A Case of Suicide in St. James's Page 7

  ‘A friend, eh? At a guess I’d say there’s a lady in the case,’ said Bird knowingly.

  ‘There’s always a lady in the case, sergeant,’ said Freddy. ‘But in this particular case, it’s all quite above the board. I just want to assure her that everything possible has been done and nothing has been overlooked.’

  ‘Hmm. So you want to see the medical report? As a matter of fact, I think I can do better than that.’ The sergeant picked up the telephone and spoke into it. ‘Ingleby’s here this afternoon,’ he said, as he replaced the receiver. ‘He’s the one who did the post-mortem examination on this chap. He’ll be able to tell you anything you want to know.’

  Dr. Ingleby arrived quickly, with his usual brisk manner, and asked how he might be of assistance.

  ‘I have one question, and it’s quite a simple one,’ said Freddy. ‘Are you absolutely certain that Douglas Westray died by his own hand? I know what they said at the inquest, but I’m talking purely about the medical side of things. Is it possible that someone else shot him?’

  ‘If you’re talking from a wholly medical point of view, then yes, it’s possible that someone else shot him,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course it is—always assuming there were no witnesses to his death, which I understand there were not in this case.’

  ‘No, there weren’t. He was found with his arm dangling over the arm of a chair, and on the floor below his hand was a revolver. It looked as though he’d dropped the gun after he shot himself, but naturally it would be easy enough to stage an effect of the kind. Now, doctor, if someone had presented you with Douglas Westray’s body without telling you the circumstances in which it had been found, what would you have thought? That is to say, would you have said without hesitation that he shot himself?’

  The little doctor pursed his lips.

  ‘Well, there are many factors to consider, you understand, although there are some things one can rule out. For example, he certainly wasn’t shot from the other side of the room. To judge from my examination of the wound, I should say the gun had been held a few inches from the head before being fired.’

  ‘A few inches? How many?’

  ‘Difficult to say precisely. There was a certain absence of residue and burning on the skin of the deceased, which one might have expected from a gun placed very close to the temple. Taking that fact on its own I might have said the gun had been fired from perhaps six inches away.’

  ‘Six inches? Isn’t that rather far?’ Freddy imitated the action of someone holding a gun to his own head. ‘Wouldn’t it be a strain on the wrist?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I don’t suppose the poor fellow was too concerned about a sore wrist at that moment,’ said Ingleby dryly.

  ‘Don’t people normally hold the gun close to their temple when they shoot themselves?’

  ‘They do, generally speaking,’ agreed the doctor. ‘But one never knows.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be prepared to say one way or the other whether it was his own hand that fired the shot, or someone else’s?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for definite, no.’

  ‘But it’s possible that someone else might have done it?’

  ‘That is so.’

  He was evidently not prepared to commit himself any further than that, so Freddy gave it up. He thanked Ingleby and Bird, and was about to take his departure when he suddenly remembered his other errand.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘I’ve also come about Douglas Westray’s shoes. It seems you chaps sent the wrong ones back to his family.’

  ‘Did we?’ said Bird, surprised.

  ‘Apparently so. I said I’d collect the right ones, and I’ve no doubt that Lady Westray will send back the wrong ones in due course.’

  There was some little delay while investigations were made, but at last Sergeant Bird came back into the office, frowning.

  ‘Our chap says there’s no mistake,’ he said. ‘Those are his shoes, all right. We haven’t had anyone in wearing evening-shoes recently apart from Westray, so they can’t have got mixed up with anybody else’s.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as we can be. Renwick says there’s no doubt those were the shoes he came in in, and they have no other shoes of that description among the lost property.’

  ‘Odd. Perhaps Lois got it wrong, then,’ said Freddy.

  He bade the sergeant goodbye and set off for home, but he had not got very far before he changed his mind and decided he might as well stop at the Westrays’ house on the way and inform them of the result of his visit to Scotland Yard. The Westrays lived on Brook Street. Freddy rang, and was informed that Lady Westray and Miss Westray had just arrived home. They were surprised to see him again so soon, and even more surprised when he explained why he had come.

  ‘Oh, but there must be some mistake,’ said Lois. ‘They certainly sent the wrong shoes back.’

  ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’ said Freddy.

  ‘Because they were completely the wrong size. I didn’t look too closely at them myself, but Banning noticed and told me about it.’

  ‘Banning?’

  ‘He’s Stanley’s valet, but he also does—did—for Douglas sometimes. He’s quite sure they’re not Douglas’s shoes.’

  ‘Might I speak to Banning for a minute?’ said Freddy.

  ‘If you like,’ said Lois.

  Banning was summoned, and instructed to assist Mr. Pilkington-Soames in any way he could.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ he said, in answer to Freddy’s inquiry. ‘I noticed immediately. They certainly weren’t Mr. Douglas’s shoes. His were new, and quite different from the ones they sent back.’

  ‘Might I see them?’ said Freddy.

  The man assented, and led Freddy upstairs and into what had been Douglas Westray’s bedroom. Freddy looked around. None of Douglas’s possessions had been cleared out yet, it appeared. Banning went across to a wardrobe and took out a pair of black dress shoes.

  ‘These are the ones, sir,’ he said.

