Chapter Twenty

“Nothing Left To Say”

“No,” said Alec, very heavily. “Sheila didn’t know. Danny found out.”

“Shall we have Grice in?” asked Rollison.

“I suppose so.”

Alec watched Rollison go to the door and summon Grice. He told him the simple truth, and added: “What I don’t know now, I can guess.”

“What can you guess?” demanded Alec, roughly.

“That Mrs. Fotheringay was the prime mover in all that has happened,” said Rollison, “that Murgatroyd was one of her partners and Arnott another, and at some time in his life, Bryan was a third: I mean Babette’s father.”

“I don’t know whether it’s true or not,” said Alec, between set teeth, “but—” He paused.

“Go on,” urged Rollison.

Alec said: “Danny Bond came down here with that package, although he didn’t say he had it. He wanted me to give him shelter. I refused. He told me that if I didn’t he would incriminate my mother.” He drew in his breath, sharply. “He said that she was Arnott’s partner, that she was organising the beastly business at the night-clubs, and I flatly denied it and made him clear out. Is it true, Rollison? He hasn’t named her?”

“He got himself into more trouble with the police for not doing so,” said Rollison. “What else did he say?”

“He said he had been unaware of it until he got fed up with Arnott’s crowd, and they started to get worried about him. He discovered that Arnott visited Mrs. Fotheringay sometimes, and they quarrelled occasionally. He said that Arnott had attacked her because she wouldn’t give him that package—the package Danny had already found. He thought it had been put in his room because that was the last place Arnott would expect to find it. He said that Arnott wanted to get rid of all competition, which was why he planned to murder my mother and get Danny hanged. He knew that there was someone else in Winchester, but as far as I know he didn’t suspect Murgatroyd. I can’t tell you anything more!” declared Alec gruffly. “You’ll have to find out whether it’s true from someone else.”

“I’m afraid it will be true,” said Rollison. He looked at Grice. “Well, Bill?”

“I’ll send in for Mr. Stewart later, if it’s necessary,” said Grice. “I shall have to leave some of my men here for the time being.”

“Just as you like,” said Alec, distantly.

Rollison said: “Get it all over now, Alec. Why did you tell me that your mother was dead, and that she left you this furniture?”

“I’ve always let it be thought that she was dead. She left my father and me years ago, giving me enough furniture to furnish a small house. I got so that I wanted to believe she was dead, and I still wish it was true.” He lifted his haggard face towards Rollison, and added very quietly: “I had only contempt for my father, but I wanted to believe that mother—” His voice trailed off.

Rollison said: “There was a lot of good in Lancelot Stewart.”

“He always swore that he left her because she wanted him to, but I wouldn’t believe him, he was such a habitual liar. He could never resist a pretty face, either. My mother was ten years older than he, that may have been the cause of the trouble.” He swung round. “Do you need any more?”

“No,” said Rollison. “No, thanks.”

He turned away, hoping that he had helped to ease the burden on the man’s mind by encouraging that reluctant confidence.

Grice did not speak as they left the bungalow with Murgatroyd just ahead of them, sandwiched between two big detectives. As Murgatroyd’s car was the larger, Grice and Rollison climbed into it and took the fat man with them, and one of Grice’s men drove while Grice sat next to him and turned to Murgatroyd. The fat man was subdued and sullen, but he did not carry his stubbornness too far. By the time they reached Winchester he had confirmed the truth; Mrs. Fotheringay – alias Mrs. Lancelot Stewart – Arnott and he had been the prime movers in the crimes; and the work among Nato officers out for a spree was but one section of it.

They discovered more before long.

Much of the furniture which Murgatroyd sold was stolen or faked, and he dealt also in stolen jewels. At one time Babette’s father had worked with them but that partnership had been broken up for some time. Because Bryan would not continue to work with them, they had got revenge on his daughter. Babette had told the truth as far as she knew it, but she did not know the real reason why she had been brought into the vicious circle. Nor did she know that at all costs Arnott and Murgatroyd and Mrs. Fotheringay had needed to bring Lancelot Stewart into the orbit of its influence; for Lancelot Stewart had known some of the truth about his wife, and had he not been frightened for himself, he might have disclosed how much he knew.

“So all the ends tie up,” said Rollison, sitting in King’s office, with Grice at his side. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“There certainly isn’t much missing,” said King.

“There’s a package,” said Grice.

