A Case of Suicide in St. James's Read online

  Although he had readily accepted the gauntlet thrown down before him, Freddy found that his heart was not really in it, for there were too many other things to think about, and his mind was busy. After the contretemps in the garden he could not shake off the feeling that something was very wrong. There was nothing he could quite put his finger on, but his reporter’s nose was twitching and telling him that something momentous had happened or was going to happen. Whether it were something to do with what had happened between Douglas Westray and Tom Chetwynd he could not say, but he was determined to keep half an eye out, at least. So it was that, while he danced with several girls who would almost certainly have been quite amenable to his advances had he been disposed to make them, his mind was elsewhere, and after an hour his points tally was still at nought. Gertie had disappeared—he did not know where; presumably in pursuit of Captain Dauncey—but he supposed she would soon turn up and crow at him for his lack of success. He went outside, where many people had remained after supper. It was dark now, but an array of bright lights had been switched on, making it seem almost like day. The air was still uncomfortably close, and he sat down at an empty table to smoke a cigarette.

  ‘Hallo, Freddy,’ said Lois Westray. He looked up and saw her emerging from the darkness down the iron staircase from the fire escape.

  ‘Where’s Douglas?’ he said.

  She grimaced.

  ‘Gone home to sleep it off, I hope. Poor Stanley, he’s terribly cross.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I do wish he’d stayed sober. He promised faithfully he wouldn’t cause any trouble. Of course, he wasn’t any too pleased about Tom and Tatty’s engagement, but Tatty had made it clear things were finished between them so he could hardly stand in their way. As a matter of fact, I thought he’d more or less reconciled himself to it—he said as much this morning—but it seems he changed his mind.’ She sighed. ‘There’ll be a row tomorrow, if I’m not much mistaken.’

  She went off, and Freddy continued to smoke in silence. After a minute or so he heard footsteps and glanced up to see Captain Dauncey coming down the stairs too. There was no sign of Gertie. Perhaps she had decided to take the most sensible approach and aim for the easier targets. He went back inside, and to his surprise saw Tatty Nugent sitting alone in a corner, concentrating very hard on a glass of champagne. From her manner, he suspected that it was not her first.

  ‘Hallo, Freddy,’ she said as he approached. ‘I’m having a beastly evening.’

  ‘I expect you are,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Has Douglas gone home?’

  ‘I hope so. I’ve had the most awful row with Tom about him. I did love him, you know.’

  ‘Tom or Douglas?’

  ‘Who do you think? But he was impossible. And now Tom’s being impossible too, so I’m going to sit here and drink until it all goes away.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ said Freddy.

  She finished the last mouthful of champagne and stood up a trifle unsteadily.

  ‘Men are stupid,’ she announced with a hiccup. ‘Tom is stupid and Douglas is stupid. I don’t want either of them any more. Ask me to dance, Freddy.’

  Freddy knew better than to argue with a woman in this mood, and besides, there was a reckless air about her which he recognized, and which caused a wicked little idea to dart into his head. It was not one of his nobler schemes, but everybody else seemed to be behaving badly and he did not wish to be left out. Besides, it was perfectly obvious that she had the same idea, since she ignored the dance floor entirely and dragged him out of the room and behind a large potted palm tree in the vestibule. Their tête-à-tête concluded to the satisfaction of both—given that one of them had a point to prove and the other a bet to win—then Tatty observed that people were starting to leave so she had better go and do her duty. She swayed off, and Freddy wandered back into the ballroom in no little state of complacency, then fell into conversation with Lord Browncliffe and Leslie Penbrigg. It was now approaching midnight, and the guests were drifting away. Freddy saw Lois Westray and Alida preparing to leave in company with Gertie, who was looking rather the worse for wear. She tottered across to him and slapped him playfully on the arm with an evening-glove.

  ‘Where did you disappear to?’ she said. ‘I’ve been having all sorts of fun.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Freddy. ‘Look at the state of you—I told you you couldn’t hold your drink.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m completely sober,’ said Gertie, who was never one to let mere facts get in the way of a bold assertion.

  ‘Yes you are, and I’ve no doubt you’ll be up early tomorrow morning for a bracing walk in the country followed by a long session of prayer and contemplation.’

