But what occupied Wharton’s mind in the latter stages of his progress from Suburbia towards Arcadia, was the attitude he should adopt with the lady he was about to question. Beyond the fact that she was certainly young and presumably patrician, he knew little except what he had gathered from Franklin and Usher. The problem presented indeed perplexities which were not cleared entirely away as the car was gliding along the mile of private road to the Hall of Marfleet Parva. During that short journey along the smoothly gravelled drive with its trim hedges and ornamental trees, the wealth of its owner became so consistently apparent that, before he knew it, he had decided on a certain suavity of directness, and a courtesy that should hint at the omniscience and the dignity of the law which he represented.
As the car drew up at the portico of the long Georgian building, his eye took in the stretch of lawns and parkland and the general air of spacious opulence. At the door a footman took his card—a private one—and showed him into a kind of library. Almost immediately Mrs. Claire came in.
As he caught sight of her for the first time, Wharton understood Franklin’s point of view. She certainly did look boyish in the tweed skirt and close-fitting jersey and with that Eton-cropped head. And there was no mistaking the natural buoyancy of her temperament as she came forward with a delightful smile.
“How d’you do?” Then a pause that might have meant anything.
Wharton bowed. “I am speaking to Mrs. Claire—Mrs. Peter Claire?”
She nodded and smiled. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Wharton. “But first of all, Mrs. Claire, may I apologise for a little piece of deception. I’m Superintendent Wharton, of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.”
The smile went—then reappeared timorously.
“Then it’s—er—Mr. Claire you want!”
“No, ma’am; not necessarily. I came purposely to see you.” He cleared his throat. “You see, it’s like this. Mr. Michael France is dead, but certain things have still to be cleared up. He was a friend of your husband… and yourself, and that’s why I’m here, to ask you to help us.”
She looked puzzled. “But how?”
“I’ll come to that in a moment, ma’am. But may I say to start with, that I preferred this morning to see you alone, that is to say, not in the presence of your husband. And I hope that whatever information you give me need never reach his ears—”
She laughed, just the least bit nervously he thought. “Aren’t you being very mysterious?”
Wharton shook his head. “I don’t think so… not to you. For instance, may I tell you some facts that are in my possession; facts that may have to be acknowledged by you in the full publicity of a coroner’s court?”
She closed her lips and watched intently. “Well… go on with what you have to say.”
Wharton went on. He repeated the events and conversation of the Friday night, with Usher, of course, entirely out of it. Once or twice she frowned, then she leaned her chin on the back of her hand and her eyes narrowed. Once her lips puckered to the demurest suggestion of a smile.
“You agree with those statements I’ve just given you, Mrs. Claire?”
“Well—er—suppose I do? How really—I mean, I don’t see how I’m affected.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” said Wharton patiently. “We know that Michael France died round about ten o’clock on the Saturday night and therefore when you were with him. I’ve told you the arrangements—elaborate and careful ones—you made, so as to be in that house at that very time. Did you see him die, Mrs. Claire?… Or was he dead when you got there?”
Her mouth opened. She made a quick breath or two, then as quickly recovered her poise.
“How could I have gone to the house? I was at Maidenhead.”
“At Maidenhead? What for?”
“To see my old nurse. I spend a day or two with her every year.”
“She’s the Mary to whom you and Mr. France were alluding?”
“Yes… I mean her name’s Mary.”
“I see. Then you broke your appointment with Mr. France?”
“No. He telephoned me he couldn’t come.”
“Where and when did you receive the message?”
“At my house… at nine o’clock.”
“You are sure of the time?”
“Perfectly sure! That was when I decided to go to Maidenhead after all.”
“You sure it was Mr. France’s own voice you heard?”
“Oh, quite!”
Wharton gave a dry sort of smile. “Well, Mrs. Claire, the age of miracles is not yet over. Mr. France was ’phoning to you and doing his turn on the Paliceum stage at the same time. He was there from 8.45 till 9.15.”
“Do you disbelieve me.”
“Oh no, ma’am. I disbelieve the evidence of my own senses!”
“Please don’t be ridiculous!” She stamped her foot, then sprang up with a rare assumption of indignation. “How dare you! What do you mean by your… your beastly questions!”
Wharton sat on. He merely shook his head reprovingly. “Words like that won’t get us very far, Mrs. Claire. Sit down… please! That’s better. Do you want me to have to bring you in front of a coroner’s court? Do you want to be forced by the law to state in public what you and I can discuss here in confidence? Do you want publicity?… crowds?… the Press?… gossip?… and scandal!”
She glared at him. “What do you mean by scandal?”
Wharton shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe men and women aren’t what they used to be! Are you so deliberately blind as you’re making out? No scandal, you say! You who will have to admit in public that you deliberately schemed, behind your husband’s back and with the connivance of your nurse, to go at night to the house of another man!” He broke off exasperated. “Mrs. Claire! Answer my question! Did you go to that house or did you not?”
“I told you I did not.”
“I see. You still persist that you went to Maidenhead?”
“Ask my nurse! Apparently you don’t believe me.”
“And whose fault is that, Mrs. Claire?”
