What followed was a period too agonising to be dealt with more than briefly. Margaret Fairlamb had been genuinely loved; her death at the hands of an unknown, brutal assailant was a calamity fraught with horror not only to her family and friends but to a wide public as well. Let us hurry past the interval between the discovery of the body and the memorial service arranged by sorrowing colleagues, and confine ourselves for the moment to the conclusions drawn by the police.
Every known fact pointed to robbery as the motive. What other belief was possible when the victim had not an ill-wisher in the world, and when the handbag taken from her had contained close on a hundred pounds in addition to valuable jewels? It was assumed that the thief had meant to overpower, not kill. Two savage blows had been inflicted, one at the base of the skull, the other on the left temple; and as these had produced fractures and cerebral haemorrhage with little external injury they argued the sort of weapon—sandbag or piece of lead pipe wrapped in a sock—likely to be used by a professional thug. The first blow must have been given as the actress reached for the light-button, the second after she had been felled into the position in which she was found, face upturned, head against the bottom tread of the stairs. There seemed little doubt that the assassin had lain in wait at the foot of the stairs, most likely wearing gloves, since no fingerprints were left behind. The deed accomplished, he had gone quietly out, closing the door, a quarter of an hour, at most, before the husband’s and daughter’s arrival. The caretakers in the basement had heard nothing.
The question now arose of how the assassin had got in. The street door was opened by latchkeys belonging to the landlord and tenants, or, in the case of visitors, by the instrument of automatic buttons operated from within the various flats. Unless, therefore, the person who entered possessed a duplicate key, he must perforce have rung one of the four bells and been admitted by some one from inside. This, it would appear, was precisely what did happen, as will be seen from the following facts:
The house contained four flats, including the basement premises of the caretakers. The landlord, occupying the ground floor, was a nervous old gentleman who insisted that the street door be kept closed both day and night as a precaution against chance invaders. On this occasion, the Lakes’ flat, at the top, was empty, for Mrs. Todd did not live in, but the two floors which remained belonged to a youngish widow, a Mrs. Cathcart, who kept two maids, and both of these, at about eleven-twenty, were roused from sleep by a ring at the street door. Their mistress was dining out. Thinking she had forgotten her keys, they argued a little, after which the cook got up, pressed the automatic button outside the kitchen, and waited in readiness to open the private flat-door the moment the second bell should sound. No further ring occurred, whereupon the cook returned to bed, grumbling, satisfied that the wrong bell had been rung, or else that some idler had been having a game. Not till she learned of the murder did she realise what must have happened. The latch below had yielded when she pressed the button, the thief had come in and hidden himself on the basement flight till assured no investigation was being made.
As some of the newspapers remarked, the ruse was so simple the sole wonder was it had not been employed more often. Simple and safe—for the intruder, if discovered, had only to pretend he had come to the wrong house, and go out again.
The timing of the attack seemed to indicate that the assassin was some one well acquainted with his victim’s habits, even with the contents of her bag on this particular evening. Strong in this belief, the inspector in charge of the case interrogated each and every person with whom Miss Fairlamb had spoken during the two days prior to her death. With the fellow-members of her company she had travelled down from Liverpool to London on Sunday, being met by her husband at Euston Station. On Monday and Tuesday she had gone direct to the theatre and rehearsed steadily till after three o’clock, a fact for which all the company could vouch. In other words, at least a score of people—including the stage-hands—might have assumed that she had been unable to bank her two weeks’ salary, although whether any of these knew she was actually carrying the money about with her was not discoverable.
Two, however—they were Miss Mears, the star, and Florence Baillie, a dresser—had seen the jewels, for in the second interval Miss Fairlamb unlocked her wardrobe, displayed the sunburst and ring and locked them up again. As neither of these two could say positively if the door had been closed at the time, it seemed possible that a third person had glanced in, while it was equally possible that some one from the unsavoury neighbourhood on which the Trafalgar Theatre backed had looked in at the window from the fire-escape. Children frequently did this, while Miss Fairlamb was dressing. During previous runs they had proved a pest to all the company but Margaret, who had encouraged them by handing out sweets. As a result, she was a great favourite, with a crowd of juvenile admirers to cheer her when she emerged, unimpressive in her street clothes, to hurry to her bus.
This latter fact was considered significant. Who was to say that before now some Luigi or Tonio, whose offspring had Margaret Fairlamb’s picture pinned to the kitchen walls, had not tracked the actress to her home in anticipation of a future theft? Or that, having sighted the present rich haul, the same scoundrel had not watched her leave the theatre and forestalled her homecoming by car or a taxi? It was a theory to work on, but nothing came of it. Similarly, every other line of inquiry fizzled out. Fully thirty persons were shadowed to no purpose. Days were spent in ransacking Soho and Paddington, questioning taxi-drivers, checking the movements of servants, caretakers, electricians, stage hands. Two hawkers were detained and released for want of evidence. A careful watch was being kept on pawnshops, which so far revealed no sign of the jewels. An ugly rumour cropped up in connection with the heavy indebtedness of the leading man, Henry Bantock—but it died down again. Lastly, it was conjectured that the intended victim was not Margaret at all but the occupant of the bigger flat—Mrs. Cathcart, who wore real pearls and quite an astonishing number of diamond bracelets, and was apt to come home decidedly the worse for her nocturnal indulgences.