  ‘What? No fear of that! Anyway, I was a tremendous success. At least, I think I was. Weren’t we supposed to be competing for points, or something? I can’t remember. Or if we were, I lost count about an hour ago.’

  ‘We were, and it sounds as though you did a lot better than I did. It’s been a dry evening, all told.’

  ‘Splendid! Then I win.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Freddy serenely.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I seem to recall there was a clause in the contest rules that allowed for an outright victory.’ He glanced around and whispered in her ear. Her eyes widened.

  ‘Tatty? You didn’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘How on earth did you manage that?’

  ‘All thanks to my natural charm,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Rot!’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it was hardly a conquest. She’d just had a row with Tom and Douglas, and was in the frame of mind to tell everybody to go hang. She might have picked anybody, really, but it just so happens that I was there at the time so she latched on to me.’

  ‘Bother!’ said Gertie. ‘If I’d known you were going to be ungentlemanly about it, I’d never have added that clause. In fact, if you were any sort of gentleman at all you’d never have agreed to the contest in the first place, so I think I deserve extra points for that.’

  ‘You can have as many points as you like but I still win on trumps,’ said Freddy.

  She glared at him, but Lady Westray was beckoning, for they were about to leave.

  ‘Hmph! Very well, we shall continue this discussion another time,’ she said. She stifled a yawn. ‘But be warned, I may demand a recount.’

  She went off, and Freddy began to think about leaving too.

  ‘Are you joining us, Freddy?’ said Lord Browncliffe. ‘A few hands of cards, by way of cooling down in a nice quiet way, away from the women and all the noise.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Jolly good. Dauncey’s joining us, and Tom. What about you, Penbrigg? It’ll be a relief to sit down after all these hours standing,’ said Browncliffe.

  ‘It certainly will,’ said Penbrigg fervently. ‘Yes, I suppose I might stay a little while, thank you, sir.’

  ‘We’ll go into the library,’ said Browncliffe. ‘We can leave my wife and Tatty to deal with the clearing up. That’s women’s stuff.’

  He led them into a comfortable library which also acted as his study. He called it a library, but there were few books in evidence: just the usual collection of dictionaries, encyclopaedias and atlases, as well as a whole shelf full of stories about big-game hunting and other similar adventures in which humans did battle against various representatives of the lower orders of the animal kingdom and the animals came off worst. Freddy remembered that Lord Browncliffe’s hunting exploits had often appeared in the newspapers, and he had made quite a name for himself as a marksman.

  ‘Whisky? Or will you have a brandy?’ said Browncliffe. ‘No, it’s all right, Whitcomb, you may go and help the ladies with the clearing up. We’ll manage for ourselves. Now, what shall it be: Nap, Banker or Pontoon?’

  The butler departed, drinks were poured and cigars were lit, and the men settled down to important business.

  ‘You’re fond of shooting, I take
it, sir,’ said Freddy, as cards were dealt and money pledged. He was looking at a large glass case which held a selection of guns ranging from tiny pistols to enormous shotguns.

  ‘I most certainly am,’ said Lord Browncliffe. ‘Do you shoot much?’ Without waiting for Freddy to reply, he embarked upon a long anecdote about a tiger hunt in India, in which his quarry had cunningly eluded him for three days, only to be bested at last thanks to Lord Browncliffe’s tenacity, his ability, and his Westley Richards Patent Double .425 bore Nitro Express rifle (a snip at eighty-two guineas). ‘Had the head mounted, of course,’ he said. ‘It’s not here though—we keep it down at our place in the country. I have a much bigger collection of guns there, too. This is just a selection for show.’

  He leaned back in his chair, turned a key and pulled open the glass door of the case, for the better viewing of its contents, then frowned.

  ‘That’s odd. Where’s the Colt revolver? I’m sure it was here the other day. Or did I take it down to Sussex? I suppose I must have.’

  ‘Don’t you keep the guns locked up?’ said Freddy.

  Lord Browncliffe waved a hand.

  ‘I know, I know. Remiss of me, really. Lady Browncliffe is always telling me I ought to, but I’m afraid I forget. I’m in and out of the case so often, you see.’

