Later or sooner by a minute then.
The Ring and the Book, R. Browning.
The next morning dawned bright, clear and cold. The rain had stopped, the sun was shining, the street looked fresh and clean in the palely brilliant December light. London sparkled and rejoiced, and all the shops, bright with Christmas goods, radiated gaiety.
There was no gaiety at No. 5 Clevedon Street. Mrs. Dutton, thoroughly shaken by the murder, was beginning to wonder whether she would shut up the flat at once, and go elsewhere until the excitement and notoriety caused by the crime had subsided. Two considerations deterred her. First, the prosaic fact that she had wakened up with all the symptoms of a heavy cold, caught probably in the draughts of the preceding night. She was at present in bed, and Dr. Ainslie had told her quite firmly that she must remain there for a day or two at least, perhaps longer.
The second factor was Anne’s strongly expressed wish to make no move. Anne had spent a sleepless night, and two things had become clear to her. She herself must be a prominent witness, owing to the encounter with the man in the porch, and the police would certainly require her to be at hand, in case of any possible identification. She could not hope to carry out her plans, and go off to the south of France, at any rate for several weeks. She was also pretty confident that her brother and his wife would need her. Henry had a great deal of anxiety to contend with in his business, for the slump had hit him hard, and Anne knew that he was nervous with regard to his financial affairs. She also realized that he too would be involved in the trial. Bitterly she regretted that she had let him go up, the night before, with Nurse Edwards. It had been on the tip of her tongue to offer to go up herself. She told herself that she had held back simply because Henry had so “let himself go” in speaking to their aunt. She had been ashamed of his display of temper and lack of self-control, and she had thought to herself that he could go up with Nurse Edwards as a sort of reparation. Vaguely, she had been rather shocked by his irritability, and had felt that he needed a lesson. Now she whole-heartedly regretted the episode. Henry was clearly in no state to bear the extra worry, tension, and loss of time involved in a murder case. Anne resolved that she, in her turn, would try to atone for what she now felt to have been her own self-righteousness. She would stay in town, do her best to help Doreen to ease the situation, and, as far as she could, help Henry himself.
So she had got up with the decision to try and persuade her aunt to let her, at least, stay on in the flat, and had secretly been much relieved to find that for the present at any rate they must both remain.
Telephoning to her brother’s house, she heard from Doreen that Henry had already gone to work, and Doreen, thoroughly unsettled and uneasy alone by herself, had eagerly responded to Anne’s suggestion that she should come round to the flat and talk things over.
Now the two were sitting, silent for a moment, by the fireside, having already discussed the unfortunate effect the whole business was likely to have on Henry.
Doreen had reported him as plunged in gloom, refusing to talk at breakfast, and merely resenting any efforts on the part of his wife to cheer him up.
Now, both were reflecting how hard it was that perfectly ordinary people, going about their lawful occasions, should find themselves involved in so shattering a business as a murder. Inevitably they had less sympathy to spare for the victim, whom both had known, and whom both had disliked, than for Henry himself, who seemed doomed to go through a great deal of unpleasantness. Yet, Anne thought to herself, she, in the same circumstances, would probably have behaved in exactly the same way. Fear of making a mistake, of putting oneself in a ridiculous light, of making an unnecessary fuss in some other person’s house, all these were motives which would have caused most people to pause and do nothing, only to realize too late that, for once, violent and instant action had been required.
With a start, Anne was brought back to reality by the sound of an electric bell shrilling faintly from above.
“Oh, Doreen!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet in excitement—and then she and her sister-in-law both stood staring at one another. “It’s Mr. Ewing’s bell,” Anne went on, after a moment. “Someone has gone up to his flat who hasn’t heard the news. It’s not in the papers yet, you know!”
“Well, the police are up there,” replied her sister-in-law. “They’ll answer the door.”
But Anne was looking at her with an intentness which caused Doreen in her turn to pause.
“Doreen, you know, when that bell sounded like that, it reminded me of something. Didn’t it ring last night? Some time or other when you were here? But before we heard that fall?”
