The Secret of Chimneys
easily enough, and set out towards the house. It took him longer than
he thought, and presently he broke into a run. A great grey mass loomed
up out of the darkness—the venerable pile of Chimneys. In the distance
a stable clock chimed the three quarters.
11.45—the time mentioned on the scrap of paper. Anthony was on the
terrace now, looking up at the house. Everything seemed dark and quiet.
“They go to bed early, these politicians,” he murmured to himself.
And suddenly a sound smote upon his ears—the sound of a shot. Anthony
spun round quickly. The sound had come from within the house—he was
sure of that. He waited a minute, but everything was still as death.
Finally he went up to one of the long French windows from where he
judged the sound that had startled him had come. He tried the handle.
It was locked. He tried some of the other windows, listening intently
all the while. But the silence remained unbroken.
In the end he told himself that he must have imagined the sound, or
perhaps mistaken a stray shot coming from a poacher in the woods. He
turned and retraced his steps across the park, vaguely dissatisfied and
uneasy.
He looked back at the house, and whilst he looked a light sprang up in
one of the windows on the first floor. In another minute it went out
again, and the whole place was in darkness once more.
10
Chimneys
Inspector Badgworthy in his office. Time, 8.30 A.M. A tall portly
man, Inspector Badgworthy, with a heavy regulation tread. Inclined to
breathe hard in moments of professional strain. In attendance Constable
Johnson, very new to the Force, with a downy unfledged look about him,
like a human chicken.
The telephone on the table rang sharply, and the inspector took it up
with his usual portentous gravity of action.
“Yes. Police station Market Basing. Inspector Badgworthy speaking.
What?”
Slight alteration in the inspector’s manner. As he is greater than
Johnson, so others are greater than Inspector Badgworthy.
“Speaking, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord? I didn’t quite hear
what you said?”
Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of
expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he
lays down the receiver, after a brief “At once, my lord.”
He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance.
“From his lordship—at Chimneys—Murder.”
“Murder,” echoed Johnson, suitably impressed.
“Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction.
“Why, there’s never been a murder here—not that I’ve ever heard
of—except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.”
“And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,”
said the inspector, deprecatingly.
“He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the
real thing, is it, sir?”
“It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman,
discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.”
“I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret.
It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were
liable to be shot.
“His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We’ll get
hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to
goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.”
Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector
Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational
arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.
“That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard
doesn’t come butting in.”
The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to
happen under the circumstances.
They stopped at Dr. Cartwright’s, and the doctor, who was a
comparatively young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was
almost exactly that of Johnson.
“Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t had a murder here since
the time of Tom Pearse.”
All three of them got into the doctor’s little car, and started
off briskly for Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, _The Jolly
Cricketers_, the doctor noticed a man standing in the doorway.
“Stranger,” he remarked. “Rather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long
he’s been here, and what he’s doing staying at the _Cricketers_? I
haven’t seen him about at all. He must have arrived last night.”
“He didn’t come by train,” said Johnson.
Johnson’s brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was
therefore always well up in arrivals and departures.
“Who was there for Chimneys yesterday?” asked the inspector.
“Lady Eileen, she come down by the 3.40, and two gentlemen with her,
an American gent, and a young Army chap—neither of them with valets.
His lordship come down with a foreign gentleman, the one that’s been
shot as likely as not, by the 5.40, and the foreign gentleman’s valet.
Mr. Eversleigh come by the same train. Mrs. Revel came by the 7.25, and
another foreign-looking gentleman came by it too, one with a bald head
and a hook nose. Mrs. Revel’s maid came by the 8.56.”
Johnson paused, out of breath.
“And there was no one for the _Cricketers_?”
Johnson shook his head.
“He must have come by car then,” said the inspector. “Johnson, make
a note to institute inquiries at the _Cricketers_ on your way back.
We want to know all about any strangers. He was very sunburnt, that
gentleman. Likely as not, he’s come from foreign parts too.”
The inspector nodded his head with great sagacity, as though to imply
that that was the sort of wide-awake man he was—not to be caught
napping under any consideration.
The car passed in through the Park gates of Chimneys. Descriptions of
that historic place can be found in any guide book. It is also No. 3
in _Historic Homes of England_, price 21s. On Thursdays, chars-à-bancs
come over from Middlingham and view those portions of it which are open
to the public. In view of all these facilities, to describe Chimneys
would be superfluous.
They were received at the door by a white-headed butler whose demeanour
was perfect.
“We are not accustomed,” it seemed to say, “to having murder committed
within these walls. But these are evil days. Let us meet disaster with
perfect calm, and pretend with our dying breath that nothing out of the
usual has occurred.”
