After his long conversation with Major Grendon, Falkland did his best to dismiss the matter of “dear Emma” and her husband’s death from his mind, but the story kept on recurring to him. He woke up in the night and thought about it; the topic came between him and his crossword puzzle and he could not settle to his letters after breakfast.
Robert Falkland was an architect with a good private practice: he was a very able man in his profession and, in addition, he had been a fine athlete in his time. He was still a first-class tennis player, and when he had slipped on the turf one day and damaged a ligament in his knee he had been exceedingly disgusted at being deprived of his game. The injury—like so many knee injuries—did not yield to treatment. After months of pain and discomfort, during which he had spent a large amount of money on doctoring, massage, violet rays and so forth, he still found himself totally incapacitated so far as active exercise was concerned, and it was in desperation that he had come to Max Brook’s Clinic at Penharden. Brook was an osteopath, but like many other similar practitioners he was up against the orthodox medical profession, being unqualified in the legal sense. Whatever his position might be in the eyes of the orthodox, Falkland found Brook’s ability most remarkable. Under the manipulation of the osteopath’s big skilful hands, the damage to the complex ligaments of the knee was set right, and Falkland was released from the persistent pain which had been making an irritable man of him. In short, Max Brook was successful where the élite of Harley Street had been impotent and Falkland was duly grateful to him.
On the morning after Mr. Anderby’s death, Falkland had his usual treatment with the osteopath. Brook was a thin, dark fellow, with an ugly sardonic face redeemed by fine dark eyes. That Brook was an astute observer of human nature—and a good psychologist too—Falkland was well aware. During his treatments the osteopath seldom talked, but he sometimes visited his patients in their rooms in the evenings, and Falkland, himself an unusually intelligent and well-informed man, always enjoyed talking to Brook, even when he disagreed with him.
On the morning in question, Brook’s treatment was very brief. He examined the knee carefully and said at length,
“Well, your bit of trouble’s over. You need to take things easy for a bit and exercise in moderation—walk a bit every day, working up to a decent tramp in a fortnight’s time. The knee is sound again. It’ll be tender for a bit, but you needn’t anticipate any further trouble. You should be able to do what you like in a month’s time, giving yourself a chance to get fit by degrees.”
“That’s good news. I’m grateful, Brook. I was getting disheartened over the damned thing before I came to you. You said in the first case it’d take a month to get it right. I’ve been here three weeks. It seems to me it’d be sensible if I stayed on here for another week to make sure the trouble’s cleared up.”
“As you will. Now you can get about a bit, you’ll find the country round here quite pleasant for walking in a mild way. I’m afraid you haven’t had a very exhilarating set of fellow patients. Mostly antiques. Sometimes we have a quite varied menagerie here.”
“Yes. I can well believe it—not that I’ve been bored. I can do with a bit of my own company occasionally. Incidentally, I was having a good chin-wag with old Grendon yesterday—and found him more interesting than I expected to.”
“Ah! He was probably discoursing on an interesting topic. Any man who believes he has spotted a murder is intensely interesting to his fellow beings.”
Brook’s voice was dry and a little sardonic, and Falkland chuckled.
“Quite true. Murder is a very absorbing theme——”
“It is—particularly when you have been suspected of committing it,” replied Brook, still more dryly, and Falkland was a little nonplussed. Curiosity got the better of his diffidence and he asked quite coolly,
“Has that ever happened to you?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact it has. The whole business was excessively stupid. If I wanted to murder anyone I have skill enough to do so in such a manner that it would defy detection. However, the average English policeman does not study psychology, and facts can be very misleading. If it is of interest to you, I might add that the suspicions were definitely proved to be without foundation—but the experience was an interesting one.”
“I’m quite sure it was,” agreed Falkland. “Incidentally, don’t you think old Grendon will be making trouble for himself if he airs his opinions too freely just now?”
“Undoubtedly—but I think he has sense enough to choose his confidants with some degree of discretion. Actually he did not confide in me—but I gathered the trend easily enough. He’s at the transparent age.”