  He seemed to forget about the missing gun, and began to relate another exploit.

  ‘Tom shoots too, don’t you?’ he said at last. ‘Didn’t you say you once killed a grizzly bear out in the Rocky Mountains?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tom colourlessly.

  ‘Well, come on, boy, out with the story!’

  ‘There’s nothing much to tell. It turned up and I shot it, that’s all.’

  Browncliffe tried again, but Tom was unwilling or unable to join in the spirit of the evening, so Browncliffe gave it up and returned his attention to the game. Freddy regarded Tom Chetwynd covertly. He seemed subdued and preoccupied, although from what Freddy had been told this was most unlike his usual self. Perhaps he was upset at having been attacked by the man who had once been his best friend.

  So the evening wore on. The men became quieter and the room smokier as the game progressed. Freddy was amused to see that Lord Browncliffe was not an especially good loser. He humphed and harrumphed whenever he lost a hand, but was forced to pretend not to mind. Captain Dauncey played with some success, while Tom Chetwynd seemed to have cast all caution to the winds, and was gambling his money recklessly with a sort of grim determination. Freddy made a few modest wins, but then began to lose money to Leslie Penbrigg, who was doing much better than any of them. At last, Freddy threw in his cards and said:

  ‘You’ve cleaned me out, old chap. You’re far too good at this game. If it wouldn’t lead to your challenging me to a duel, I’d almost say you weren’t playing fair.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Penbrigg, almost apologetically. ‘I find it helps if one keeps a clear head.’

  Freddy noticed that he had not touched his drink.

  ‘Ha, so that’s the secret, is it?’ he said.

  ‘Bad luck for me that you’re sober, my boy,’ said Lord Browncliffe jocularly. ‘I won’t be able to pump you about what’s going on at Westray. It was just your bad luck we got there first with the new wing slot design, but I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other ideas up your sleeve, eh?’

  ‘One or two,’ agreed Penbrigg with a smile.

  ‘Very young to have such a high position at Westray, aren’t you?’ said Captain Dauncey. ‘Sir Stanley must think an awful lot of you.’

  ‘I—I hope he does,’ said Leslie Penbrigg, who had gone slightly pink. Freddy guessed he was thinking of Alida Westray.

  ‘You worked under old Finkley, didn’t you?’ said Browncliffe.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘I heard the old chap went ga-ga. Experience is all very well, but at a certain age the brain starts to disintegrate, and then a man is good for nothing any more.’

  ‘He was jolly kind to me, and taught me a lot,’ said Penbrigg. ‘I’m awfully grateful to him.’

  ‘I’m going all in,’ announced Tom Chetwynd, who, on the contrary, had helped himself generously to Lord Browncliffe’s whisky.

  ‘What the devil is that racket?’ said Browncliffe, as the sound of some commotion drifted into the library from outside. ‘Why can’t they keep the noise down when they’re clearing up? How’s a fellow supposed to concentrate on his game?’

  Just then, the door opened and Whitcomb the butler entered.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lord,’ he said, ‘but her ladyship has asked me to come and fetch you.’

  ‘Come and fetch me? Why couldn’t she come here herself if she wanted something?’ said Browncliffe irritably.

  ‘It is a matter of a stuck door, my lord.’

  ‘But why bother me with it? Be off with you and fix it yourself. Shall we have another hand?’

  The butler hovered. Lord Browncliffe glanced up at him.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘It’s not a question of fixing the door so much as breaking it down, my lord. It appears that somebody has somehow managed to bolt her ladyship’s dressing-room door from the inside.’

  Lord Browncliffe regarded his butler with a pained expression.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can see I’m going to get no peace until I come. Oh, very well.’

  He rose heavily to his feet and followed the butler out of the room, then returned a minute or two later, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘Dashed odd!’ he said. ‘He’s right—someone’s bolted the door from the inside and we can’t get it open. I’ve no idea how it happened.’

  ‘Perhaps one of the guests went in there and fell asleep,’ suggested Freddy.

  ‘Yes, well, it’s damned inconvenient. I don’t want to break the door down, but all Lady Browncliffe’s things are in there and she’s kicking up an awful fuss about it.’

