of camera film, they had found nothing that seemed to have even a remote connection with Santa Klaus.

I asked him to send one of his men to secure Miss Portisham's typewriter and test it thoroughly for finger-prints, though there seemed little hope now of finding any other than her own. I told him that I had elicited information from her about the typewritten letter, but I did not let him know about her written account, which I meant to keep to myself, because it was somewhat unorthodox. It seemed that the finger-print expert who had gone over the study had ignored the typewriter, concentrating chiefly on Sir Osmond's table and the window and the things in that corner of the room.

“There's something I don't like about this,” said Rousdon. “She gets hold of the typewriter on some pretence of having work to do, dabs her fingers all over the cover on the excuse of showing you how the thing should be fitted on, and when all is made safe, then she remembers to tell you about the typewritten note.”

“But since the thing hasn't turned up, she could easily have avoided telling me at all,” I pointed out. “That, by the way, is what the murderer was searching for in Sir Osmond's pockets presumably, and it's not likely that we shall ever see it now.”

Rousdon said he would himself make inquiries about the possibility of the letter having been delivered at the house, but we didn't hope for much from that direction.

“Look here!” he exclaimed. “Someone might write and say he had important information to give, which he wanted to give secretly, and ask Sir Osmond to be in his study and open the window, to provide an unseen entrance!”

I thought that too theatrical. Why shouldn't the unknown ask Sir Osmond to meet him outside the house, instead of risking himself in the house. Moreover, if the murderer was already in the house—which the pistol from the gun-room suggested—why should he take the suspicious and dangerous course of going outside and entering again by a window. True, Sir David did seem to have left the house unseen, but he couldn't have been sure of doing so. And could anyone be sure that Sir Osmond would agree to such a hare-brained plan and leave the window open?

I left Rousdon and strolled away from the pool, along the paved path under the study windows to the yard at the back, which was surrounded by the garages and various outbuildings. I wanted to make a survey of other possible hiding-places, as we seemed to be drawing blank at the pool.

Bingham was cleaning the Sunbeam in the yard. He looked up from his work on the radiator and inquired, “Found anything yet, sir?”

The discovery of the eyebrows was common knowledge and those who had quickly guessed that we were now hunting for a second Santa Klaus costume had not been slow to tell everyone else.

“It's my belief, sir—a-course, speakin' as a amatewer-like—that the stuff 'as bin got away from 'ere,” Bingham proclaimed. “You won't find it, sir; though a-course I 'opes as you may.”

I wondered if the man knew anything and to sound him I suggested that there hadn't been much chance for anyone to take anything away from Flaxmere.

“There's tradesmen's vans, sir—” he hazarded.

“I hardly think a tradesman would keep silent if he discovered a Santa Klaus outfit, complete except for a pair of eyebrows, in his van,” I pointed out.

“Well, mebbe no!” Bingham agreed sadly. He scratched his head and considered. “A-course there was Ashmore with 'is car on Christmas Day. 'E's a good sort orlright, sir, is 'ole Ashmore; do anythink for the fambly, 'e would, an' I'm sorry for a man like 'im wot's down on 'is luck, on'y through bein' a bit outer date, as it were. I don' bear 'im any ill will, though I've got 'is job. But if someone was to arst 'im to take away a little bundle an' nothin' said; well, sir, would 'e refuse—'im not knowin' there was anythink wrong? Drop it in the river mebbe, 'e would, orf that suspension bridge. I don't want to barge in, sir,” he added hastily; “mebbe I've said too much; it just come to me, like. I don' suppose there's anythink in it, but a-course we're all thinkin' where that stuff coulder got to and the idear jus' come to me.”

“No harm in telling me, though I don't honestly think there's much in the idea. And you'd better not repeat it to anyone else. It might be a case of slander, you know.” I didn't want the man to go prowling about sowing unfounded suspicions about poor old Ashmore. “You didn't see anything suspicious, I suppose? Didn't see him talking to anyone outside the house that afternoon?”

“Not me, sir! Ashmore was there in the servants' hall along of us all, and we got the news that there was something up and Ashmore, 'e said 'e'd better be orf an' orf 'e went. An' mind you, sir, I wouldn't say anythink aginst 'im, not for anythink. If 'e 'ad any 'and in this, it was unknowin'-like, you may be sure.”

When I returned to the house, Parkins was beating the gong for lunch and as soon as this important ceremony was over, he came up to me and announced:

“Miss Melbury's compliments, sir, and this, sir, is what you were wishing for, and if you would like to speak to her, she is alone in the drawing-room. I was to tell you as soon as you came in, sir. And, excuse me, sir”—he surveyed me anxiously with his watery eyes—“I suppose there's no news from the pool? That is to say, sir, nothing that you would be able to tell us?”

I told him there was nothing to report at present and then on a sudden inspiration I asked him a question. I was almost surprised to hear myself ask it, but I had been thinking a good deal about Carol and what she had really been doing on Christmas afternoon and had realized that I filled in from my own imagination one part of the picture for which evidence was available.

“Who did you tell me, Parkins, was with Miss Carol in Miss Jennifer's room on Christmas afternoon, when you delivered the message from Ashmore?”

Parkins looked a little surprised. “Why, Mr. Cheriton, I believe, sir; but I may be wrong there, sir, because he was in the arm-chair with his back to me, and I saw little more than the top of his head and had no cause to notice particularly, sir. If I am wrong about that, sir, I wouldn't wish it to cause any inconvenience, because it's hard to identify a gentleman, sir, to swear to him, as the saying is, from the top of his head.”

