Macdonald’s brain-wave over consulting Attleton’s masseur bore fruit in an identification, which, if not absolutely positive, was sufficiently so to weigh the scales of probability almost to a certainty.
The bath-attendant and masseur who had pommelled Attleton regularly after his baths was a man named Jennings, a cool, steady-headed, competent fellow, who undertook the task set him without fuss or protestation. He said frankly that he could not swear to an identification, but was sure of it in his own mind. The very fact that Attleton’s body had no scar, or birthmark, or other distinctive mark, made him the more certain he was right. Nearly every one, he found, had some distinguishing mark—but not Mr. Attleton. Jennings it was who suggested consulting the chiropodist who had attended to Attleton’s feet, and this man also concurred in Jennings’ opinion. Coupled to the evidence of measurements obtained from tailors and shoemakers, these men’s evidence convinced Macdonald that there was little or no room for doubt. It was Attleton’s body which had been concealed in the Belfry Studio.
Macdonald had had a long talk with Weller, the butler. From him he learnt that Debrette had been ringing up at intervals for the past three months; but—and this struck Macdonald as a curious point—the calls always seemed to have come when Attleton was out. Since, however, his master answered the phone himself very frequently when he was at home, Weller could not say that Debrette had never caught Attleton at home. He could only say that on the occasions he (Weller) had answered the calls and heard the foreign-sounding voice, Mr. Attleton was always out. Debrette had occasionally left a message asking Mr. Attleton to ring him up, but had never mentioned his own number. It was only recently, said Weller, that Mr. Attleton had expressed irritation over Debrette’s messages, and only on the occasion when Mr. Rockingham and Mr. Grenville were present that he had actually lost his temper when told of Debrette’s call.
Macdonald asked the butler to tell him, quite frankly, what he had himself imagined to be the situation with regard to Debrette and his telephone calls. Sitting in the library, where Macdonald had told the punctilious butler to sit down and take his ease, the latter thoughtfully rubbed his wide, well-shaven cheek with a wide, fat thumb.
“Well, sir, I did ponder over the matter a bit, I admit. Not that it’s any business of mine, but human nature’s the same in all of us, master and man alike. Mr. Attleton’s one that likes a flutter, he’d gamble on anything, and he always goes over to France to see them classic races over there. Grand Prix and all that. I reckoned this Debrette might be a foreign bookie he’d had dealings with, things going well for Mr. Attleton at first, if you follow me, and then going against him. When this Debrette began to sound nasty, and Mr. Attleton to get rattled, I says to meself, things has gone against him as they always do in that game in the long run—that’s my opinion, sir—and the bookie was pressing for his account to be settled.”
“Sounds quite reasonable,” agreed Macdonald. “You thought Debrette sounded of the bookie type?”
“Well, no, sir, I didn’t, not at first,” admitted Weller. “Seemed to me a cut above that line of gentry. It’s difficult to tell with a Frenchy, very polished some of them, even the waiters, but I took Debrette for a gentleman. Even when he began to sound ’ectoring, as you might say, he still struck me as a person of education so to speak. Then I did wonder—” He hesitated and broke off, and Macdonald encouraged him.
“Go on, Weller, you needn’t be afraid of what you tell me. If it’s not relevant, it won’t go any further, and if it is relevant, you’d better hand it over to me.”
“Very good, sir. Mr. Attleton’s way of life—not what you’d call regular, sir—and yet it’s all against his interests to have an open break with Mrs. Attleton. He liked his comfort, sir. Good service, good food, a good club, Turkish baths, swimming, fencing, motoring and all. Mr. Attleton’s a very pleasant gentleman to work for, appreciates good service, and is generous when he’s in funds, but if anything isn’t just so, he’ll not put up with it. If his linen sheets aren’t always the same quality, his bath water as hot as he likes it, his bath salts just so, he mentions it. Likes good living, as I say, sir, but who pays for the linen, and the heating, and the service, in this house, sir? Not Mr. Attleton.”