  ‘Let’s go and see,’ said Tom.

  They all rose and followed Lord Browncliffe up the staircase to the first floor. There they found Lady Browncliffe and a very tired-looking Tatty standing with Whitcomb and a pair of housemaids. They were all staring at the door.

  ‘Are you sure it’s bolted and not just stuck?’ said Captain Dauncey. He tried the door. ‘No, it’s bolted right enough.’ He bent down and peered through the keyhole. ‘The lights are on but I can’t see much. Ah, what’s that? Someone’s fallen asleep in the chair, I think. A man. I can just see his foot.’

  Freddy was getting that odd feeling again, as though something were very wrong.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said. Captain Dauncey stepped aside obligingly and Freddy applied his eye to the keyhole. After a second he straightened up.

  ‘Is there any other way into this room?’ he said.

  Something in his tone must have struck them all, for they stared at him in concern.

  ‘No—’ began Lady Browncliffe, but Tatty said:

  ‘Only through the window, but I imagine it’s fastened.’

  She glanced at the butler for confirmation.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was most careful to fasten the upstairs windows before the dance began.’

  ‘Whoever’s in there might have opened it again to let some air in,’ said Dauncey.

  ‘Let’s go and see,’ said Freddy. ‘But if it’s closed we still have to get in one way or another. Does anyone have a knife? Or are there any tools in the house we might use? I don’t have anything myself, I’m afraid.’

  All the men felt in their pockets. Lord Browncliffe brought out a pack of cigars, some matches, a length of string and some money, while Penbrigg produced a crumpled handkerchief, several assorted nuts and bolts, and a toy whistle. Dauncey had some money and a small penknife, of the sort that is carried on a key-ring. Tom Chetwynd, meanwhile, fumbled in his pockets distractedly and spilled the contents out onto the floor.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a penknife,’ said Dauncey,
and indeed Tom had dropped an implement which seemed to indicate that he had been expecting to spend a week in the wilderness, trapping squirrels and building a shelter from fallen tree-branches, instead of attending a London society ball.

  ‘You dropped this,’ said Freddy, handing Tom a letter.

  ‘Ah, yes, thanks,’ said Tom, shoving it hurriedly into his inside pocket. ‘It’s a letter from my mother in Paris—just arrived this morning.’

  ‘Shall I go and look in the tool-box, sir?’ said Whitcomb.

  ‘No need just yet,’ said Freddy. ‘I think Chetwynd’s knife might do. The fire escape runs along the outside of the window, I believe. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Lady Browncliffe.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Tatty.

  ‘I hope I’m going to get in without breaking anything,’ said Freddy.

  He set off down the stairs, followed by Tom Chetwynd and Captain Dauncey. Once out in the garden, they ran up the iron stairs and along the fire escape, and stopped outside a window. The heavy curtains were drawn, and only a chink of light showed through a gap at the top.

  ‘Closed,’ said Freddy. ‘Is this the right room?’ He glanced along at the other windows outside which the balcony ran. ‘Yes, it must be this one.’

  He took the penknife and slid the blade in between the two sashes.

  ‘This will only work if the catch is loose,’ he said.

  ‘Go in for burglary much, do you?’ said Dauncey.

  ‘Only when things are quiet at the paper. Hmm, it’s stiff, but I think with a little pressure—’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Ah! There we have it! Should be able to open it now.’ He pushed at the sash, which opened with a loud creak. ‘In we go,’ he said, then climbed over the window-sill and disappeared behind the curtains.

  Dauncey and Tom Chetwynd followed, then both stopped dead. The room was decorated in feminine style, with floral wallpaper and many ornamental touches. In one corner stood a tall looking-glass, near a lady’s dressing table surmounted by another, smaller glass. Against one wall stood a writing desk of the folding out sort, while just to the right of the window was a chair. In this chair was Douglas Westray, who was now beyond all hope of ever persuading Tatty to come back to him. He sat, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his eyes wide and staring. Down the right side of his head and over his ear was spread a dark-coloured substance that looked at first glance like oil. His right arm dangled over the arm of the chair, and on the floor below his right hand was a pistol.