And there, for the present, the matter rested. Already the sensation was simmering down, the theatre ball, which never had ceased to roll, was spinning as busily as before. In another week the affair would be ancient history. Poor, darling little Pegs! One of the best. Was her death to be just one more unsolved atrocity, like that of the young schoolgirl strangled under West Kensington laurel bushes? So it appeared. . . . And now, what about this new comedy Peter’s bought? Any good part for a strong character-actor? Oh, he’s got his eye on Bob Ainslee! Well, if crystallised mannerisms are what he wants . . .
Alone in the room which had been her mother’s, Diana spurred herself on to some further task which, by sheer exhaustion, might ease the sick misery within. There were belongings to sort and put in order, things no hands but hers must be allowed to touch; yet how to begin, when every object she saw reminded her of her loss?
She still wore her dark-blue frock. It would have been cruel to put on mourning when the Red Hen had so hated it. “No black, please!” she could hear her mother saying, as plainly as she could see the bright brown eye cocked at her from the bathroom door, or the same, strangely clouded, stealing glances at her from across the tea-table. That eye had not wished to meet hers. Why? And again, Why?
Throughout these ghastly days of funeral preparations and sessions with the police the Why had thudded ceaselessly inside her brain. It had rendered her almost dumb in the presence of solicitous friends—what hosts there had been!—most of all with her godfather, Nicholas Blundell, for all the latter’s great kindness and unprecedented tact. She could not meet him with any frankness, and she fancied he noticed the strangeness of her manner; but how could she ask him any details of his last talk with her mother when to do so would have been equal to admitting an anxiety she must, at this uncertain stage, conceal? She had spoken not one word about her engagement to him, or to her father. Even that, she felt, would be an error. At moments she struggled hard to recapture her confidence that Rose Somervell’s death had been from purely natural causes, but that confidence had been shattered irremediably by her mother’s sudden end. To be sure, if nothing came of this pending inquiry into old Rose’s illness, then the lurking instinct which sought to weave a connection between the two deaths could be dismissed on the instant, and life would go on again.
What did that instinct say? It all grew out of her mother’s idea of some person having been with Aunt Rose’s servant on Tuesday afternoon. That person, granting he or she existed, could easily have lingered in some part of the flat and thus overheard what Margaret Fairlamb said to her friend, Nick Blundell—yes, not only the discussion of Rose’s attack and the telephone conversation preceding it, but Blundell’s suggestion that Margaret take her small legacy home with her. What Margaret declared or hinted might have been too veiled to reveal her whole meaning to the solicitor, but the listener, completely understanding, might have been terrified of what this one witness stood ready to disclose in a court of law. Needless to say the listener would have had to be some one who knew Margaret’s domestic arrangements, the hour of her return from the theatre. Not Adrian! Thank God that was settled; but Margaret most certainly had Adrian in her thoughts—Adrian, grown worried because the Home Office had been to him with awkward questions; Adrian desperately trying to learn from Petty the full extent of what might have to be faced. . . .
“Oh, too horrible!” groaned Diana. “That she should have had such a suspicion in her mind—that she should have died, still thinking it! Or, if she hadn’t died, to have gone on, maybe for ever, with a hideous doubt about—her own son-in-law!”
Adrian had been with her every day, but ill at ease, mute as herself. She had accepted his silent sympathy, seen the shut-in suffering of his eyes, but all her faculties had been deadened, damped down. This state could not last. At any moment she would be stung alive again, but for the present all she had power to do was to perform an endless round of mechanical tasks and wait—wait, for the result of the autopsy.
Now she bestirred herself and stretched out her hand for the packets of letters it was her duty to run through and destroy. Should she just burn the lot? It would be easier; but no, here at the very top were two letters in Aunt Rose’s handwriting. Postmarked Vichy—so they were quite recent, written in September, while Rose was taking her cure. Better read them over, just to make sure. . . .
Her father’s voice in the passage. Some one with him, too. She would be wanted. More strain. This job must wait.
“Yes, Daddy? I’m here. Have you just come in?”
Her father! Another, separate problem for her to solve—and how? She did not know. Her mother had always thought and planned for him. She must do the same—but what could be done? Herbert Lake was crushed. After two nights’ absence from his company he had striven to carry on, with disastrous results. No more acting for perhaps an indefinite time, and meanwhile he could not live long on the modest sums tucked away in War Loan, or on her own debatable earnings. If she and Adrian . . . but the future once so solid, was melting into mist. She and Adrian might never be married.
“Diana?”
The door cracked open, and Herbert’s face, stricken and drawn, looked in. The sight of it smote her; and yet was it fancy, or did she detect a faint gleam of something like hope in the sunken eyes?
“Diana, Nick is with me. I—that is, he—has a matter to discuss. May he come in?”
Her thoughts flew to her mother’s murderer.
She sprang up, white-faced, scattering the letters.
“Not—? Do they know who—?”
Her father winced painfully.
“No—not that. It’s—quite different. I’ll let Nick explain.”
The dragging step receded down the passage. The door opened wider to frame the broad, deep-chested figure of Nicholas Blundell. Diana murmured, “Come in, Uncle Nick.” And partly to hide her face from him, stooped to gather up her mother’s letters. Now she would have to nerve herself once more for one of those encounters which she found supremely trying. She would be conscious of sparring, of keeping her own features like a mask and, at the same time, trying in every way possible to get out of her godfather just what he knew or suspected concerning his old friend’s death.