Who Killed Charmian Karslake? (24 page)

“Will they accuse each other?” Harbord hazarded. “You remember the Eastbourne case. It might never have been brought home if the men arrested hadn't accused each other.”

The inspector reached out for another cigarette. “It's a very different affair with these two men to Gray and the other chap:
noblesse oblige
, you know, Alfred.”

“Marconigram from Venables. The ‘White Wings' is due at Southampton at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.” Stoddart glanced down the time-table in his hand.

“That will mean going down by the midnight express and waiting. We can't afford to run the chance of missing Mr. Dicky. But we have got a few hours on our hands now. I propose we turn them to account by interviewing Mr. John Larpent and seeing what he can or will tell us.”

The inspector and his trusted assistant had just come out of New Scotland Yard. They were walking along the Embankment towards the Temple Station.

“He has rooms in the Temple, hasn't he?”

The inspector was pulling his chin thoughtfully.

“I believe so. But he is junior counsel in a compensation case, man knocked down by a car. Was it his fault or the car's, don't you know. Man's well off, so's the owner of the car, so they are wasting their substance on litigation. Larpent is on the side of the car. We'll catch him when the Court rises at four o'clock.”

“We shall have to make haste, then,” said Harbord, quickening his steps.

They turned past the Temple Station and went up Norfolk Street to the Strand and then crossed the street straight along to the Law Courts. There was a crowd outside, as a slander case, involving a well-known sporting peer, was being tried, but Stoddart managed to edge his way through. Once inside he turned down a long, stone passage that ran at the side of the Courts and consulted a list that hung on the wall. He ran his finger down it.

“Number nine. That's along here. Come on, Alfred.”

The Court was rising as they reached Number nine, and the people were pouring forth. Several barristers were coming out by the door in front of the detectives. Among them Stoddart recognized John Larpent. The barrister appeared to be looking the other way, but a curious change in his expression told the detectives that he recognized them. Stoddart stepped forward.

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Larpent?”

“Certainly.” The young man looked round, then opened the door of a small room on the right. “I think we shall not be disturbed here.”

When they had got in and the door was closed he turned to Stoddart.

“Well, inspector, what is it now? Not the Charmian Karslake case, I presume. I have told you all I can about that.”

“Not quite, I think, sir.” The inspector spoke quietly. “For example, you have not told us that you recognized Charmian Karslake when you saw her at Hepton. You have not told us what you were doing in that room at the end of the conservatory and what she said to you there. You had better make a clean breast of it, Mr. Larpent. I am sure on consideration you will see that it is the only thing for you to do. And what I am certain you would advise any clients of yours to do in a similar case.”

Larpent took a few steps up and down the room.

“Suppose I tell you that you are entirely mistaken – that I did not recognize Charmian Karslake at Hepton, that I was not in that room leading off the conservatory?”

The inspector put one hand in his coat pocket and there was an ominous jingle.

“I shall have no choice but to arrest you as an accessory before the fact to the murder of Charmian Karslake. We know much more than you think, Mr. Larpent. You can only save yourself and others by speaking out.”

The barrister went over to the small, barred window and stood with his back to the detectives, staring out at a small patch of blue sky that was all that could be seen. At last he turned.

“If I tell you that I did not recognize Miss Karslake when I first saw her, that I was not in the room off the conservatory –”

“When did you recognize Miss Karslake as Sylvia Gossett?” demanded the inspector.

John Larpent drew in his lips.

“How do you know that she was Sylvia Gossett?”

“By the testimony of people who knew her. There is no possibility of any mistake, Mr. Larpent. You had better speak out. My patience is not unlimited,” the inspector added severely.

“There is very little I can tell you,” John Larpent said with a side look at the detective. “I had no idea that I had ever known Charmian Karslake when I heard she was coming to Hepton. I did not recognize her when she came into the hall, though I had a haunting sense of familiarity with her voice. When she entered the ballroom I saw to my amazement that she was a young actress whom I had known as Sylvia Gossett.”