“What was your own opinion of his notion?” inquired Falkland. “You heard the facts about Anderby’s death, I take it?”
“Yes.” The osteopath shrugged his shoulders and seemed indisposed to make any further comment. He took a few steps up and down the room and then turned to Falkland and said,
“As you know, if the medical profession finds a chance to get its knife into me it won’t be slow to avail itself of the opportunity. It’s common sense for me to avoid providing that opportunity. I’m not a medical practitioner and I don’t treat medically; moreover my opinion on medical matters is not that of an expert. I don’t mind giving you an opinion in confidence, provided you don’t quote me. Mr. Anderby consulted me shortly after he came here. He was slightly arthritic. I gathered that his wife dissuaded him from coming to me for further treatment. In common with the majority of trained nurses she trusts the medical practitioner and distrusts the osteopath. In examining Mr. Anderby I had an opportunity to assess his physical state. In my judgment he had no disease of the heart. I can see no reason why he should have dropped dead of heart failure.”
Brook spoke abruptly, in staccato phrases, and Falkland was oddly impressed. He had found Brook reliable and honest, and he had a high notion of his ability.
“Oh, Lord!” said Falkland. “I wish now I hadn’t asked you; I’ve been trying to dismiss the whole story as moonshine—something Grendon invented because he disliked Mrs. Anderby to an unreasonable extent.”
“I take it the matter is only of academic interest to you, so to speak,” said Brook. “That is to say, you have no particular interest in the persons involved? That being so, the ‘academic’ problem is of interest. It involves the possibility of ‘murder by confidence’ so to speak. It often occurs to me that such a proceeding is less uncommon than most of us choose to think. If I were not fully occupied with my own job I should be quite interested in studying this particular human problem—because I believe it to be a problem. I’m not so much interested in the ethical side of it as the manipulative, if you follow me. Not that I’m proposing to put my own finger in the pie. I’m not. A qualified medical man has given his opinion, and that’s that. The case is closed—without becoming a case at all.”
“Good Lord! I’m awfully interested in what you say,” said Falkland, but Brook gave that rather impatient shrug of his shoulders.
“I’ve said a little more already than discretion should have allowed,” he said. “However, I’m pretty certain you won’t quote me. If you want to ponder over the matter as a possible example of the failure of orthodoxy to achieve its own ends, the data provided make a very pretty little problem—on purely academic lines.”
He smiled, his ugly face becoming suddenly pleasant as his eyes lit up. “You had a long talk with Grendon. Think it out, while you’re taking a bit of exercise on the common. If ever you choose to write up the result of your cogitations I shall be interested to see your notes and to know if you’ve hit on the same points which interested me”—and with that, he left Falkland alone.
Shortly after Brook had left him, Falkland was told that a visitor had called to see him, and he went down to the reception room to find a cousin awaiting him, a married woman of his own age, named Elsa Barry.
“Hallo, Robert! It’s good to see you! How’s the knee?”
“Better. Definitely better, thank God!” replied Falkland. “If ever you damage a knee or an ankle or any other bony portion of your anatomy, give Harley Street a miss and come to Brook. He’s a marvel. It’s good of you to come over, Elsa. How’s Derick?”
“Pretty fit. Developing an underwaist and a bit worried about it, but not enough to keep to a diet. I’m glad your knee’s better, Robert. It did seem such rough luck! This seems rather a pleasant place.”
“It is, very pleasant indeed. Come into the garden; it’s too good a day to stay indoors. Have some coffee. You get good coffee here—a very rare phenomenon. I’ll just order some.”
A moment later they walked out into the sunny garden. The house was a modern one and the garden but recently established. There were some good rose beds and flourishing herbaceous borders, but the charm of the garden lay in the fine trees which bordered it. Sweet chestnut and horse chestnut, oak and elm, all fine old trees, had been planted around an old farmhouse which lay to the north of Brook’s property, and their shade was a delight on hot summer days.