“Oh, Murgatroyd will have that somewhere,” said Rollison. “We’ll find it at his shop, and I doubt whether its contents are what Arnott made out. Astonishing that such a tangle can work out, isn’t it? Do you still think that Alec Stewart was involved?”

Grice said: “No. I suppose we can’t blame him for saying nothing.”

“There speaks a humane policeman! We certainly can’t,” added Rollison. “But there are curious things about this business, Bill, which we don’t fully understand yet. How Danny Bond was driven to desperation and could probably have saved himself from what seemed likely to be a long sentence, but would not talk about Mrs, Fotheringay. And how Babette—I mean, quite a lot of decent people lived in purgatory because of Murgatroyd, Arnott, and the whitehaired lady who started all the trouble. I wonder if we would have found all this if she had died?”

“I don’t think it would have made any difference to you. I suppose Arnott did attack her.”

“Why not get Bond on the telephone?”

“That can wait until we get back,” said Grice. “What we want down here is that package.”

“Let me have a go at Murgatroyd, he’ll probably say exactly where it is.”

“I don’t see why he should tell you when he won’t tell me,” said Grice tartly.

“All right,” said Rollison amiably. “Have you sent a woman police officer to the shop, King?”

“Why, no. Minny Murgatroyd—”

“Probably has that package,” said Rollison. “I can’t imagine any other reason for Murgatroyd to keep silent, unless he hopes someone will profit by it.”

A large policewoman disappeared into Mrs. Murgatroyd’s bedroom ten minutes later, and firmly closed the door. All Rollison had seen of the fat man’s wife was her frightened face. Hardly had the door closed, however, before it opened again, and the policewoman held the package in her hand.

Rollison, Grice, and King stood at a table in Murgatroyd’s sittingroom, while Grice ran a sharp pen-knife along the joins in the adhesive papers with which the package was sealed. No one else was in the room. Outside the traffic flowed by and people were walking and talking, while inside three pairs of eyes were turned towards the package which had caused so much trouble and was at long last in their hands.

It was very securely stuck down; Grice forced himself to work deliberately, and strip after strip of Scotch tape came off. At last there was only the brown paper wrapping, and when that was unfastened they came upon a black leather case.

“So that’s it,” said Rollison.

King looked up.

“What?”

“A jewel case,” said Rollison.

“But they said—”

King broke off with a gasp of astonishment, for on to the table from the little box there spilled diamonds and pearls and sapphires and rubies, small and large jewels all loose and without their setting, protected by a flimsy piece of cotton wool which was dull against their brilliance. There were fifty or sixty, and they seemed to make little rivulets of flame as they rolled about the table.

Into the silence which followed, Rollison said: “A nice present for Mrs. Murgatroyd! I don’t think Babette would have been allowed to keep it, do you?”

“No wonder everyone was so anxious about it!” exclaimed King, and then he added, bewilderedly: “But everyone seemed to think it would contain papers!”

Grice looked up, and smiled at Rollison.

“Shall I tell him, or will you?”

“Your turn,” said Rollison, gracefully.

“I think Arnott gave it out to everyone that he had written evidence which would convict them of some crime or other, and put it about that the evidence was in that box. Instead—” Grice actually laughed. “The proceeds of a lot of robberies, I imagine.”

“Or donations to Arnott’s hoard from officers indebted to him,” said Rollison, thoughtfully. “Quite a little prize packet. I didn’t know what I was handling!”

“What’s that lot worth?” asked King, eagerly.

“I wouldn’t like to put a value on them,” said Rollison, picking up a diamond as large as a pea. “That would sell for several thousands, and it isn’t the largest.” He tossed it up in the air.

“Be careful!” exclaimed King.

Rollison laughed. “It won’t come to any harm. Well, Bill, are you going to stay here for the night?”

“We’ll get back to town, I think,” said Grice. “Look after Murgatroyd, Inspector, and send him up by train in the morning. Just at the moment,” he added, “I’m very anxious to talk to Mrs. Fotheringay.”

When Rollison reached the Gresham Terrace flat, after Grice had dropped him nearby and was hot foot to see the woman in hospital, he was not surprised to hear an American voice call his name. Gerry Wilmot came from the other side of the road, with an apologetic smile.

“Hallo,” said Rollison, and they went upstairs.

“I guess I hate worrying you, Mr. Rollison,” said Wilmot, “but I promised Sheila to stay around until you came back. She felt pretty sore at the way you ran out on her.”

