“H’m, so that is as far as we have got.”
The inspector tapped the paper in front of him with the tip of his pen, and stared thoughtfully at Harbord who was sitting opposite.
“And that is not very far,” Harbord added dryly. “This case is like a maze, sir. Every clue leads to a deadlock.”
“Not at all a good description of a maze.” The inspector smiled. “Oh, we are getting on, Alfred. We are like the moles working hard underneath. I gather the study of the church registers was not productive.”
“No, sir, it was not. I found plenty of Carslakes, born, dead and married. But the only one who by any stretch of the imagination could be the girl for whom we are looking is Charlotte Sylvia, born October 12th — and Dr. Brett swears that this is not her.”
“Yes, he does.” The inspector scratched his chin.
“Well, I’m having photographs taken of the body from every point. And when we find Mr. Peter Hailsham we shall know more.”
“Ah, when!” Harbord echoed.
The two detectives were sitting in the library. The inquest, opened the preceding day, had been adjourned until this morning for further inquiries. Today the inspector had asked for a further adjournment after the medical evidence and evidence of identification had been taken, so as to give the police time to make further inquiries with regard to certain clues that were now in their possession.
The Coroner had just given a certificate to allow the funeral to take place, and tomorrow poor Charmian Karslake’s lovely face would be hidden for ever from the sight of men.
The funeral was to be at Hepton. A cablegram to Miss Karslake’s agent had resulted in nothing but the permission to bury the actress in the nearest graveyard. Accordingly she was to be laid to rest in Hepton Churchyard; under the shadow of the old Abbey, and by a curious chance, but a few feet from the marble cross that recorded the virtues of Eleanor Carslake.
All honour was to be done to this guest of the Penn-Moretons, who had met her death in their house. Sir Arthur and his brother and other members of the houseparty were to follow, and Lady Penn-Moreton and her friends would be present in the church.
Not Inspector Stoddart! That gentleman intended to utilize the time of the service in a private way of his own.
“I am expecting Sir Arthur in a minute,” he went on now, putting on his spectacles and opening the notebook before him. “Here he is, I think,” as there was a tap at the door.
Sir Arthur looked in. “You wanted me, inspector. I can spare you a minute, but there are all sorts of arrangements to be made for tomorrow. Half the theatrical folks in London are coming down, it seems to me. All the Golden Company, of course, and the whole of the staff at the theatre.”
“Naturally,” Stoddart acquiesced. “I shall not keep you a minute, Sir Arthur. Just to ask you about one or two things that have come up in the course of this inquiry. First as to the name Karslake, I understand it is quite a Hepton name.”
“Is it? I am sure I never hear it if it is,” Sir Arthur said, staring at him. “Now, I wonder if somebody has been pulling your leg?”
“I do not think so. Pulling my leg is not a pastime many people indulge in,” the inspector said with a grim smile. “There is a difference of a letter, Sir Arthur, but I think you cannot have forgotten the Carslakes of the Red House.”
“By Jove! Now you mention it, of course there were Carslakes of the Red House. It was the beginning with the K that put me off. Give you my word I never connected the two.”
“But you remember Mrs. Carslake and her daughter?”
“I should say so! Good-looking girl, Lotty Carslake was.”
“So I have heard. Now, Sir Arthur” – Inspector Stoddart was looking him steadily in the face – “do you think that this Miss Karslake who was murdered in your house two nights ago could have been the Lotty Carslake of your remembrance?”
That Sir Arthur was genuinely amazed at the question was obvious.
“Never thought of such a thing! Oh, I should say not. As I said, Lotty Carslake was a good-looking girl, with a lot of lightish hair hanging down her back. But poor Charmian Karslake was simply the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life. Didn’t take a fancy to her much – shouldn’t have said exactly that she was a lady, though it seems a shame to talk about that now that the poor thing is dead. But, no, I am positive she never could have been Lotty Carslake. Besides, why shouldn’t she have told us if she had ever lived in Hepton?”
“I don’t know,” the inspector said, glancing at the notes in his book. “But there is one outstanding fact that I do not doubt, Sir Arthur, and that is that Miss Charmian Karslake had some very definite reason for coming down to Hepton, and most certainly had some previous knowledge of the place.”
Sir Arthur’s amazement evidently increased. “I wonder what makes you think that? You have stumbled upon some mare’s nest, I expect, inspector. The more I think of it, the more I feel sure she is not Lotty Carslake.”
“Did you know Miss Lotty Carslake to speak to,” the inspector asked sharply.
Sir Arthur looked at him. “I don’t suppose I ever said more than good-morning to her in my life. Used to raise my hat when I met her, one always does to the folks in one’s own place, you know, inspector, but that was all.”
“Very well, leave it at that,” said the inspector bluntly. “One more question, Sir Arthur – have you ever heard of a Mr. Peter Hailsham?”