Falkland and his cousin settled down in long chairs, and coffee was brought to them by a white-coated man servant. Mrs. Barry, duly enjoying the excellent coffee, chattered on about her own family and Robert Falkland’s friends, and he listened lazily, putting in an occasional inquiry, until Elsa Barry said suddenly,
“I was so sorry to hear about poor Mrs. Anderby’s loss. It’s really tragic for her. She was so devoted to him. I suppose you remember her?”
“I?” Falkland was taken aback. “No. I never knew her. I heard about Mr. Anderby’s death, but I barely knew him.”
“Oh, Robert, of course you knew her. Nurse Pewsey. She nursed Aunt Mary. She was so good to her, she used to come in morning and evening for a long time to help her, and then, when the poor old aunt got pneumonia, Nurse Pewsey got her through it. She nursed her devotedly, and I know it was a real blow to nurse when auntie died so suddenly. Her heart gave out at last and she died in her sleep.”
“Good Lord! I’d forgotten . . .” Falkland spoke abstractedly, as well he might, for his head was whirling.
“I never knew her name, Elsa. She was just ‘Nurse.’ A woman in a cap and apron. One doesn’t notice . . . Nurse Pewsey! Good Lord!”
“Yes. Isn’t it strange? Nurse lived at Oasthampstead, not far from here, and Auntie used to live there before she moved to Bedford. I lost sight of nurse for quite a long time. I was always so glad that Auntie left her that nice little legacy. Oh, Robert, you’re spilling your coffee! My dear, what a mess!”
“Yes. Awful mess,” groaned Falkland, as he mopped his gray flannels ruefully with his handkerchief. “Never mind, Elsa, the coffee doesn’t matter. So that was Nurse Pewsey.”
“Yes, my dear, the very same. She wrote and told me when she got married. Such a sweet letter! She was as thrilled as a young girl. Derick and I gave her some old silver spoons—she always loved nice things. It’s so desolating to think of this happening. As a matter of fact I came over today to see her, as well as to see you. I know sympathy can’t help very much in a loss like that, but I felt I had to come and see the poor dear, and just hold her hand.”
“Very kind of you,” murmured Falkland, and Mrs. Barry babbled on,
“I was really shocked when I heard about Mr. Anderby’s death. Elinor James rang me up and told me about it. It was so appallingly sudden. Poor nurse! When she wrote last she told me how carefully she was looking after her husband. I gathered he was rather frail, but she was so certain that his health would improve when he was properly looked after. Elinor tells me that his heart had been causing anxiety lately, and that he had been under a doctor. That’s a blessing, at any rate. At least the poor dear’s saved the misery of an inquest.”
“Yes. Quite,” said Falkland abstractedly, and then added, “Tell me a little more about Mrs. Anderby, Elsa. I don’t really remember her.”
“It was about eight years ago that she first nursed Aunt Emma—in Oasthampstead—that was. Nurse had given up her maternity work: she found it too heavy and her health wasn’t good. She lived with a friend and took occasional cases. Then, when auntie moved to Bedford and was really too frail to look after herself, nurse took a room there and came in to help auntie morning and evening, and did some other occasional nursing as well. Her friend had died and left nurse her furniture, and she got on quite nicely. Later, when auntie had pneumonia nurse lived in the house for weeks. She pulled her round from that, but the poor dear’s heart never recovered. She died in the April, you remember—you came to the funeral.”
“Yes. I did—but I left immediately after. I didn’t hear the will read.”
“Oh, didn’t you? I told you auntie left nurse two hundred pounds and, heaven knows, she deserved it. Afterwards nurse moved elsewhere, where all her friends were, and I lost sight of her for awhile. The next thing I heard was about her marriage. Poor dear! She’s really had a very sad life!”
“Yes,” murmured Falkland. “It does seem to be rather a record of sudden deaths.”