“That’s too bad,” said Rollison. “Where is she?”

“At her home. I promised I’d call her.”

“Come in and use the telephone,” said Rollison, “it’s in that corner.” He watched Wilmot as the American called Sheila, saw him flush, heard Sheila’s voice faintly. He replaced the receiver and said: “She’s corning right over.”

“Good!” Rollison lit a cigarette. “Wilmot, there have been a lot of unexpected things in this business, and not the least of them is the fact that you and Sheila were acquainted before. Why didn’t you say so?”

Wilmot’s eyes widened.

“Why, it just isn’t true, Mr. Rollison!”

“Danny Bond recognised you. You got mixed up in a fight at a night-club.”

Wilmot grinned. “Well, I guess we all do silly things, Mr. Rollison, and that was one to chalk up against me. There’s no reason why a fellow shouldn’t talk to a pretty girl he meets on a train, is there, especially in this country.”

Rollison laughed. “Why especially? Oh, it doesn’t matter,” he said.

Wilmot said: “I don’t mind admitting one thing, Mr. Rollison, I was going to take a peek at Winchester on my way down, because I’d seen that guy Arnott buy a ticket for Winchester. He was on the same train, but things got too hot, so I didn’t trouble about him. I wanted to talk to the guy,” added Wilmot with a frown, “because one of the things he lifted from me was a diamond ring which I value pretty high, Mr. Rollison. It had a diamond which my girlfriend was going to get for an engagement ring, one day.”

“I think you might get it back,” said Rollison. “So you’ve a girlfriend?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Wilmot naïvely. “But I guess the happy day will come. What was that you said? I won’t see that again, not as long as I live.”

“You want to live in hope,” said Rollison,

Footsteps on the stairs made him break off. Sheila reached the front door and did not take her finger off the bell until Rollison opened it. Then she pushed past him.

“Rolly! Of all the beasts! Where have you been? What’s been happening? Where is Danny?”

“He’ll be all right,” said Rollison, and his eyes were narrowed and cloudy. “He’s got over the poison.”

“Poison!”

“Yes, being in love with you.”

“Rolly!”

“It’s about the most virulent poison I know,” said Rollison, “and it does a lot of damage.”

“There’s no need to be so beastly insulting!” Sheila clenched her hands. “I can’t help it if men fall in love with me, can I? and I hate being unkind to them, they are such dears. Of all the brutes!” she cried. “Look how I worked myself to the bone to make you save Danny! Look how I helped with Alec! Look—”

Rollison said: “Sheila, did you know who Mrs. Fotheringay was?”

“Fotheringay? That poor old lady? Why, no, who—?” She caught her breath. “Rolly! Alec doesn’t know. Rolly, please tell me, Alec doesn’t know! I made Danny swear that he wouldn’t tell him. Rolly—”

“How long have you known?” asked Rollison.

“I saw Danny the night before he ran away, he told me then. I knew what an awful blow it would be to Alec, he thought she was dead. Rolly, does he know?”

“Yes. And he’s at the bungalow, alone.”

She stared at him. “Poor Alec. Poor darling Alec! I—Rolly! Is there a train tonight? I don’t care if I have to travel all night, is there a train?”

“There’s one at half-past eleven.”

“I must catch it.” She looked at her watch. “Goodness, it’s nearly eleven now, I must fly!” She turned and ran out of the room, and Rollison motioned to Wilmot.

“Will you see that she’s all right?”

“I guess I’d better hurry,” said Wilmot, “but won’t I be in the way down there?”

“I don’t think they’ll notice you,” said Rollison.

He was smiling a little when the door closed behind the American. Soon he heard running footsteps in the street, and Sheila calling: “Taxi! Taxi!” He went into his study and sat down, leaning back, and wondering whether Grice would telephone to come to see him, when there was a ring at the front-door bell. He admitted Danny Bond, who looked less harassed, as if at long last the burden was off his shoulders.

“You did invite me here, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, make yourself at home,” said Rollison.

“Thanks. I’ve seen Grice,” announced Danny. “It’s all come out. He asked me to tell you that it was Arnott who attacked Mrs. Fotheringay, as she called herself. She’s come round. Apparently she would not connive at violence, that’s why they fell out.” Danny sat on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette. “How is Alec?” he asked.

“About how you’d expect,” said Rollison.

“The meanest thing I ever did was to tell him the truth,” said Danny. “I did try to make up for it afterwards.”