Macdonald nodded his appreciation of this really oratorical effort on the part of Weller, and put in:
“Mrs. Attleton pays the piper, I take it. D’you know if that has always been so, ever since they married?”
Weller shook his head. “No, no, sir. Mr. Attleton made a lot of money at one time—and spent it. His first books brought him in a tidy little pile, and he spent any amount on this house, but when funds ran low with him, Mrs. Attleton took on the paying of the household. You remember she played lead in When Lovely Woman. Ran for two years, to packed houses all the time, and Sybilla Attleton was the chief draw, folks said. A lot of money’s made by them at the top of their profession, and the mistress has got her head screwed on the right way where money’s concerned. Well, I’m very long-winded, sir, but what I mean is this. Mr. Attleton’s been having it both ways, his comfortable establishment here, and his bit of pleasure elsewhere, I should say, but it wasn’t to his interest for Mrs. A. to know about his ways. That opens the door to blackmail, sir.”
“It does,” agreed Macdonald. “But what reason have you for saying that Mr. Attleton’s conduct was irregular?”
Once again Weller rubbed his smooth cheeks, and then said, “Might I trouble you to step outside, sir, to see Mr. Attleton’s writing-room? You’ll appre’end my point more easily, sir, if I may say so.”
They had been sitting in the library—a really beautiful little room, fitted from floor to frieze with finely-designed bookcases. The carpet on the floor was a Persian one, showing the famous Tree of Life design, and the chairs and writing-bureau were perfectly matched, Sheraton rosewood, with ball and claw feet to finish the graceful turn of their finely-wrought legs. The entrance hall of the little Regency house was a masterpiece of architectural ingenuity. Advancing from the door of the library on the extreme left, Macdonald stood at the head of a miniature state staircase. Behind him were the folding doors of the octagon drawing-room, to right and left, at the end of the little landing on which he stood, the two wings of the staircase curved elegantly down to the parquet floor of the hall. The front door was approached through a conservatory, now ablaze with spring flowers, fragrant with the scent of hyacinths and freesias whose perfume filled the place. At either end of the hall—whose breadth was triple its length—were two tall arched recesses, or niches, designed for statuary. There were no figures in them now, but pots of arum lilies, whose graceful foliage showed up against the creamy walls of the recess behind them.
Seeing the niches, in proportion similar to that which he had uncovered in the Belfry, Macdonald took a prompt dislike to one of the most beautiful pieces of interior planning he had ever seen. Weller led the way to a small door at one end of the conservatory entrance, saying:
“Mr. Attleton had his writing-room built—or adapted—from a little garden house at the end of the garden, sir. He had to have a place where he would not be disturbed, and it is an understood thing in the household that when he is there in the writing-room it is as though he was out. No one may go there to disturb him on any pretext.”
The slightly pompous tones of Weller’s voice amused Macdonald considerably. He guessed that the last speech had often been produced to overawe new domestics. Leading the way across the small garden, Weller went on:
“Mr. Attleton often works here at night, sir. He begins to write after the household has retired to bed, and many’s the time I’ve seen his light still burning when I’ve got up of a winter morning.”
Having crossed the grass to the rather absurd yet charming little imitation of a Doric Temple which was known as the writing-room, Weller produced a key from his pocket and opened the door.
“You will observe, sir, that there are two entrances. The one at which we stand, to which I have the key for purposes of cleaning, and the other door which gives access to the road. Mr. Attleton alone had the key of that door, and when he works in here, this door is secured from within—” indicating the door at which they stood.
“I see,” said Macdonald, his thin, mobile lips twitching with amusement at the butler’s prosiness. “For a man of what you termed ‘irregular habits,’ this place has points.”