Mrs. Barry looked rather hurt. “Robert, don’t sound so cynical! We all have to get old sometime—and when my time comes, I only hope I shall have somebody kind and patient and understanding to help me through. All nurses must come into contact with death a great deal more than people like ourselves. I think Nurse Pewsey has done an immense amount of real Christian work because she has always been ready to take on the sad, rather thankless, hopeless cases of old people who have no chance of making a real recovery. It takes far more real charity to go on being patient and kind with an old querulous invalid than it does to nurse a young attractive one, who will get quite better and give the nurse a chance of feeling superior.”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right,” replied Falkland.
Mrs. Barry shortly took her leave—with another adjuration to her cousin not to become a prey to cynicism, and Falkland himself went for a walk, strolling thoughtfully along the pleasant shady roads.
He did not notice particularly what route he took, and he could not be certain whether it were chance or subconscious intent which led him into that branch of the Oasthampstead road in which White Gables was situated—the house in whose garden Mr. Anderby had fallen dead. He walked slowly along a fine hedge of clipped holly—a substantial barrier, six feet high and four wide, of impenetrable prickly growth, and came at last to the tall gateposts and wrought-iron gate which gave onto the drive. Here Falkland stood staring towards the house, which he could just see between the trees, feeling rather ashamed of himself. On the lawn, not very far away, old Mr. Anderby had fallen dead in full view of his wife and he, Robert Falkland, was standing staring, as any Cockney errand boy might stare at the scene of a crime. He was just about to turn away when a voice spoke just behind him.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem mightily interested in my drive.”
Falkland turned quickly to face the speaker: this voice with the transatlantic accent must be that of Mr. Lee Gordon, the tenant of White Gables—and he had surprised Falkland in the act of staring up a private drive in no well-bred way. The architect felt bound to justify himself, or at least reestablish his own dignity.
“Mr. Lee Gordon? I apologize for staring, but someone was talking to me about this garden recently and told me that there was a notable collection of azaleas and rhododendrons. I believe that the owner—Mr. Ingleby, isn’t it?—did not discourage visits from those interested in gardens.”
“There’s a swell collection of shrubs here, sir, and some fine roses and bedding plants. If you’d care to walk round, do so. I’m no sort of expert at your English gardens, but I’m genuinely interested. You’re a gardener yourself?”
“I’ve designed the layout of some landscape gardens—my name’s Falkland, by the way. I’m very much indebted to you for your courtesy in giving me the opportunity of seeing this garden.”
“Delighted,” returned the other cheerfully. “If it’s azaleas and such like you’re interested in, I’m afraid you’ve left it too late to see them at their best. Three weeks ago they made a show I’ve never seen beaten, not for the size of the place.”
He fell into step with Falkland as they turned up the drive. Falkland was a tall fellow, lean and well built, looking younger than his fifty years, for his dark hair was hardly touched with gray, his face healthily tanned. Lee Gordon was short, rotund and dapper. His skin was a healthy pink, his face round and unlined, and he had very blue eyes, bright and benevolent. Falkland put his age at about sixty and credited him with a contented disposition and considerable curiosity. The little man had a beaky face, with a prominent nose which had a comical habit of twitching. He was dressed in a light gray suit, well cut and well pressed, a wide gray tie with white spots, and he wore a Panama hat. When he lifted the latter to mop his brow he displayed a completely bald head which gave him the look of an elderly cherub, at once benevolent and inquisitive.
“Rum little bird, but amiable enough, and fundamentally cheerful,” thought Falkland, as they walked between beautifully kept lawns towards the dignified Georgian house.
“What’s your opinion of the house, sir?” inquired Lee Gordon, and Falkland replied appreciatively,
“A good example of a fine period. The porch and fanlight are beautiful designs, and those white Doric pillars rather unusual.”
“I like it. I like it a lot,” said the other happily. “I’m a Britisher by birth, but I’ve spent most of my life across the herring pond. That porch now, it looks homey to me. I’ve seen something like it in some of the early homesteads down in Virginia. You can’t beat that classical touch. Something good about it. I’ll show you the house later, if you’d care to see it. It’s not my property, but I feel a sort of pride in it. It’s just what I’d like for myself when I come to settle. The shrubberies are away to the south there. Still a few azaleas out—but the show’s over for this year. It was a marvel, sir, a plum marvel!”