“Did you speak to her or dance with her?”

“No” – Larpent faced the inspector fairly enough now – “I neither spoke to her nor danced with her.”

“You were in the smoking-room at the end of the passage. Didn't Miss Karslake speak to you when she came in?”

“I was not there when she came in,” Larpent said, holding up his head, a shade of defiance creeping into his voice. “I came into the conservatory with my partner and left her there while I went in search of ices. I certainly passed through the small smoking-room. But I saw nothing of Miss Karslake there and I came back through the ballroom to the conservatory.”

“Was there anyone in the smoking-room when you went through?”

Larpent's momentary hesitation did not escape the inspector.

“No, there was not!” he said at last.

The inspector kept his eyes fixed on Larpent's face.

“That is all you can tell me, sir?”

“Certainly it is,” Larpent said steadily. “I knew Miss Gossett very slightly. To Charmian Karslake I never spoke at all. I could not even be certain that they were the same person, though to the best of my belief they were.”

“You couldn't give me any information with regard to Miss Gossett's marriage?”

“I could not. Was she married? I really knew scarcely anything of her.”

The inspector did not speak at first, then after a momentary pause he said slowly: “That is your last word – there is nothing more to be done, Mr. Larpent.”

Larpent only responded by a slight bow as he turned to the door. The detectives stood by to let him pass. Then Stoddart beckoned to a man who was doing something at a window close at hand in the corridor.

“You saw that barrister who came out of this room just before us?”

“Yes, sir – Mr. Larpent it was. I know him well by sight.”

“H'm! He doesn't know you, does he?” the inspector questioned sharply.

“Oh, no, sir. But I am often round here and I get to know a lot of folks.”

“Well, have him shadowed. Worledge will relieve you and report yourselves at the Yard when you go off duty.”

Harbord and Stoddart departed, making their way from the Law Courts as quickly as possible. Outside Stoddart looked down the crowded Strand.

“I think we will walk down the Embankment, have a rest and a bit of supper and get to the station in good time. What did you make of Mr. John Larpent?”

“A good liar,” Harbord said laconically.

The inspector nodded.

“Did he marry Sylvia Gossett?”

Harbord shook his head.

“I don't know, sir. My opinion all along has been that it was the other, but now I am not so certain.”

“They are both of them in it, of course.” Stoddart looked at the rippling river without speaking for a minute. “The motive is much stronger in Dicky Moreton's case, of course. Larpent may be only an accomplice. Will Moreton speak out?”

“Would he have assaulted his wife?” Harbord asked slowly. “That's the weak point, sir. Suppose that both these men are innocent. The two Moretons are a good deal alike. And Larpent appears to have been Sir Arthur's friend,” Harbord said thoughtfully. “We have definitely failed to prove any connexion between Sir Arthur and Charmian Karslake. At the time of the marriage he was with his regiment at Carlisle. At the time, as near as we can ascertain it, of the murder he was in the smoking-room with several of the house-party.”

“That certainly seems to narrow it down to the other two,” said the inspector. “Besides there is the registry of the marriage and Mrs. Sparrow's unbiased testimony. I think we can rule out Sir Arthur from the case. And yet – I don't rule anyone out at present. Wartime marriages, you know. Sir Arthur might have had short leave just then. And the smoking-room alibi may not hold water. We'll look into that more thoroughly when we have seen Mr. Dicky.”

“You will make the arrest?”

“Either when he comes off or later. I do not want to do it publicly if there is any way out. At the same time, they are getting impatient at headquarters.”

The two detectives met at Waterloo and after a quick run to Southampton settled down to await the arrival of the “White Wings.” It came in true to time. Neither Mr. Juggs nor his son-in-law was to be seen, but Venables was watching for them. It seemed a long time to Harbord before the preliminaries were gone through and at last the detectives were able to go on board. Before, however, Stoddart had put his foot on the gang-way a familiar figure sprang down to him and he was greeted by a familiar voice:

“I declare it is the same old sleuth. Makes one feel quite at home to see your dear old phiz, inspector.”