Up she jumped again, this time with an infuriated nod and a voice shaking with temper.
“You beast!”
Wharton refused to be annoyed—and for good reason. Mrs. Claire was perturbed. If her suggestions of insult had been made more quietly, they’d have carried more weight. Had she left the room without saying a word, he might have been alarmed; as it was he produced his notebook.
“The name and address of your nurse, please.”
She fairly threw it at him. “Mrs. Doran, The Cottage, Long Lane, Maidenhead.”
He took it down, put the notebook back with elaborate care, then prepared to rise.
“Before I go, Mrs. Claire, may I impress something on you most earnestly. You’re not dealing with me, Superintendent Wharton; you’re dealing with the law; with things that land people in places of public trial—”
“You threaten me!”
“Not at all! I merely advise. Though you’re the wife of the man who owns all this”—he waved his hand at the window—“the law will treat you with the same courtesy and the same cold justice as it would the poorest servant in your kitchen. Remember that, Mrs. Claire; and for the last time let me ask you. You adhere to the statement that you did not see Michael France last Saturday night?… living or dead?”
The two looked at each other; Wharton calm, magisterial, and with something earnest, almost pleading in his voice; she with eyes looking daggers and lips moving convulsively. Then she shook her head fiercely.
“Will you leave this house!”
Wharton shook his head. “I shall leave your house, Mrs. Claire, but not because you order me. I shall go because I see no further reason for staying.” He shook his head again, with genuine regret. “You insist on publicity and scandal? Very well, you must have them. I shall see your husband—and your nurse—at once. Tomorrow, if not before, I must question your servants… unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.” He rose. “Is your maid here?”
A defiant, “She is!”
“I wish to see her at once; here in this room. If you choose to remain, please do so.”
If looks could have finished him off, that would have been the end of Wharton. She flounced out of the room with a slam of the door. Wharton sat down and mopped his forehead. Five minutes wait and the girl came in—a tallish girl of about the same age as her mistress, but so blond and natural as to be almost startling after the jet hair and dynamics of the other. And as he saw the hair of the newcomer—bobbed, fringed, silky, medieval-looking—Wharton wondered. She looked very timid as she caught the stranger’s eye. Wharton smiled.
“Good morning! Has your mistress told—”
The door opened quickly and Mrs. Claire re-entered. Like a late-comer at church, she sank into the nearest seat.
“You are Mrs. Claire’s maid?”
“Yes… sir.”
“Well, your mistress and I have had a little argument and—to tell you the whole truth—we’ve had a little bet on it. What we want you to do is to be a sort of umpire and settle it. I suppose you have a bet sometimes?”
His manner was so jovial that she smiled. “Sometimes, sir.”
“Splendid! You’re the very one we want. Now then, what time did your mistress leave the house on Saturday night? You remember Saturday? The foggy night?”
“Just after nine, sir.”
“Capital!” He rubbed his hands. “And Archer carried her bag to the station?”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled again. “And when did she come back to town again?”
“I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there.… But the mistress got back here on Sunday just before ten.”
His face fell. “I say, that’s bad!” He turned to Mrs. Claire. “Well, I suppose I’d better pay up! Thank you very much—er—”
“Warren, sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Warren.”
He watched her leave the room, then apparently unaware of the other woman’s presence, made his way to the door. In the huge mirror canted above it, he saw, however, the quivering lip and the eyes welling to tears. A courteous, “Good morning, Mrs. Claire!” and he was out in the hall. Just over an hour later, the car drew up alongside a small, detached, creeper-covered villa on the fringe of open country a bare mile out of Maidenhead.
* * * * *
He knocked three times before the door was opened, by an elderly woman who seemed rather in a fluster. She looked motherly and dependable; grey-haired, dumpy and ample bosomed. He noted the violet-coloured dress, the tidy hair, and the cameo brooch that had been put on slightly askew.
“Am I speaking to Mrs. Doran?”
“Yes… I’m Mrs. Doran.”
“I rather wanted to see you about somethmg important. May I come in?” She hesitated. “I’m here really on behalf of Mrs. Peter Claire, who told me you were her old nurse.”
There was an attempt at a smile, but the attempt ended badly. If anything she looked more nervous than ever as she drew back from the door and showed him into a typical best room.
“I’ve come at an awkward time,” said Wharton apologetically. “You were just going to have your lunch.”
“Oh, no! I’ve had it. I always have it early.” Her voice was husky and mechanical.
“And a very good plan too. You’re a widow, Mrs. Doran?”
“Yes. I lost my husband in the war.”
He shook his head consolingly. “A terrible business that! And you’re sure I’m no trouble to you? You weren’t going out?”
“No… I wasn’t going out… I never hardly go out.”
“That’s all right then.” Most difficult sort of woman, thought Wharton. About as effusive as a mute—and a damnably suspicious look in her eye. However, perhaps she’d respond to different treatment. “I’m a policeman, Mrs. Doran; what they call a detective. Now don’t get alarmed. I’m the most harmless man in the world—so my wife thinks! All I want to know is something that concerns Mrs. Claire—for her good. You see it’s like this. A certain gentleman who died suddenly on Saturday night, is supposed to have seen Mrs. Claire before he died. Between you and me, I know he couldn’t have done. And why? Because she was here with you!”