“Yes, sir.” Weller went to the writing-table and rearranged the handlamp on it thoughtfully. “If it’s a matter of confidence between me and you. I’ll admit that Mr. Attleton’s light may burn all night sometimes when he’s no need of it.” The butler’s eyes dwelt on the second doorway. “As you say, sir, the arrangement has ‘points.’ Who is to know when he’s here and when he isn’t?”
If Macdonald’s ears had been of the mobile variety they would have twitched, but the movement was only in his mind. “And the fact is, Weller, you know that Mr. Attleton occasionally spends his nights abroad, so to speak?”
“I think, sir, trusting you to respect the confidence, that it is not improbable.”
“And how much does Mrs. Attleton know about this?”
The butler looked doubtful. “I should say, sir, nothing. When she is acting, Mrs. Attleton retires as soon as she comes in. It is some considerable time, I believe, since she and Mr. Attleton—er—shared the same room. In some respects they follow the adage of live and let live, if you take me. They don’t altogether hit it.”
“Does Mrs. Attleton ever ask you questions about her husband, Weller?”
“Never, sir. Mrs. Attleton is most punctilious in her dealings with her staff.”
“Thanks very much, Weller. I shall be glad when we have found where Mrs. Attleton is staying. I’m afraid she will have a shock to face when she returns.”
Weller’s face showed an admirable professional concern, lighted as he spoke with a more human curiosity.
“I’m sorry to hear it, sir. You have bad news of Mr. Attleton?”
“I’m afraid so. I can’t tell you anything for certain yet, but I think things look bad.”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, I had a feeling that trouble was afoot when you first began to make inquiries. There’s been a nasty feeling in this house. I was half afraid there’d be another accident.”
“Another?” queried Macdonald.
“I’m superstitious, sir. When I saw the new moon through glass I said to myself, ‘That’ll mean more trouble.’ It was only the day before he went away that Mr. Attleton went to young Mr. Anthony’s funeral. A sad business, sir. He was one of those rash drivers, and his brakes failed on Porlock Hill. Very melancholy. Then, a matter of a year ago, Mr. Attleton’s older brother died in Paris. Gas turned on. Suicide it was.”
“And you saw the new moon through glass on both those occasions?”
“No, sir. In the case of Mr. Anthony, he upset the salt at table, and with Mr. Guy Attleton, he sat down as one of thirteen at table. I saw it myself, sir.”
“What’s that got to do with a ‘nasty atmosphere,’ Weller?”
The butler looked uncomfortable. “If you’d lived in this house, you’d have felt it yourself, sir. Recriminations. Malice. Not nice at all.”
“What do you make of Mr. Thomas Burroughs?” The abrupt question evidently surprised Weller, who raised his hairless brows and then nodded his pontifical head as though in agreement.
“What I should call a nasty piece of work, if you’ll pardon the liberty, sir,” he replied.
“Not a friend of Mr. Attleton’s, I gather?”
“Just so, sir. It’s a funny thing,” went on Weller, in an outburst of confidence. “They say what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, but it depends on the nature of the individual how you look at it. Now Mr. Attleton has his failings. I’ve told you so frankly, but I like him for all that. I’d lend him my last fiver and do it gladly—but that Mr. Burroughs. No. No class, sir. Not a gentleman. Very wealthy, I’m told, very wealthy indeed, but not a person I’d like to serve, and that’s a fact. Don’t know how to treat a servant, that’s what it is.”
“Anything else, Weller?”
“Not as I’d care to mention, sir. It’s one thing to talk about Mr. Attleton’s little ways—when all’s said and done, most gentlemen are much alike—but I’ve nothing to say about my mistress, sir.”
Macdonald could not help being amused. Weller’s carefully-worded abstention had told him as much as a string of innuendoes. However, he saw fit to break off the conversation, and leave it at that.
“I shall have to go through the papers in Mr. Attleton’s desk, Weller. I have a warrant, of course, and in Mrs. Attleton’s absence, the only thing to do is to carry on and explain the necessity to her later.”