“Peter Hailsham!” the other repeated, and the inspector wondered whether he was mistaken or whether there was an accent of consternation in Sir Arthur’s voice. His eyes did not meet the inspector’s now. “I seem to have heard the name, but I can’t place the owner of it. Who was he, inspector?”
“I should very much like to know,” the inspector said truthfully. “I have some reason to think he may have been amongst your guests at the ball, Sir Arthur; can you help me to ascertain?”
Sir Arthur’s astonishment seemed to increase. He made a gesture of utter helplessness.
“I don’t believe he was at the ball for a minute. Whenever and wherever I heard the name I feel sure it was years ago.”
“Nevertheless, I am convinced that Mr. Peter Hailsham was amongst your guests.” The inspector stuck to his guns. “You have, no doubt, some means of ascertaining, Sir Arthur.”
“Of course we have the list of everybody invited,” Sir Arthur said at once. “But lots of people had houseparties and brought their guests. I doubt whether Lady Moreton has any list of them. Still, I will find out.”
“I shall be much obliged if you will,” the inspector said politely.
“I will go and ask her ladyship at once.” Sir Arthur turned to the door. Then, as he was going out of the room he looked round. “If Mr. Peter Hailsham was here that night, Brook would have announced him. He might remember. Shall I send him to you?”
The inspector looked undecided. “Would it not be as well to ask her ladyship first, Sir Arthur?”
“I am sure I don’t know. But have it your own way.” Sir Arthur’s tone was distinctly huffy.
When he had closed the door the inspector went very swiftly across the room and opening it just an inch applied his eye to it.
“As I thought,” he said, coming back to his place. “Brook will not know whether Mr. Peter Hailsham was at the ball or not.”
Harbord raised his eyebrows. “You saw –”
“Sir Arthur colloquizing with the butler at the other end of the hall.”
“Then you suspect –?”
“That Sir Arthur knows Mr. Peter Hailsham and has some pretty strong reason for not wishing us to discover him. Stopping Brook’s mouth, or trying to, won’t do him much good, though, and it makes me pretty sure that we are on the right track.”
“He might have got into the house by some artifice, without being among the guests,” Harbord said thoughtfully.
“Oh, he was in the house right enough,” the inspector said with conviction. “Only I don’t think he called himself Peter Hailsham.”
“Then why should Sir Arthur prevent Brook from speaking? I don’t quite see.” Harbord looked puzzled.
“Not because he thought Brook announced Mr. Peter Hailsham the other night,” the inspector said with a wry smile. “There is more behind this than we shall get at in a hurry, Alfred. A talk with Mr. Brook may help us, or it may not. I believe he is a Hepton man and has been at the Abbey man and boy. He ought to be able to answer the first question in my mind now – was Charmian Karslake the girl who lived here with her mother and was known as Lotty Carslake?”
Harbord shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. I watched Sir Arthur pretty closely, and I fancy his surprise when you asked him about the Hepton Carslakes was quite genuine.”
Stoddart did not speak for a minute or so. His eyes looked unseeingly past Harbord through the open window to the Abbey grounds outside. At last his gaze came back to Harbord.
“He might not have known. It seems to me that he knew very little of Miss Lotty Carslake, even less of the actress, even though she was a guest in his house. The similarity of name does not appear to have struck him. But he certainly knew the name of Peter Hailsham. And just as positively he intends to keep that knowledge, and all that it may mean, from us. Now I am going to tackle Brook, though he is on his guard.”
He did not wait for any rejoinder from Harbord, but went into the hall. As he expected, there was no sign of the butler, but he knew his way to the pantry. Pushing open the green baize swing door at the side of the hall, almost hidden by a big, carved oak settle that stood out from the wall, he made his way down a narrow, stone-paved passage that must have looked the same when it re-echoed to the clatter of the monks’ flat shoes.
It led to the domestic offices. The pantry door stood open. Inside, Brook could be seen polishing his silver. With a preliminary tap the inspector put his head in. “Why, Mr. Brook, I have just come round for a word with you if you have a moment to spare,” he cried genially. “I quite thought I should have found you in the hall, but it does not take you long to get to work. I must say, however, that it is the way to get on in the world. Never waste a minute.”
Brook’s silver jingled as he set it against another piece on the shelf. It struck Stoddart that the man’s face was curiously grey as he turned, but his voice sounded steady enough, as he said:
“Oh, well, inspector, in my line of life if one has a minute to spare there is always the leather and the silver, as I tell my footmen.”
“Quite right!” the inspector assented approvingly. “I wish we had a few men like you at the Yard. We could do with them. But now, have you got time for a cigarette?” He held out a well-filled case.
The butler’s eyes glanced round in a vague, unseeing fashion, as he helped himself.
“You are very good, inspector. A smoke is a thing I don’t often say no to.”