Doreen grew pale at the very recollection of the crash which had been, for them, the signal of so much. Instinctively she glanced up at the ceiling. Then, with a clearer memory returning to her of the events of the preceding night, she said: “Yes, I think you’re right. I’m almost sure the bell did ring. You know, you can only hear it in here if their downstairs door is open, and if ours is open too.”
Anne’s face lit up with a gleam. “That was why we heard it last night. I was in my room, and came out to let Henry in when I heard him coming up the steps. He was standing blocking up the way, pulling his coat off in the hall, and I hadn’t got past him to shut the door. I could hear that bell ringing in Mr. Ewing’s flat quite fairly clearly.”
Doreen hesitated for a moment. Then: “Do you think it’s important? Shall you have to tell the police that?”
“Why, yes; I think we must. You see, it may be very important. It means that someone rang, and Mr. Ewing must have let them in, for he was alone then, you know; Nurse Edwards was out.”
Hardly had the words crossed her lips, than she realized their full meaning.” Oh, Doreen! If it was somebody he allowed in, don’t you think it must have been somebody he knew?”
Doreen looked at her in silence for a moment. Then: “It might simply have been a tradesman delivering a parcel late. But—” She stopped, and then, with rising excitement, and obviously unable to refrain from giving expression to the thought which had come into her head, she gave a quick glance round to see if the door was shut, and then added: “Oh, Anne! I wonder if George Fordham has a good alibi!”
Anne looked at her sister-in-law in astonishment, then spoke rather coldly: “I don’t, of course, know George Fordham, though I’ve heard you and Henry speak of him and Penelope, but I’m sure you oughtn’t to be talking like that of him.”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome, Anne!” retorted her sister-in-law. “I didn’t say I accused him! I simply mean he’s a horrible young man with a very poor sort of reputation, and, of course, he’s going to gain a great deal from his uncle’s death. He’s a person with a motive, and he’s also someone Mr. Ewing would have let into the house, even if he were alone in it!”
“Those are flimsy grounds on which to suspect anyone,” said Anne stiffly. “You can’t really know whether he will benefit from his uncle’s death. The money may all go to someone else.”
“Oh no!” answered Doreen eagerly. “I’ve often heard him grumbling and swearing, and saying that he knew his old uncle had left him ‘the cash’, but that he wouldn’t on any account help him with a bean in his lifetime.”
“Well,” said Anne, turning away impatiently, “I don’t think you ought to be fitting a halter round anyone’s neck like that. You ought to hold your tongue, if it’s only for the sake of his wife, to whom you say you’re so devoted.”
“Oh!” retorted Doreen, made reckless by Anne’s disapproval, and instigated thereby to justify herself. “If it weren’t for the scandal, I should say it would be a good thing for Penelope if George were out of the way. He really is a beast, and she must go through hell with him. She won’t leave him, though we’ve all begged and urged her to do so, and I’d just think myself anything was a blessing which rid her of him!”
Realizing that she had gone rather far, she stopped; but Anne, in disgust, had walked away, and now went out of the room, leaving her sister-in-law to reflect that once more she had forgotten how bitterly Anne hated gossip, and how strictly she expected her friends to bridle the tongue, that “unruly member”.
Meanwhile, Henry, full of anger and apprehension, had gone, not, as his wife believed, to his office, but in answer to a summons to Inspector Woods’s room at the police station, and, girding himself up to meet the ordeal which he knew lay before him, went up the steps of the station as the clock struck ten, and was shown at once into the private office.
There Woods greeted him, and, begging him to sit down, at once prepared to question him. For a night’s interval had convinced Woods that there still existed some hope that Godfrey might be able to help him in certain particulars. The nurse, he was sure, from all he had heard, would not be very likely to give him reliable and detailed accounts of the matters he was most anxious to investigate. She had been confused and agitated by her accident before ever she went up to the flat, and was still rather inclined to be hysterical. Woods had early perceived that certain facts might act as lamps, lighting up stretches of the darkness surrounding the crime, and perhaps in the end throwing a beam on the figure of the murderer at present lost in the shadows. He had already, in accordance with his practice, tabulated the points he wished to establish, in this order:
I. The jewels. If these were to be considered as having a bearing on the crime, it was essential to find out certain details.