The butler looked troubled. “Then you think Mr. Attleton has met with an accident, sir?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Macdonald, “but once again, I’m not absolutely certain. I may be mistaken. Put it like this. An accident has occurred and a man has been killed, but he has not yet been identified for certain. He was too badly damaged.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. I liked Mr. Attleton.”
Macdonald went to the desk, which was a modern one, and tried the drawers. They were all locked, and from the look of the locks would take a good deal of opening, short of doing violence to a very good piece of furniture. Having many other matters to attend to, Macdonald decided to put seals on the doors of the room and return later to investigate the papers. He told Weller so, inquiring if any other keys existed which gave access to the writing-room. The butler said that save for his own key—which he handed over sorrowfully—the only remaining ones were in Mr. Attleton’s possession.
“You have those, yourself, sir?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Then he was robbed—after the accident?”
“Perhaps. It’s not been ascertained.”
Weller looked at him queerly, but to Macdonald’s surprise, made no inquiry as to the nature of the “accident.”
Macdonald finally left Weller with instructions to go to Scotland Yard to examine exhibit A—the suitcase, and to make a note if anything was missing therefrom. After which, having thanked the butler for his assistance, Macdonald proceeded to the offices of Messrs. Todbury, Wether & Goodchild in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Mr. Todbury received him with urbanity, but with a solemn face, and his solemnity had increased considerably by the time Macdonald had given a résumé of the facts which he had unearthed in the last twenty-four hours. Mr. Todbury had never come within bowing distance of criminal proceedings, his practice being concerned with settlements, wills, leases, mortgages, and a very sound instinct to keep his clients from litigation of any kind.
“Settle it out of court,” was his invariable advice to an aggressive client.
“A most shocking story, Chief Inspector. Most shocking. Never in my life have I heard anything so appalling. It’s almost unbelievable! Time and again I have said to Mr. Attleton that he would come to no good—but this!” and the dry little man mopped his face in distress.
“It is, indeed, a shocking story,” said Macdonald, his grave, sympathetic voice low-pitched, “and I’m sorry to have to distress you with it, but it is my job to ascertain the facts. On the evidence which we have, I think it can be taken for granted that deceased was Mr. Attleton, and the next question which arises is this—Who had a motive to kill him? You must know, as well as I do, sir, that profit is the motive in many murders, quite as much as revenge, hatred, or jealousy. You can answer the question, who profits by Mr. Attleton’s death?”
The lawyer spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Who profits? Nobody, my dear sir, nobody—not even to the extent of life insurance. Bruce Attleton was improvident to a degree. He made money at one time easily. Light come, light go. Instead of investing it, he spent it. I insisted upon his insuring his life on his marriage. He has realised on his policy. To the best of my knowledge he leaves nothing but debts and whatever royalties may accrue to him in future will go to liquidate those debts.”
“Had he any expectations in the way of legacies?”
“Not to my knowledge. His family have been singularly unfortunate. They were, I know, folk of some substance two generations ago, but their wealth was all dissipated. Bad management! Bad management!”
“I should be glad to learn something of his people,” said Macdonald, and Mr. Todbury went on:
“His relatives, like their fortune, have passed away, Chief Inspector. I was only looking into the matter after young Fell’s death. So far as I can ascertain there are only two members of the family living. Alas, no! With poor Bruce’s death…Dear me! Dear me! It is an almost inconceivable thing. The old man, Mr. Adam Marsham, must be the sole survivor, and he will be a hundred years old if he survives until June of this year—a most remarkable thing!”
