Who Killed Charmian Karslake? (25 page)

“Of course it will. I saw that,” Harbord assented. “But it is a good thing she is an American. A marriage more or less doesn't make much difference to them.”

The old town of Medchester was in a ferment of excitement. In all Meadshire there was no family older or more respected than that of the Penn-Moretons. Meadshire was justly proud of Hepton Abbey as perhaps the most interesting show-place in the Midlands.

The Penn-Moretons had always held their heads high and now a member of the family was lodged in the gaol at the top of the hill, charged with the murder of a great London actress, who turned out to have been only a poor girl living on the Canal bank at Hepton. That she was or ever had been Dicky's wife Medchester society absolutely refused to believe. No Penn-Moreton of them all had married beneath him. For the most part they had raised themselves either financially or socially by their marriages.

Dicky had made one appearance before the magistrates. He had been supported by his brother, by his father-in-law and by a host of friends, for Dicky was a general favourite. By the advice of the family solicitor who had represented him, Dicky had said nothing, but had merely reserved his defence.

That the case was very strong against Dicky, the solicitor, Mr. Medlicott, did not attempt to disguise. But the general public had little idea of what was to be brought against him, as the evidence had been little more than formal.

The police had asked for an adjournment in order to make further inquiries in connexion with the case. But today many developments were expected, and the wildest rumours were current.

Dicky was decidedly thinner and paler, than at his arrest, when he was placed in the dock. Sir Arthur, looking careworn, sat immediately behind him, with Mr. Juggs, truculent as ever, John Larpent, anxious and heavy-eyed, and a whole host of the Penn-Moretons, friends, many of whom had been members of that ill-starred house-party at Hepton Abbey. Sylvan Wilmot, the greatest criminal lawyer of the day, had been instructed by Mr. Medlicott.

The magistrates filed in, took their places on the Bench. The chairman was a grave, white-haired old squire, who had known Dicky from babyhood. He was looking perturbed and worried as he glanced round the crowded room. The prisoner had been the bosom friend of a son of his who had been killed in the Great War. Before the case was opened he turned over some papers that lay before him and finally drew out a piece of paper and a common-looking blue envelope. Then he glanced across at Stoddart.

“I feel it is my duty to let you see – er – this document, inspector. So far I have shown it only to my colleagues on the Bench. I will not make the contents public, but I think I should show it to you, inspector. I know you will agree with me that it is attempting a contravention of justice.”

He handed the paper to an usher, who took it across to the inspector. Stoddart, looking a little puzzled by the chairman's exordium, took the paper and looked at it with growing amazement. The paper, blue in colour and very thin, was possibly the commonest procurable, evidently a sheet torn from a writing-pad of the poorest description. Across it was carefully written in printed characters – “Dicky Penn-Moreton did not kill Charmian Karslake. From the One Who Did.”

Stoddart read it through and glanced up in surprise.

“When did this come, Sir John?”

“Second delivery this morning,” the chairman said laconically. “Otherwise you would have seen it before.”

Stoddart was turning the envelope about. He saw that the postmark was Medchester. He looked at Larpent who was sitting with his arms crossed, his eyes gazing straight in front of him; his dark face immovable, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Stoddart turned back to the chairman.

“May I keep this, Sir John?”

“Of course. I hope you may be able to trace the writer.”

“I hope so,” the inspector assented. “At any rate we shall do our best.”

A murmur ran round the Court which was quickly suppressed. It was rumoured that, in Stoddart's opinion, the paper contained the confession of the real murderer. People craned their necks in a vain attempt to gather from Stoddart's expression the contents of the envelope.

Dicky himself cast a curious glance across. Mr. Juggs moved nearer as though to seize the paper from the detective's hand.

The clerk to the magistrates, sitting just beneath them, looked round severely.

Officials from St. Mary's, Marylebone, proved the marriage of Peter Hailsham and Sylvia Gossett.