(a) Who knew of their existence? Did the members of the family? Did the nurse? Did the neighbours?
(b) What were they worth? Were they insured, and if so who had valued them?
(c) Had they been the property of Mr. Ewing, absolutely, or were they held by him in trust as heirlooms?
II. What men were in the habit of visiting the flat?
(a) Friends of Simon Ewing.
(b) Members of his family.
(c) Friends of the nurse.
(d) Persons employed by the flats.
III. What was the exact sequence of events connected with the crime?
(a) Was the nurse known to be out?
(b) When had she fetched help?
(c) At what time had the crash been heard?
(d) What interval elapsed before she and Godfrey entered the flat?
He began, therefore, by inquiring from Henry whether Mr. Ewing was known to be wealthy?
Henry replied that he had always understood Mr. Ewing had a large income, and had concluded, from the fact that he was quite a well-known collector of jade, that he had a good deal of capital expended on his collection.
Woods then put to him the question:
“Did you know, Mr. Godfrey, that besides his jade and crystal Mr. Ewing had a considerable amount of very valuable jewellery in his flat?”
Henry stared in amaze. He had been fortifying himself to meet questions as to the man he had seen, and to be thoroughly cross-examined over that man’s actions and appearance. He was unprepared for this inquiry and, surly and suspicious, he answered no. He had never bothered about Mr. Ewing’s affairs, nor heard much about them. He had never heard anyone mention any jewellery.
Pressed by the inspector, he added, rather spitefully: “Well, I know my wife never said a thing about any jewellery, and she was very thick with George Fordham’s wife. I’d have expected to have heard a lot if there’d been any talk.”
“Ah, yes!” said Woods thoughtfully. “Mr. George Fordham, of course, is the nephew and next-of-kin. I’m expecting him along here this morning. Well, then, Mr. Godfrey, I’m to take it that neither you nor your wife knew of this hoard of jewellery upstairs?”
“That’s correct, Inspector,” replied Henry.
“And as you yourself are an expert in precious stones, Mr. Godfrey, I suppose you’d have been all the more likely to have recollected if such a matter had ever been mentioned before you?”
Henry laughed, rather sourly. “I see you’ve been looking us all up, Inspector. Gone into our records, and all that, already. Well, I suppose it’s what I’ve got to expect now!” With a sudden outburst of impotent rage, he added: “If that cursed old man hadn’t kept all that stuff there, I suppose none of this would ever have happened.” And, with a gesture of violent disgust, he buried his head in his hands.
The inspector remained silent, gazing at him rather curiously, till Henry, lifting his haggard face, said: “Sorry, Inspector, I ought not to have spoken like that, but this is going to be a beastly affair for me, you know! And I’ve enough worries of my own, with this slump looking as if it would never end!”
“Yes, sir,” said Woods, non-committally, and, in a practical, matter-of-fact voice, he added: “I think the best thing we can do now is for you to answer my questions, and get that part over. Now, sir,” resuming his official manner, “the next point I want you to help me with is this. Can you tell me at all what men were familiar with Mr. Ewing’s flat, and who, so far as you know, were the men most likely to visit him?”
Henry shook his head. “I can’t help you there, Inspector. Actually, I don’t often go to my aunt’s flat. My wife is more of a visitor there than I am.”
“Did you know Mr. Ewing yourself, sir?”
“Yes, but only very slightly. I knew his nephew quite well, and he took me up there once to see the collection. That’s the only time I ever saw the old gentleman.”
“Do you know of anyone else who visited him?”
“No, I don’t,” said Henry impatiently. “My aunt is more likely to tell you all that. She was his neighbour. I wasn’t. It’s wasting time to ask me.”