“I told him you did.”

“That was nice of you. Is there anything else, do you know?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “It’s worked out better for some than for others. Babette has the thick end of the stick, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose so,” said Danny, swinging his leg. “Yet she did everything to try to save her father. Rollison, hasn’t it been the very devil of a mix-up?”

“Yes.”

“Er—have you seen Sheila lately?”

“She’s gone down to Winchester.”

“To see Alec?”

“Yes.”

Danny stood up, and began to pace the room.

“I suppose I ought to be glad, but I don’t mind admitting that I’m afraid she’ll play old Harry with him. I know what it’s like to be engaged to Sheila, and I simply can’t imagine her settling down on a poultry farm. Do you think Alec will take the risk?”

“I do,” said Rollison. “I think there’s a sound chance that it will work out all right, and I’m quite sure that neither of them would be happy until they’ve tried!”

Ten days later Rollison went down to Winchester to fetch Jolly, not because Jolly could not have travelled to London on his own, but because he wanted to see the bungalow and Alec and Sheila.

A great deal had happened in a week.

Alec and Sheila had been married by special licence. The Public Prosecutor had decided not to charge Babette with murder, and on the lesser charges she would not get a heavy sentence, although her father would. Arnott and Murgatroyd had been remanded on charges of murder, and there was no doubt of how their trials would go.

Tenby, Barney, and others, named by Tenby, who had made a full confession, were held on various charges; they included the men who had raided Alec’s farm. There was to be no charge against Danny Bond. Mrs. Fotheringay was not likely to live for her trial on a charge of receiving stolen goods, the chief one against her. The police were advertising for officers and men who had been robbed of jewels and already there were many claimants.

As he went with Jolly in a taxi from the hotel to the bungalow, Rollison reviewed the case from its beginning, and was still astonished at the way one thing had developed into another.

“It is a very good thing finished with,” said Jolly, as they came in sight of the bungalow. “It was a cancerous growth sir, and I like to think that I had even a small part in helping to cut it out.” He looked at the poultry houses. “Changing the subject, with your permission, I must say that Mr. Alec’s poultry produce excellent eggs.”

“What I’m worried about is whether they yield happy marriages,” said Rollison.

The front door was closed and he knocked. The garden looked as well-tended as ever, and hundreds of fowls were in their large runs, only an occasional squawk coming from them. Everywhere there was peacefulness, but the quiet was broken by hurried footsteps in the hall.

A radiant Sheila, in a green house-coat, opened the door, stepped back, and then threw herself into his arms.

“Rolly, darling! Alec! Alec! It’s Rolly—oh, and his—I mean Jolly! Isn’t it funny how differently you pronounce the letter ‘o’, sometimes, it isn’t surprising that people find English hard to learn is it?” Words tumbled out as she stood back and beamed, while Alec came slowly from the kitchen. Rollison was quite happy about what he saw.

“So we’re really married!” said Sheila, after Jolly had politely insisted on making a solitary inspection of the farm. “Alec is absolutely marvellous. You needn’t tell him that he’s old enough to know better! Rolly, I’ve thought such a lot about you,” she went on, looking at him keenly, “and I think you’re wonderful, too, but why don’t you get married? I mean, men ought to get married.”

Rollison laughed.

It was Alec who mentioned lunch and Sheila flew into the kitchen to prepare it. The sound of breaking china came into the room where Rollison and Alec were sitting, and Alec grinned.

“It’ll be all right,” he said.

“I know it will.”

“I’d better go and lend her a hand,” said Alec.

“We’ll both go. Oh, I nearly forgot—a trifle by way of a wedding present.”

It was not until after he and Jolly had left that Alec opened the envelope and found, torn into pieces, his I.O.U. for the hundred pounds to cover the grandfather clock. At the moment when Sheila was saying, in a strangely subdued voice, that she had never really appreciated Rolly, Rollison was saying to Jolly: “One thing I never understood was the good fortune which put into Lancelot Stewart’s tyre a piece of glass at the crucial moment.”

Jolly smiled serenely. “There was a bottle in the car, sir, I broke it. I thought it would be effective.”

Rollison laughed. “Trust Jolly!” He took a crumpled envelope from his pocket and passed it over. “That ought to be effective for the wall at home, too.”

Jolly looked puzzled until he drew out a handful of feathers, some stuck together with dried blood of fowls.