Mrs. Sparrow appeared, voluble and inclined to be tearful, and after some moments of indecision, identified the prisoner as the man she had known as Peter Hailsham, and Larpent as the man who had been best man. She also swore that the photographs of Charmian Karslake were those of the Miss Gossett, afterwards Mrs. Hailsham, who used to attend St. Mary's in the days of Father Thompson. Mrs. Walker was the next witness. She gave an account of Charmian Karslake's earlier struggles in New York. Then Dr. Brett appeared and deposed that he had seen the body of Charmian Karslake and that, to the best of his belief, it was that of a young girl named Sylvia Gossett who had formerly lived in Hepton.

Of him Sylvan Wilmot asked his first question – why he had not spoken of this recognition sooner.

It was quite obvious that Dr. Brett was considerably discomposed.

Gossips from Medchester nudged one another and exchanged glances as he explained that he had not felt positive at the time – that the conviction had strengthened later. Further, that it was not so much Miss Karslake herself that he recognized, as he had not met her since she was a child, but the very strong likeness he had seen to the Mrs. Gossett who used to live on the Canal bank at Hepton and with whose appearance he had been familiar.

“Ay! Too familiar!” the gossips smiled.

John Francis Larpent was the next witness called. He gave his testimony in a clear, matter-of-fact tone. He had known Sylvia Gossett in London, and had been present at her marriage with the prisoner who had passed as Peter Hailsham. He had no idea that she came from Hepton. Had not at first recognized her when he saw her at the Abbey, but had done so in the ballroom. He had neither spoken to her nor danced with her. His acquaintance with Miss Gossett had been but slight. Looking back, he considered that he had behaved badly in assisting at her marriage without telling her the true name of the bridegroom, but had no doubt that the marriage was perfectly legal. Pressed, he acknowledged that Peter Hailsham was a name that had been used at times both by himself and by Richard Penn-Moreton. He, at one time, had himself written for the press, and had occasionally used this pseudonym. He did not know on what occasions it had been used by Richard Penn-Moreton, except at his marriage, but had been informed that it had been so used.

“Who informed you?” the chairman asked.

Witness returned that it was the prisoner himself.

The chairman asked next that the paper, now in inspector Stoddart's possession, might be handed to the witness.

Questioned again, Larpent stared at the paper in obvious amazement, and stated that he had no previous knowledge of it or of the sender.

When he stood down Inspector Stoddart intimated that that was as far as the police were prepared to take the case today, and asked for a further remand.

The chairman formally adjourned for a fortnight to give the police time for their inquiries. Dicky was taken back to the cells, his brother, Mr. Juggs and his solicitor being allowed access to him. The magistrates retired and the spectators poured out, hotly discussing the question of Dicky's guilt or innocence and marvelling at what was contained in the mysterious note.

Harbord and Stoddart came out with the local superintendent of police, Stoddart with the envelope and paper safely in his pocket-book.

“Our first job must be to trace this anonymous communication home to the sender,” Stoddart said, tapping his breast pocket.

“A hoax,” the superintendent remarked shortly.

“I'm not so certain of that,” Stoddart disagreed. “It may be a feeble attempt to get Penn-Moreton off, or it may be, though I must confess this seems unlikely, that Penn-Moreton is innocent, and that the real murderer does not wish an innocent man to be convicted of his crime.”

The superintendent raised his eyebrows. “Scarcely fits in with my conception of the Hepton Abbey murderer.”

“No?” The inspector gazed straight in front of him, as the crowds from the Castle came pouring down chattering loudly among themselves, and anxious to catch their trains or trams. Then Stoddart looked round. “Suppose, just suppose for a minute, that Penn-Moreton is innocent, that the one who is guilty is attached to him and is going to make every attempt to get the young man off, short of disclosing his own identity.”

The superintendent looked at him.

“Larpent?”

“I name no names,” said the inspector. “Time will show.”

The superintendent still kept his eyes fixed upon him.

“You arrested Richard Penn-Moreton.”