“Well, I just thought, as it is men friends or acquaintances I’m after, you might have known something useful,” said Woods apologetically. “And I’ve got to go dredging about everywhere, you know.”
Then, making up his mind to come to rather closer quarters: “I’ll come, then, Mr. Godfrey, to something you can tell me about! I want you to describe to me what you yourself heard and saw and did last night. Tell it me in your own words, and I’ll ask you to explain anything that strikes me as specially important.”
Realizing that from this there could be no escape, Godfrey braced himself wearily, and began. He gave a brief, clear account of the tea-party at his aunt’s flat, and of the noise they had all heard while they were waiting for tea.
“Now, sir,” interrupted Woods, “this is very important, and I want you to go carefully. Tell me every detail you can recollect. First, what time was it when you arrived at your aunt’s house?”
Henry paused and thought. “I had meant to be there at 4.30, and was expected then, but I was detained, and I wasn’t punctual. I think I got there some time before five, say between ten and five minutes to the hour, not later.”
“And when did you hear the noise?”
“We were waiting for the kettle to boil. The crash came before tea was made. I remember the kettle boiled over while we were all silent, listening. I looked round at my aunt and up at the clock, and it said just past five—not quite five past. I think that would be so, you know, for the kettle was put on directly I went in, and it had been standing in the hearth and was fairly hot, so that it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to bring it to the boil.”
Henry’s nervousness tended to make him voluble, thought Woods, as he made a careful note.
“Then just tell me, as clearly as you can, what happened next.”
Henry paused, and went on slowly:” We all talked for a bit, and then Nurse Edwards rang at the door. That would be about 5.20 or 5.25. She came in, and explained to us she’d not been able to open the door of Mr. Ewing’s flat, and wanted one of us to go up. She told us she’d rung two or three times.” He broke off, staring at the inspector.” If that was so—if that was so—why, she must have stood there ringing while he was murdering the old man inside!
Woods looked up. “Yes, that is so,” he said concisely. I’ve Riley’s report of Nurse Edwards’s statement. She says she rang two or three times. No one answered, but she heard someone moving in the flat, and concluded Mr. Ewing deliberately didn’t want to answer the door.” He stopped, and for a moment both men sat silent.
Before the mind of each was a picture of that little scene. Each visualized the lovely drawing-room, with a prostrate figure, and, kneeling by that body, a man, striking and striking, while, only a few yards away, separated by nothing more than a glass-panelled door, the woman had stood quietly waiting for that bell to be answered.
Woods’s mind flashed back to the body, as he had seen it. Probably the nurse’s action had been even more fatal than she realized. The murderer had already knocked down his victim. That was known from the time fixed by the Duttons’ tea. But he might not have meant to kill. Often men, intending to commit robbery with violence, would knock down and stun their victim, and then go off to make sure of their booty. But this robber had been interrupted by that bell. Its shrill clangour had told him that someone was standing at the door—someone who, in all probability, as the bell rang again, was anxious to get in—and who might possibly force an entrance or fetch help to do so. In a frenzied determination to silence his victim, to prevent his calling out and bringing that person outside bursting in to the rescue, he had struck again and again. Or, perhaps, merely driven frantic with terror by the belief that he was about to be caught red-handed, he had been filled with a mad resolve to make certain, to finish the work he had begun, and so those innumerable blows had rained down on that unprotected head and face, making speech or cry, or even sound, impossible for ever.
With an inward shudder, Woods switched his mind away from those thoughts. He began to speak again, his voice hard and metallic.
“So you and the nurse went up together?”
“Yes, I went with her, and my sister, as it happens, followed us, though that I didn’t know at the moment.”
” Time?”
“Just before 5.30, I should say.”
“Did you talk at all as you went up?”
“Yes, a little—not much, but I did say a word or two about her accident.”
“Do you think your voices would sound up the staircase?”
” I suppose mine would. The nurse was feeling rather shaken. She spoke in rather a low voice. We talked a little as we stood at the door before I got it open, that I am sure of. We were a little delayed by her having only her left arm to fumble in her bag for the key. I had to take her bag in the end. I know we were talking then.”