She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes! Miss Dorothy was here! She came at ten o’clock and she’d have been earlier only the fog made her late, and she was here till Sunday evening, when it cleared.”
The words came pat—too pat. A woman all nerves as she was, should have mentioned nothing but what was extorted, not have added information to information. Wharton frowned as he listened to the brief account that had obviously been rehearsed.
“At ten o’clock. Hm! And how did you know the time so exactly?”
“I looked at the clock in the kitchen when I put the cat’s basket out and I said to myself, ‘Miss Dorothy won’t be coming now,’ and I was just going to bed.”
“And what was she like while she was here? Happy? And what you’d call in good spirits?”
“Oh yes, sir. She was always a jolly one—Miss Dorothy was.”
“Quite so! And now just one little thing, Mrs. Doran. Saturday was remarkably foggy. How did Mrs. Claire get from the station?”
“The buses—they go right past. Look! There’s one now!”
“So there is!… And does Mr. Claire ever come here?”
“Oh yes, sir! He called once, with Miss Dorothy, in the car.”
“You known him long?”
“I knew him as a boy.”
“Really!” He appeared for a moment or two to be thinking deeply, then suddenly looked up and caught her eye. “I can’t understand it. An hour ago, Mrs. Claire told me she was sure she didn’t leave town till past nine. How could she have got here by ten, in that fog? She’d go by Tube to Paddington, then have to catch a train, then get a bus.” He shook his head perplexedly. “Of course you’d be prepared to swear to everything you’ve told me, in a court of law?”
“It’s all true!”
“I see.” He got as far as the door. “Just one other thing. Would you mind showing me the telegram you just received from Mrs. Claire?”
The question was out of the prepared and expected and her hand went instinctively to her bosom. She moistened her lips, looked at him, then let her eyes fall.
“Mrs. Claire sent you a telegram. She had to! She telephoned it to Maidenhead. You knew I was coming. You were actually dressing when I knocked at the door. May I see that telegram?”
She looked so genuinely frightened that he didn’t press the point. But distasteful as it was, the job had to be finished.
“You think you’d rather keep it. Well, perhaps it’s better. And one last word, Mrs. Doran; it’s a hard thing to say, but you’ve told me neither the truth nor the whole truth—”
“But she was here at ten!”
“I know! I know! That’s the vital point!” He nodded heavily. “Well, you must have it your own way. There’ll be the Sunday papers, with her picture in them. All the story for everybody to gloat over. People saying horrible things.”
She made no sign as she stood looking quietly at him. It was almost as if she didn’t understand, and yet her bosom rose and fell more quickly.
“And her husband—she’s probably fond of him, and he her—I wonder what he’ll think of it. More scandal probably—and a divorce case. You never know what men are going to do.”
At the door he turned for a final word.
“When Mrs. Claire sent you that telegram, she didn’t realise that I’d know about it… and that I should be able to get a copy, if I considered it necessary, as I most decidedly do. I wonder what she’ll say when she sees that telegram in my hand? When I go to her this afternoon—”
She came to life for the first time. The voice that had answered his questions so mechanically, suddenly became human. Her face was swept by overwhelming fear and terror. As she raised her hands, Wharton thought for a moment she was going to have a stroke—or go into wild hysteria.
“Oh, you mustn’t! You mustn’t!”
The features relaxed; the voice became pleading.
“Please don’t worry her again!… She couldn’t do any harm! She’s a good girl!… Please don’t!… Oh! you don’t know!”
“What don’t I know?” Wharton asked gently.
Her face coloured as she sank back in the chair. Her lips quivered—a pitiful sight for a woman as old, as respectful as that. Wharton came forward, shaking his head.
“There!… Don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Doran.… Just tell me. What don’t I know?”
She glared at him—a change so surprising that he drew back his hand sheepishly. Her voice shook with passion.
“Don’t you dare worry that poor lamb!… She’s not fit to be frightened! Don’t you dare!”
Wharton had a sudden glimmer of understanding.
“You mean… she’s going to—er—”
That broke her down. She fumbled in her bosom and with the handkerchief out came the telegram that fell unnoticed to the floor. When she looked up she could only nod the answer.
“Hm! I see.” said Wharton, rather helplessly. “And how long has she known this?”
The answers now came between the sobs. “Only a few days… for sure.… That’s why she… wanted to see… me.”
“Did her husband know?”
“N-no… they quarrelled about something.… She was going to tell him… after she’d seen me.”
Wharton left her there, sobbing quietly to herself, and made his way out to the car. But he didn’t return to the post office. If he guessed correctly in five minutes that nurse would summon up the pluck to slip out and ’phone. Either Mrs. Claire would speak for herself or confess to her husband, and whichever it was that came to him, the information would be voluntary. Moreover, Wharton was worried about that intimate information he’d received. There were things in it he didn’t understand and when the car swung into the main road, he gave the chauffeur new instructions. At two o’clock he was in his own house, having an unexpectedly good lunch—and putting certain vital questions to his wife.