“That’s a sensible man,” the inspector returned as he helped himself. “Bless my life, I haven’t got my matches. I must trouble you for a light, Mr. Brook.”
The butler looked round and stepped back to a drawer. Stoddart followed him and swung himself on to a high table that stood against the wall. Swinging his legs, since they were too short to reach the ground, he lighted his cigarette from the other’s.
“Sir Arthur advised me to come to you for a bit of help this morning,” he said, not looking at the butler, but watching the thin spiral of smoke float slowly up-wards. “You would hear the names of all the people who came to the ball the other night. I wonder if you noticed a Mr. Peter Hailsham?”
“I don’t think I did,” the butler answered, a slight stammer impeding his utterance. Cigarette in mouth he turned back to his silver. “You will excuse me, inspector, but the silver needs a lot of looking after this weather.”
“I am sure it does,” the inspector acquiesced. “Ever heard the name before?”
“The name? I don’t think I remember what it was,” Brook said, polishing away at his silver.
“Hailsham, Peter Hailsham,” the inspector repeated, his keen eyes watching the other’s fingers.
“I don’t know.” Brook took up another piece of silver. “Yes, I think I have heard it somewhere. But one hears so many names in a place like this that one gets muddled and doesn’t recall where or when.”
“Naturally. It would be setting one an impossible task to try,” the inspector agreed amiably. “But perhaps you might remember whether you have heard it lately.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I feel sure I haven’t,” Brook said more quickly.
“H’m!” The inspector finished his cigarette and took another. “Not ready yet, Mr. Brook. Ah, a cigarette lasts you longer than it does me. You are a Hepton man, Mr. Brook, Sir Arthur tells me.”
“Born and bred, inspector. Never lived away in my life. I came to the Abbey as a boy in Sir Arthur’s father’s days and I have been in the Penn-Moreton service ever since.”
“You knew Sir Arthur’s mother, then?”
“Knew her ladyship? I should just think I did!” Brook was polishing very vigorously at his silver now. “Mr. Richard’s mother too. I remember Sir Arthur and Mr. Richard both from the day they began to toddle.”
“Ah! There is no bond like that of old association,” the inspector remarked feelingly. “I was just now talking to my assistant, Mr. Harbord, and I said –”
He was interrupted. A voice behind him said:
“Hello! You two look very comfortable. Is this friendship, inspector, or is it the sleuth on the war-path again?”
If the inspector cursed Dicky in his heart, no trace of it was apparent in his face.
“Just a cigarette with Mr. Brook,” he said blandly. “Even a sleuth must relax sometimes, Mr. Richard.”
“Quite so. And give me one of your cigarettes too, they smell jolly good.”
The inspector held out his case. “ Given to me by Mr. Dawson Davenant. I did a lot of work for him last year.”
“Ah, yes, that pearl case of his, I remember. Decent sort of old chap – Dawson Davenant. But my brother says you want to know the whereabouts of one Peter Hailsham. I have come to put you wise.”
The inspector took his cigarette out of his mouth. “I am sure I am much obliged to you, Mr. Richard. Where is he?”
Dicky grinned. “Where you can’t get at him, inspector; in Normanford Cemetery.”
For once the inspector was really surprised and showed it. “What? Dead!” he exclaimed.
“As a doornail, my friend.” Dicky’s grin grew more expansive. “Brook, you must remember old Peter Hailsham at Normanford.”
The butler looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Of course I do, sir, now that you recall him. I may say that I was put off the track before because I thought the inspector was looking for someone in a different walk of life. The inspector asked me if Mr. Peter Hailsham was at the ball the other night, the night Miss Karslake – died.”
Dicky laughed loudly. “Guess if he was, he’d got a bit cleaner on the other side, or some of our pretty flappers wouldn’t have cared much about footing it with him.” He laughed again.
Listening to him, the inspector asked himself whether he was mistaken, or whether there was not something forced in the merriment.
“Know the Canal, inspector? But of course you do. Well, the lock is three or four miles out on the north side. Right opposite it, on a piece of waste ground they call the common, there used to stand, when I was a kid, a sort of tumble-down hovel, where an old man, a kind of rag-and-bone picker, used to hang out, an old chap by the name of Peter Hailsham. He had a jar of mixed sweets, a few bottles of ginger-pop in his window, and kids used to go there for a penn’orth. I have been there myself when I have got hot with rowing. But old Peter Hailsham has been dead for more years than I can count. So if he was here the other night it could only have been in the spirit. What on earth could you want with old Peter Hailsham, inspector?”
Stoddart did not speak for a minute, but he watched Dicky rather closely.
“From information I had received,” he said at last guardedly, “I fancied that Mr. Peter Hailsham might have been able to help me a bit. I must have been mistaken.”
“Yes,” said Dicky, screwing in his monocle more firmly, “you will have to look a bit further than that!”