Even now, when most of the azaleas and rhododendrons had shed their blossoms, there was enough colour left to tell Falkland what the massed shrubs must have looked like at the zenith of their blossoming period. The azaleas lingered in patches of salmon and gold and rose and purest yellow, drifts of exquisite colour giving off their characteristic perfume in the hot sun. They were expertly arranged and banked, the walks between them cleverly designed to give the best chance of exhibiting the massed shrubs. Falkland knew enough about the layout of gardens to be able to express his enthusiasms intelligently, and Mr. Lee Gordon beamed benevolence. He led his visitor from the shrubbery, through the rose garden—now a small paradise of colour and perfume—along a wide “blue border” gay with delphinium, anchusa, linum and catmint, to the back of the house. Beyond another smaller shrubbery a path led direct from the lawns by the house to the walled kitchen garden: here Falkland could see the whitened panes of glass houses, and he said,
“Ah, you’ve got a lot of glass here. Very nice—but expensive to keep up—I expect you have the new electric heating.”
“That’s so—but I’d like you to see the peach house, sir. A fine crop, well set. I have a weakness for peaches.”
Falkland followed the little man to the door of the peach house and then turned and glanced towards the house. Through the wide archway which led into the walled garden the full extent of lawn and bedding in front of the house was visible. The architect was startled by a voice at his side.
“Yes, sir. It was just there on those lawns. You see the small azaleas? It was in front of them I’d put the zinnias. I’ve rooted them all up. Gave me the hump somehow. Just there it was he fell. A very, very sad thing, sir. I’ll never forget it. Never.”
Falkland was distinctly taken aback and conscious that he gaped rather foolishly. His embarrassment was increased by the fact that, despite his melancholy tones, there was a distinct gleam of amusement in Mr. Lee Gordon’s blue eyes. The latter continued in a solemn voice, which was yet contradicted by the humorous gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, sir. A vurry sad thing, but human nature being what it is I opine most of us take a melancholy interest in such tragedies. You, sir—Mr. Falkland, you’ll have met my good friend, Major Grendon? Just so. Just so.”
Falkland gave a shamefaced chuckle. He had been properly bowled out—and he realized it. He felt that frankness was his only possible policy.
“Yes, Mr. Lee Gordon. Major Grendon is a fellow patient of mine at Brook’s clinic. He told me of Mr. Anderby’s death, and I admit that I was very much interested——”
“Interested in friend Grendon’s deductions, I take it, sir?”
Falkland hesitated. “Well, so far as his deductions were concerned, I failed to see that he had a leg to stand on.”
“That so?” The rubicund little man tilted his head back thoughtfully and looked up at the tall Falkland.
“See here, sir, I’d prize your opinion on this matter. It’s a very dullicate business and I’d hate to be barking up the wrong tree. Now just consider our location. We stand here as the major and I stood yesterday. You can figure it all out. The good lady, she sat on the terrace there, just where that basket chair is now. The reverend gentleman was on the lawn, where the sprinkler is standing. That’s the exact spot. He stood with his back to us, facing that flower bed there. I rooted up those darned flowers he was so keen on. Gave me the proper hump to see ’em. Well, there he was—you can picture him, a dark figure in the sunshine, with his white head all shining. One second he was standing there—and then he crumpled at the knees and went down. A tragedy, sir. Yes. Now, see here. You come into the house with me and honour me by taking a highball while we talk this over. I’d be grateful to have your opinion. You come right in.”
Putting his Panama hat firmly on his head again, and flourishing his bandanna handkerchief, the little man trotted ahead, leading the way to the terrace, and Falkland followed him, half amused, half embarrassed. They crossed the lawns and Falkland stopped by the sprinkler. It was here that Mr. Anderby had stood. To the right of the house was a bed where some azaleas made a background for some bedding, but the soil in front of them was now bare, neatly raked over. Falkland was long-sighted. He noticed a label in front of the azaleas—a metal rectangle on a peg, such as is used in gardens like Kew for identifying notable trees, and he observed,
“Your labels have gone astray, Mr. Lee Gordon. That one there mentions Cupressus. It’s got in the wrong place.”