“Quite so, Parkins; don't worry about it.”

He departed sadly.

The object which he had delivered to me with Miss Melbury's compliments was a flat brown paper parcel. I sought out Miss Melbury in the drawing-room, glad that the summons of the gong might help to curtail our interview.

“I see you have not yet had time to examine my little offering,” she began. “I hope that it may be the means of directing your inquiries along more fruitful avenues. Of course, I am not a
trained
observer, but I flatter myself that I do not remain in ignorance of what goes on around me, and I have endeavoured to set down in those pages the result of my quiet observations, so that you may draw your own conclusions. Of course, what I have written is
confidential
; I have been frank, as you will see; nothing, I may say, would have persuaded me to be so frank but the conviction that my statements may be of some little help to you. Of course I have refrained from drawing any inferences; that is not for me to do. But we cannot help having our own thoughts; they may be mistaken; I always realize that I
may
be mistaken, though I do not think I often am when the motives or intentions of those I know well are in question. Of course, when the
denouement
of this terrible affair is reached, I do not ask for any credit; I prefer to remain in the background; the limelight is not for an old woman like me. The private knowledge that I have done my poor best to assist will be sufficient reward.”

I hardly knew how to reply to this harangue. The old woman, sitting up very primly in a straight-backed armchair, looked so self-satisfied and so disagreeable. She was rather a big, stout woman with an insignificant nose, a long upper lip and a discontented mouth. It was just as well that I had not even unpacked her manuscript before I saw her, because when I had read its venomous insinuations and its accusations so vague as to be easily disclaimed if they proved wrong, I was in no mood to be polite to the author. As it was I managed to mumble thanks and gratitude and withdrew.

By my own request I had a luncheon tray in the library to-day, with Rousdon, who was already wolfing small jam tarts in great crumby mouthfuls when I arrived. He reported that the pool was a wash-out. They had been all round the banks and he felt sure that no one could hurl an awkward bundle of that kind very far out, especially in the dark, when you couldn't risk getting too near the slippery edge. We decided to search the outbuildings thoroughly. They could be quickly reached from the study window by the paved path, and although Bingham had told me that the garage doors were always locked when the car was put away, to prevent people from borrowing his tools, there was a shed where firewood was stored, the door of which, I had noticed, was only fastened with a catch.

After explaining this, I mentioned Bingham's suggestion.

“No flies on that young man!” Rousdon remarked. “That car of Ashmore's was standing in the garage yard, even handier than the shed for anyone wanting to get rid of a bundle. I've worried all along about that car. It might be a coincidence, him being here, but it looks nasty to me. And the way he took himself off as soon as he heard something was up!”

“I don't believe the old man would lend himself to help in the murder of his old master, even if he did feel a bit sore about the way he had been treated,” I pointed out. I knew vaguely that Sir Osmond had not been generous to his former chauffeur.

“Ah!” said Rousdon. “But he didn't have to know it was murder. He might even think it was some sort of practical joke. Someone ought to see the man. Bristol, isn't it? I'll ring up and get them to make inquiries.”

I urged him to tell the Bristol police not to frighten Ashmore. If he was concerned and had been ignorant of what he was really doing, he was probably in a blue funk by now. If any member of the family was involved, his loyalty to them might well keep him from reporting to the police. If he were bullied he would probably insist that he knew nothing. So we asked that a plain-clothes man should be sent to interview Ashmore tactfully and to make sure that, in case it turned out that he had no part in the plot, his reputation was not injured by general knowledge that “the police had an eye on him.”

Having done this, Rousdon began to doubt the possibility of Ashmore having had anything to do with the plan.

“Seems a risky game!” he meditated. “Could they rely on him to keep quiet when he realized what he was mixed up in? He may have been heavily bribed. Anyway, we'll begin to search the garden and outbuildings while we're waiting to hear from Bristol.”

He flicked the crumbs of pastry from his mouth and left me to finish my lunch. I settled down to study Miss Portisham's and Miss Melbury's “homework.” The latter was a discouraging collection of sheets of Flaxmere embossed notepaper, covered on both sides with spiky script which was thick with effacements and alterations. I was surprised to find a good deal about Eleanor and, groping through this to discover its significance, if any, I came across one of the few definite statements of fact in the whole effusion, the record of a conversation overheard between Gordon and Eleanor in Sir Osmond's study on Tuesday afternoon. The actual words seemed to me unimportant, though Miss Melbury evidently intended me to find some sinister significance in them, but the fact that Gordon was in that room, where the typewriter was kept, might be important.

Gordon and Eleanor seemed the most unlikely people to have any hand in the murder. They would be losers, to a comparatively small extent, under the revised will, and Gordon Stickland, the astute business man, was just the one to know accurately, if anyone did, the fact that the revisions were merely proposals, which might yet be prevented from becoming fact. But Dittie had now declared that Gordon was occupied with Shakespeare in the drawing-room during the important time on Christmas afternoon. Eleanor had gone out into the hall. But Eleanor? Gentle, rather characterless, rather brainless, Eleanor? No, it wouldn't do.

However, to clear the matter up I went in search of Gordon Stickland and found him in the drawing-room trying to spur a bored audience to interest in another of the diversions which the
Times
of Boxing Day had benevolently provided to fill in the two blank days before its readers could again be regaled with real news. Only Miss Melbury was getting worked up about the correct order of precedence for an unlikely collection of distinguished personages.