“His lordship,” said the butler, “is expecting you. This way, if you
please.”
He led them to a small cosy room which was Lord Caterham’s refuge from
the magnificence elsewhere, and announced them.
“The police, my lord, and Dr. Cartwright.”
Lord Caterham was pacing up and down in a visibly agitated state.
“Ha! inspector, you’ve turned up at last. I’m thankful for that. How
are you, Cartwright? This is the very devil of a business, you know.
The very devil of a business.”
And Lord Caterham, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied
fashion until it stood upright in little tufts, looked even less like a
peer of the realm than usual.
“Where’s the body?” asked the doctor, in curt business-like fashion.
Lord Caterham turned to him as though relieved at being asked a direct
question.
“In the council chamber—just where it was found—I wouldn’t have it
touched. I believed—er—that that was the correct thing to do.”
“Quite right, my lord,” said the inspector approvingly.
He produced a notebook and pencil.
“And who discovered the body? Did you?”
“Good Lord, no,” said Lord Caterham. “You don’t think I usually get up
at this unearthly hour in the morning, do you? No, a housemaid found
it. She screamed a good deal, I believe. I didn’t hear her myself. Then
they came to me about it, and of course I got up and came down—and
there it was, you know.”
“You recognized the body as that of one of your guests?”
“That’s right, inspector.”
“By name?”
This perfectly simple question seemed to upset Lord Caterham. He
opened his mouth once or twice, and then shut it again. Finally he
asked feebly.
“Do you mean—do you mean—what was his name?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, looking slowly round the room, as though
hoping to gain inspiration. “His name was—I should say it was—yes,
decidedly so—Count Stanislaus.”
There was something so odd about Lord Caterham’s manner, that the
inspector ceased using his pencil and stared at him instead. But at
that moment a diversion occurred which seemed highly welcome to the
embarrassed peer.
The door opened and a girl came into the room. She was tall, slim and
dark, with an attractive boyish face, and a very determined manner.
This was Lady Eileen Brent, commonly known as Bundle, Lord Caterham’s
eldest daughter. She nodded to the others, and addressed her father
directly.
“I’ve got him,” she announced.
For a moment the inspector was on the point of starting forward
under the impression that the young lady had captured the murderer
red-handed, but almost immediately he realized that her meaning was
quite different.
Lord Caterham uttered a sigh of relief.
“That’s a good job. What did he say?”
“He’s coming over at once. We are to ‘use the utmost discretion.’”
Her father made a sound of annoyance.
“That’s just the sort of idiotic thing George Lomax would say. However,
once he comes, I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”
He appeared to cheer up a little at the prospect.
“And the name of the murdered man was Count Stanislaus?” queried the
doctor.
A lightning glance passed between father and daughter, and then the
former said with some dignity:
“Certainly. I said so just now.”
“I asked because you didn’t seem quite sure about it before,” explained
Cartwright.
There was a faint twinkle in his eye, and Lord Caterham looked at him
reproachfully.
“I’ll take you to the Council Chamber,” he said more briskly.
They followed him, the inspector bringing up the rear, and darting
sharp glances all around him as he went, much as though he expected to
find a clue in a picture frame, or behind a door.
Lord Caterham took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, flinging
it open. They all passed into a big room panelled in oak, with three
long windows giving on the terrace. There was a long refectory table
and a good many oak chests, and some beautiful old chairs. On the walls
were various paintings of dead and gone Caterhams and others.
Near the left-hand wall, about half-way between the door and the
window, a man was lying on his back, his arms flung wide.
Dr. Cartwright went over and knelt down by the body. The inspector
strode across to the windows, and examined them in turn. The centre
one was closed, but not fastened. On the steps outside were footprints
leading up to the window, and a second set going away again.
“Clear enough,” said the inspector, with a nod. “But there ought to be
footprints on the inside as well. They’d show up plain on this parquet
floor.”
“I think I can explain that,” interposed Bundle. “The housemaid had
polished half the floor this morning before she saw the body. You
see, it was dark when she came in here. She went straight across to
the windows, drew the curtains, and began on the floor, and naturally
didn’t see the body which is hidden from that side of the room by the
table. She didn’t see it until she came right on top of it.”
The inspector nodded.
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, eager to escape. “I’ll leave you here,
inspector. You’ll be able to find me if you—er—want me. But Mr.
George Lomax is coming over from Wyverne Abbey shortly, and he’ll be
able to tell you far more than I could. It’s his business really. I
can’t explain, but he will when he comes.”
Lord Caterham beat a precipitate retreat without waiting for a reply.
“Too bad for Lomax,” he complained. “Letting me in for this. What’s the
matter, Tredwell?”