Woods glanced at his notes. “When you went in, you stood inside the flat?”
“Yes, I stood for a moment on the mat, with my back to the lobby, pulling the key out of the door. Then I stood waiting, in case Mr. Ewing would see me, and to make sure the nurse was all right. She went towards the drawing-room, and at the same time the man came down the small staircase at the end of the passage.”
Henry spoke now in a completely colourless, unemotional voice.
“And the man’s appearance, as far as you can give it?”
“Fairly tall, about five foot ten or so. Slim. I should say fair, fresh complexioned. A light coloured coat, and a soft hat. He had spectacles—I saw the light catch them.”
“H’m,” said Woods.” Fair, you think? Your sister, you know, thought he was dark.”
“Well,” retorted Henry, “I thought him fair. But I can’t really say. How could I have noticed much? He walked rather quickly towards me. He was putting on his hat and turning up his collar. You can’t see much of a man in a moment like that.”
“Had he a moustache?”
” I couldn’t see—his hand was up, pulling on his hat, and hid the lower part of his face.”
“Would you say he was a working man? What sort of impression did he make on you?”
Henry hesitated. “No. I didn’t take him for a working man. I thought he was a visitor. Someone staying there for Christmas, or who’d looked in on Mr. Ewing. He didn’t shuffle or hurry. Seemed quite at home. That’s what kept me quiet till he’d passed. That and the nurse taking no notice of him.”
Woods nodded. He couldn’t altogether blame Godfrey. Yet, if only he’d stood squarely in the doorway, so that the man would have had to push past or speak! Even that would have been some help, would have given a better idea of the fellow. It was no good, however, and the best had to be made of what had been seen.
“Do you think you could identify him?”
“Not a hope, Inspector. He seemed quite ordinary to me. Lots of fellows like him. Nothing outstanding to go by whatever.”
“Well,” said Woods, “I’m sorry, of course, Mr. Godfrey, that you can’t be more definite. Still, you’ve helped us a good deal. Just one or two more questions and I’ve done. Did you notice any stains on this light coat you speak of?”
“No, I didn’t!” said Henry strongly. “Of course I didn’t! I’m quite sure he had no stains or marks on that coat at all, and he wasn’t rumpled or tousled in any way. Nothing at all odd or untidy about him at all. He looked perfectly normal and all right, Inspector, in every way.”
“Was he wearing gloves?”
“No,” replied Henry, after a moment’s thought, “I’m pretty sure he was not. I think I remember his bare hand up at his hat brim.”
Woods nodded. In one sense he was glad. He had an idea simmering in his head, which Henry’s words confirmed, and, anxious now to return to the flat and verify this, he began pinning his notes together.
“Yes, that would be so, I think, Mr. Godfrey. Well, that will be all now, thank you. Good day.”
Then, as Henry, with obvious relief, was turning to go: “Just one moment. I want to get clear about the rug. What did you do with that?”
“I lifted it,” said Henry, keeping his face and voice stiff, “and I saw what was underneath, and dropped the rug back.”
“Did you pick it right off?”
“Yes, I had to. It was sort of crumpled all round him—almost tucked in, in fact. I couldn’t see till I’d got it lifted quite clear.”
“And then you—?”
“I flung it down again, and covered him up.”
” Did you notice which side you put it down?”
“Oh, good heavens, no! I just threw it down as quickly as I could. I didn’t stop to see how I did it. I felt”—he paused, then went on—“I felt it was all wet and sticky, and I wanted to let go of it as quickly as I could.”
Again Woods nodded comprehension. Again he had got the little piece of confirmation he wanted for the theory which he was building up in his mind.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Godfrey. Now that really is all. I shan’t, I think, need to see you again just yet. You’ll be notified, of course, of the inquest.”
Henry, ruefully aware that the inquest would be more of an ordeal than this interview, went off to his office. Woods, slightly more cheerful than before, prepared to interview the man in whom he was already deeply interested, George Fordham, the murdered man’s nephew and heir.