Macdonald asked for and got, full particulars of Attleton’s family from the prosy old lawyer. Mr. Todbury was admirably precise, and on his own ground, brief and explicit, and the record that he gave was as follows:
There were originally known to his firm (in the days of Mr. Todbury’s father) two brothers named Marsham, of whom Adam (still surviving) was the elder and James the younger. There was also a sister named Mary Anne. All these three had inherited good incomes from land on which coal had been discovered in the early nineteenth century. Adam had dissipated his fortune early and gone to live in Australia, whence he returned as a widower at the age of fifty-five, having made a few thousands which he invested (very profitably, as it turned out) in an annuity which brought him an income of about £300 a year. He had one daughter, Alicia, who married an Australian tradesman in a small way of business, and whose grandson, Anthony Fell, had recently come to England and died there. Anthony had inherited an income from his parents (both dead) of £50 a year, which was left to a friend in Melbourne.
James Marsham, born in 1840, had one daughter, Janet, who married Henry Attleton, a stockbroker, in 1890. Henry Attleton had lost his fortune in speculation and shot himself in 1910, his wife dying shortly after him. They left two sons, Guy, born in 1891, and Bruce born in 1892. Guy had done fairly well in a shipping agents’ firm, but his health was ruined by after effects of war-time gas, and he had killed himself in 1935.
The sister of the two Marshams, Mary Anne, born in 1841, had made a mésalliance with an Alsatian artist named Brossé, had gone abroad with him, and had died some time in the seventies. Mr. Todbury’s father had made inquiry into her estate at the time of her death, and found that her husband (“a scoundrel, my dear sir, undoubtedly a scoundrel!”) had realised her fortune and lost it in betting and speculating. Adam Marsham, who had quarrelled with Mary Anne at the time of her marriage, had been bitterly indignant over her squandered fortune.
“They were a curious family,” said old Mr. Todbury, his fingers together at the tips, his eyes now beaming quite happily at Macdonald as he gazed at him over the tops of his glasses. “My father told me that they all quarrelled bitterly at the time of their parent’s death, each one seeking to claim a larger part of the inheritance than was their due. This bitterness was carried into the second generation, when Alicia and Janet wrote abusive letters to one another over the same old bone of contention. Then Adam did his best to make trouble between Janet and Henry Attleton and their sons—a curious, unbalanced family.”
Macdonald had been busy making notes of Mr. Todbury’s statement, and put in here, “Then I take it that Bruce Attleton was the only living descendant of these three Marshams, unless Mary Anne, who became Mme. Brossé, left any issue. Have you any information on that point, sir?”
“Nothing reliable,” replied Mr. Todbury. “Mary Anne married early in the sixties—1862, I think. She went to live in Alsace—Grandville, it was, and my father had an idea that a son was born, but after the upheaval of Sedan and the annexation of Alsace, it was difficult to get any reliable news. That section of the family has been lost sight of entirely.”
“Well, it looks to me as though it might be coming into the daylight now, and letting me see daylight at the same time,” said Macdonald. “How would this do for a possible hypothesis, based on a hypothetical inheritance. If old Adam Marsham has any substantial sum to leave behind him, Bruce Attleton, through the death of his cousin, Anthony Fell, and his own older brother, would be the only member of the family to inherit—unless Mary Anne Brossé left a son. Assume for one moment that she did, leave a son—or daughter—and that the man we know as Debrette is the grandson of Mary Anne Brossé—née Marsham.”
The elderly lawyer waved his hands in excited protest.
“My dear sir! This is an unwarrantable stretching of the imagination to suit your fancy. You have no facts to go on, none whatever…”
“Oh, yes, I have,” retorted Macdonald imperturbably. “I admit I’m stretching them, and then using my imagination to fill in gaps, but there’s some reasoning behind the process. Within a comparatively short time, two lives have been removed from this line of succession, leaving Bruce Attleton as heir—if there is anything in the family to leave. Now he is removed—violently—and a foreigner named Debrette seems to have been involved, to say the least of it, in his passing. Is it stretching the imagination too far to connect this Debrette with the Alsatian family of Brossé? Remember that Debrette would be cousin to Attleton if my idea holds water, and one witness at least has suggested a likeness between Attleton and Debrette.”