“That so? The head gardener’s on holiday. Reckon my makeshift fellow’s been making hay with the labels. That’ll never do. You put it right for me. Cupressus. That’s a tree, isn’t it? Cypress, in plain English.”
“Yes. That’s it. Probably that big conifer over there.”
“That so? Well, never mind about that now. Labels don’t worry me any, and the sun’s hot. Come along inside and have a long drink.”
Falkland followed the hospitable little man up onto the terrace, and again he turned and looked across the lawns to the arch of the walled garden and the entrance to the peach house. Again Lee Gordon read his thoughts.
“Yes, she could see us all the time and knew we could see her. No mistake about that.”
Falkland walked after him into the cool dimness of a long drawing room. His trained architect’s sense applauded the proportions of the fine room and of its furnishing. This was the home of a man who understood period furniture, and who had the money to gratify his taste.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” said Lee Gordon. “Just the sort of home I fancy when I settle down. A highball, sir? I enjoy the quality of the whisky this side after some of the stuff I’ve put down in prohibitionist States. Your very good health, sir!”
He took a long draught of his drink and then said, “Now you just tell me right away what you think of the major’s notion. He’s confided in you, I opine—and I’d say he couldn’t have chosen a better man to spill the beans to. I’m quick at summing folks up, and I soon know if I’d trust a man with my own little notions.”
Falkland studied the shrewd, round face, and then said,
“Well—I don’t know how much Major Grendon told you of what was in his mind.”
Lee Gordon stroked his well-shaved cheeks thoughtfully.
“I’d say he told me just what he thought—that that sanctified dame had worked out a scheme for reinforcing the old gentleman’s cardiac troubles. Not to put too fine a point on it, that she murdered him.”
“All I can say is that I don’t see how she could have done it,” replied Falkland, and he reiterated the arguments he had already set forth to Major Grendon himself.
Lee Gordon nodded like an amiable mandarin.
“That’s what I’ve been saying to myself, by and large. I don’t see how she worked it, but there’s this: Years gone by I had friends in Oasthampstead—I was staying there a year or so back—and I’ve been to look them up. They said a thing or two about Mrs. Anderby. Said it pretty plain. Seems she’s a bit of a genius for inheriting, if you take me.”
“So I gathered,” replied Falkland dryly. “While I’m willing to admit that a trained nurse could evolve a useful technique for helping bedridden patients to a better world than this, I don’t see how anybody could have evolved a scheme for yesterday’s fatality.”
“Neither do I, neither do I!” agreed Lee Gordon—“but all the same, I’ve a hunch that’s what was done. Not that we shall ever be able to prove it. In this country you can’t go round uttering aspersions about respectable widows—and I’m not fool enough to start.”
Falkland became very thoughtful.
“It’s a curious thing,” he said. “You and Grendon—and myself as an outsider, so to speak, feel very strong suspicions of foul play—and that not in one instance only—and yet the three of us can’t suggest anything on which to base our suspicions. The only thing I can do is to suggest to you what I did to Grendon—that you should put down on paper a statement of your ideas and submit that statement to the authorities. Write down every detail which either of you noticed yesterday, omitting nothing——”
“Gee! That sure seems a dangerous course to me,” protested the other. “Isn’t there a law of libel in this country?”
“Of course there is, but the police are willing to consider a statement made to them without prejudice in the public interest, provided you don’t spread rumours elsewhere.”
“And Grendon’s doing what you suggest?”
“Yes. I think he’s taking a lot of trouble to get it into shape.”
“Then, by jag, I won’t be beaten by the major!” declared Lee Gordon. “I’ll do the same and we’ll compare notes. When we’ve got both statements into shape we’ll ask your advice about submitting them to some police wallah. That’s a fine notion of yours!”
“At least it’s wiser than talking,” replied Falkland—and Lee Gordon nodded over his highball.
“It sure is,” he said affably.