The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

“Headquarters' orders, I had no choice. The evidence against him is terribly strong. Looked at dispassionately one can see no faintest hope of proving his innocence. And yet sometimes a creeping doubt does assail me. The weak point in the theory of the prosecution is, of course, the attack on Mrs. Richard. Supposing Charmian Karslake to have been murdered to keep the knowledge of Penn-Moreton's first marriage and the consequent invalidity of the second from Silas Juggs and his daughter, would Richard Penn-Moreton have been likely to have committed a murderous assault upon Mrs. Richard? For, remember, she only escaped death by the skin of her teeth.”

“A man is generally ready to sacrifice anybody or anything to save his own skin,” the superintendent remarked. “Anyhow, the father-in-law and, I suppose, the second wife seem to stick to Penn-Moreton, which is distinctly a point in his favour.”

They went into the police station. Stoddart handed the envelope to the superintendent.

“Posted in Medchester, you observe.”

“It bears the Medchester postmark, I see,” corrected the superintendent. “That's not so conclusive as it appears. There are a lot of, or at any rate several outlying hamlets, some of them several miles from Medchester, postmarked Medchester. A few years ago there were different post towns – Barsford, Lapstown and others – the advent of the motor-bus, rather of the motor-van, has changed everything. The mails can quite as easily and more quickly be collected from the country town.”

“But aren't the letters stamped at these little villages? The smallest of them has some sort of post office it seems to me.”

“Not all of them,” the superintendent remarked. “Some of 'em are too small to be dignified by the name of villages or even hamlets. Still, of course, the probability is in favour of postage in Medchester. It would be much more easily done unobserved here.”

“Exactly.” The inspector was twisting the envelope about. “No, there is not the slightest sign of anything but the Medchester postmark. The address is printed in the same characters as the note inside, not well done either –
SIR JOHN BUCKLAND, GROOME HALL, MEDCHESTER
. I should say, compared with the ordinary writing of the sender, it should not be difficult to discover the similarity of the two.”

“The snag will be to get the two together.”

“Ah! But it may not be impossible,” the inspector said thoughtfully, as they turned their steps towards the post office.

“Here we are. Let us see if the post office can help us,” said the superintendent.

They went in, and asking for the postmaster were shown into his office. The inspector explained their errand and produced the envelope and the enclosure, carefully keeping the writing concealed. The postmaster examined it.

“It is impossible to say anything more, offhand, than that it has been stamped at this office,” he said at last. “The only help that I can give you is about the paper. That has been torn from a writing-pad, note size, and the paper is of the commonest kind. Well, ordinarily, I should know nothing about that, but for the last two weeks we have had a child staying with us – A niece of my wife's – convalescing after an attack of double pneumonia. Well, this kid was for ever scribbling notes to her school friends and her brothers and sisters. She found writing-paper expensive, I suppose, and she told me with glee that she had found a shop where she could get writing-pads at threepence each. She showed me one the other day. It was blue, and it had faint lines across it, as this one has. But, if you could wait a minute, I'll see if I can get the pad for you to look at. I believe Mona is in the house at the moment.”

“I should be much obliged if you could,” the inspector said gratefully.

They had not long to wait. The postmaster came back in a minute with a rather dilapidated writing-pad. The inspector spread out his anonymous communication, keeping the envelope carefully over the written sentence. One glance was enough to show that the paper was exactly similar, but the inspector examined the two through his microscope in the most careful fashion. At last he looked up.

“Yes, there is no possibility of mistake. This is a stroke of luck. Near the station you say the shop is?”

“Yes, a little lower down, nearer the town on the right-hand side. The name is Weaver.”

“I am much obliged to you,” the inspector said again. “We will call on Mr. Weaver at once. Come along, Harbord.”

The detectives left the superintendent outside, promising to look in again before they went back to Hepton, where for the present they had fixed their headquarters.

They had no difficulty in finding the stationer's. Weaver's was just one of those old-fashioned shops that seem to survive and flourish regardless of modern improvements. Outside there were a few posters of newspapers. In the doorway were racks containing copies of the cheaper periodicals and paper-covered novels.