“Just as well that it does, Mr. Moreton, for I expect you will see a good deal of it in the near future,” Stoddart said grimly.

“Do you really think so?” Dicky's voice and manner were unchanged, but the inspector fancied he looked thinner and more worn in spite of the additional tan acquired on the “White Wings.” It was the first time, too, that the inspector had seen him without his monocle. This morning Dicky held it in one hand and tapped the fingers of the other with it in a
dégagé
fashion.

“And it was kind of you to meet us,” Dicky went on in a chaffing tone. “Made me feel that somebody wanted me, don't you know?”

“I fancy a good many people are likely to want you in the future.” The inspector was not in a mood to be trifled with.

“I see what you mean, old thing.” Dicky's tone did not alter one whit. “Jack Ketch and all that sort of thing; but there's many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“Certainly there may be. For your sake I hope there will be.” The inspector drew in his lips. “Now, Mr. Moreton, we are wasting time. I must trouble you to come with me. I hold a warrant for your arrest for the wilful murder of your wife, Sylvia Penn-Moreton, otherwise Gossett, otherwise Charmian Karslake, at Hepton Abbey on the 24th of April last. And it is my duty to warn you that anything you say in answer to the charge will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.”

“The same kind old sleuth!” Dicky ejaculated. “Regular guardian angel, keeping the record, eh? I hope your fountain-pen is full, old dear. For I shall probably say a good deal. What is that you are murmuring? Shorthand? Dear, dear! And now what do you say to a little toddle? Such a lot of people beginning to take an interest in us, you know. And Father-in-law waiting to speak his mind.”

“I have a car waiting,” said the inspector, beckoning to it.

Two or three men who had been standing near closed in. Dicky glanced at them with a smile.

“Nice-looking lot of assistants you have, inspector,” he said as he got into the car. “And your sleuths have been so attentive on the yacht. Father-in-law has cursed them all terribly.”

The inspector placed himself beside his prisoner, Harbord sat opposite and another man outside.

“So glad you don't want to put those nasty steel things on my wrists,” Dicky remarked, looking plaintively at his hands.

“Mr. Moreton, does it ever strike you that you talk too much?” the inspector inquired severely.

“Can't say that it does.” Dicky screwed in his monocle now. “We couldn't ride along in this old bus and not speak a word, could we? And by and by it is you who will be doing all the talking, apologizing and all that, don't you know. Father-in-law is threatening terrible things to you all, especially you. Still you may be sure I shall do my best for you. You've been a tidy old sleuth all along.”

The inspector made no answer to this sally and presently Dicky relapsed into silence. Not for long. Silence was a real physical impossibility to Dicky, and he made various spasmodic attempts at conversation with both Harbord and the inspector.

They drove to the junction and caught the midday train to Medchester. They went through straight to the old gaol on the hill, leaving Dicky in the charge of the police.

Before leaving him the inspector spoke to him seriously:

“You have a solicitor, of course, Mr. Penn-Moreton. It will be best for you to send for him at once and put yourself in his hands. You will be charged with the murder of Charmian Karslake in the morning, and my advice to you is to say nothing and reserve your defence. Also tell your solicitor everything just as it happened.”

“Good old thing! I am sure you mean well!” Dicky said gratefully. “You'll have to look me up before I'm turned off, you know. And now I think I'll just send a wire for Larpent. Good-bye, old dear.” And Dicky disappeared for a short sojourn in the cells.

“Dear me, what a to-do there will be when it gets into the papers,” the inspector said to Harbord as they walked across to the nearest restaurant.

“Silas P. Juggs will make things hum,” Harbord remarked. “Dicky seemed to say his father-in-law was wholeheartedly on his side.”

“Will he be when he has heard all there is to hear against Mr. Dicky?” the inspector inquired pertinently. “When he realizes what sort of a husband his dear daughter has got – or rather that she has not got a husband at all. For of course his previous marriage with Sylvia Gossett will invalidate that with this American lady altogether.”