Mr. Todbury looked bewildered.
“You go too fast, Chief Inspector,” he protested, and Macdonald agreed.
“Yes. I’m outrunning my data, but you will have to prove—or disprove—my preposterous suggestions. I take it that you are not in charge of Mr. Adam Marsham’s affairs?”
“That is so,” announced Mr. Todbury. “He quarrelled with my father—dear me, a great many years ago it would be. I think, however, that he has very few affairs to manage from the legal point of view. His solicitor is Mr. Piddleton of Clifford Inn. I have some communications from him occasionally, as recently when it was considered that the old gentleman—the ‘Old Soldier’ as Bruce Attleton called him—was about to die. Dear me, he has been going to die a great many times in the last twenty years, and on each occasion has summoned some member of the family to his death bed.”
“To hear his testamentary dispositions or last wishes!” said Macdonald cheerfully. “Now, sir, I know that all good lawyers hate giving information concerning probable estates.”
“Quite rightly, quite rightly!” put in Mr. Todbury, and Macdonald heartily agreed.
“Most rightly, but in this case the information is to be given in confidence to you and to Scotland Yard. I want to know just how much the Old Soldier has saved during the forty years he has been in receipt of an annuity.”
“Dear me, dear me!” murmured Mr. Todbury. “Now you mention it, there does seem a possibility—not so remote, perhaps. If he had saved £50 per annum for forty-five years, investing the interest.”
“—At compound interest,” put in Macdonald firmly, and Mr. Todbury scribbled diligently.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “£50 a year for forty-five years at five per cent.—I make it £9,000 odd at a rough estimate.”
“Not a bad little sum,” said Macdonald, “and he may have had a little bit of capital in addition to what he sank in the annuity. It probably kept him alive, you know—taking an interest in the interest.”
Mr. Todbury wiped his glasses, and looked down at his figures with a speculative eye.
“And you can also inquire, sir,” went on Macdonald trenchantly, “if either Mr. Bruce Attleton or his brother, or any gentleman with a foreign accent, has endeavoured to learn anything of Mr. Adam Marsham’s affairs within the last few years.”
The old lawyer’s face, which had become quite enthusiastic as he worked out his figures, fell again like a little child’s.
“Dear me! This terrible affair! I still don’t quite follow you, Chief Inspector.”
“No, sir. I’m finding it a bit hard to follow myself. As you say, all this jumping to conclusions is unwarrantable, but I do see possibilities. Imagine this Debrette, with a certain amount of information at his disposal, getting into touch with Bruce Attleton, and sounding him as to his own knowledge of Mr. Marsham’s affairs. You mention Attleton’s family as of unstable temper. The father took his own life. The old man is obviously of an erratic and ill-tempered disposition. There may have been a kink in their minds.”
Seeing Mr. Todbury’s troubled face, Macdonald did not go on with his disquisition. Instead he said, “At least, sir, you will get for me the information I ask? I could get it myself, but I admit that I am working from unsure premises. I do not wish to trouble another kind-hearted lawyer, such as yourself, with the attentions of Scotland Yard.”
Mr. Todbury laughed at that. “What you really mean, my dear sir, is that you know you are making unjustifiable guesses, and you put the onus of the inquiry on me, rather than on your own very estimable department. But do not fear! I will get the information for you if it is to be got. Forty-five years! God bless my soul!”
Macdonald, leaving Mr. Todbury with the warmest expression of thanks for his thoughtfulness, allowed his own ingenious mind to get on with the possibilities involved.
“If Attleton and Debrette both knew there was a fortune involved, they may have had an equal determination to become residuary legatee—in which case, it may have been pure chance which of them we found in the Belfry—according to which got his blow in first. As it turned out it was Debrette. But why, in the name of common sense, did Burroughs go butting in? What does he know about it? Losh! There are too many whys in this case, but there’s something in the idea of £9,000. Quite substantial as a nest egg, anyway.”