  Freddy took a shoe and examined it. It was quite ordinary—a plain men’s dress shoe, Oxford style, in black patent leather with a toe cap, a little worn, and from its appearance, a few years old. He examined it closely, inside and out, but there were no distinguishing marks. He picked up the other shoe and examined that.

  ‘You say Mr. Douglas’s shoes were new?’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, sir—never been worn until that evening, in fact. They were in polished box calf rather than patent leather, and in a smaller size. Mr. Douglas wore a size eight, and as you can see, these are a size ten.’

  ‘Did you dress Mr. Douglas on the night he died?’

  ‘Not to say dress,’ said Banning, ‘I helped him with one or two things, but he said he was in a hurry and would see to himself, so I said he might ring if he wanted me again, then left him.’

  ‘He was in a hurry, was he? At what time did he go out?’

  ‘At five o’clock, or thereabouts.’

  ‘Wearing his own shoes, presumably.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that if you didn’t dress him?’

  ‘Because I was arranging Sir Stanley’s things in his room, which is just across the corridor. Mr. Douglas came out and asked if he should do, and I looked him over and saw that a scuff-mark had somehow appeared on his left shoe. He didn’t want to wait while I polished it, so I rubbed the mark off as best I could and he went out.’

  ‘Hmm. That seems clear enough. Five o’clock, though—that’s rather early. He didn’t arrive at the dance until nine, as I recall. Did he say where he was going before that?’

  ‘Not that I remember, sir. I know he said he wanted to speak to a chap, but he didn’t say who. I dare say he was meeting him at his club.’

  ‘Which club is that?’

  ‘Skeffington’s, sir.’

  Freddy thanked the man and returned downstairs, wrinkling his brow thoughtfully.

  ‘Rather queer, what?’ he said to
himself. ‘Why should Douglas change his shoes halfway through the evening? And where did he get the second pair?’

  Chapter Eight

  Freddy went downstairs and found Alida sitting alone in the drawing-room.

  ‘Anything?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Freddy. ‘Your man is quite certain that Douglas went out in his new shoes, and that the shoes which were sent back were not the same ones. The police are equally certain that they sent back the shoes Douglas was wearing when he was brought in, so we must assume that at some point that evening he changed his shoes. Any idea why that might be?’

  ‘None at all. It seems very odd.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it? Banning also says Douglas went out at about five o’clock, but he didn’t arrive at the dance until quite late. Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I expect he went to his club.’

  ‘That’s what Banning suggested,’ said Freddy thoughtfully, then took his leave and left. His curiosity had been well and truly aroused by this strange matter of the shoes, and he wanted to speak to Gertie about it, so he went to a telephone box and called her. A superior servant informed him that she was not at home, and he grimaced, for he was feeling too impatient to wait. There was nothing else for it: he would have to go to Skeffington’s. It was a prospect which did not cheer him, for Freddy was a former member of that venerable establishment who was now something of a persona non grata there—indeed, not to put too fine a point on it, he had been ejected from the place on his ear for transgressions against decorum which still caused some of the older members to shudder at the memory, and which had led to the removal of all the stuffed animal heads from the walls of the library into the attics as a precautionary measure—and he was by no means confident that any of the staff would be prepared to speak to him. Still, the place was only a short walk away so there was no harm in trying.

  Fortunately, the commissionaire was not one he recognized, and he was able to effect an entry without difficulty. His second stroke of good luck was to find on duty the assistant secretary, a man of less advanced years than the rest of the senior staff, and one who was inclined to look more indulgently upon youthful high-jinks than his superiors were. He opened his eyes wide when he saw Freddy.

  ‘I say,’ he said. ‘You’d better not let old Calder see you. I’ve strict instructions to turf you out on sight.’

  ‘You’d think he’d let bygones be bygones,’ said Freddy. ‘It was all a long time ago.’

  ‘Less than a year, if we’re counting.’

  ‘Oh, but I’ve reached a maturer age now. I’m an old man of twenty-four and I can assure you I behave impeccably these days.’

  ‘That won’t cut any ice with him, I’m afraid. He’s in a foul mood this week as it is. We had a leak from next door three days ago and the wine cellar was flooded. Six dozen bottles of Chateau Rauzan best claret and another four dozen of Martinez Old Tawny ruined, and who knows what else.’

  ‘No!’ said Freddy, shocked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  They contemplated the tragic loss in a respectful silence.

  ‘How can I help you?’ hinted the secretary.

  Freddy recollected himself.

  ‘Just a little matter of business. I believe you have—or had, at least—a member named Douglas Westray. After my time, I think.’

  The secretary’s face clouded.

  ‘Ah, yes, sad business, that. Suicide, I understand.’

  ‘Perhaps. That’s what I’m trying to find out. I gather he may have been here on the nineteenth of June, the night he died, and I’d like to speak to anyone who saw him.’

  The secretary regarded him doubtfully. He was torn between duty and curiosity, but curiosity won the day.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘And if you see Calder for heaven’s sake hop it.’

  He went away to make inquiries, and at length came back in company with one of the waiters, who suppressed a laugh when he saw Freddy.

  ‘Sam here says he spoke to your chap on the night in question,’ said the secretary. ‘You may ask him, but let’s go somewhere less public.’

  They went into a private room, where the secretary could be reasonably sure that they would not be disturbed by the dyspeptic Mr. Calder. Sam was fortunately blessed with a good memory, and informed Freddy that Douglas Westray had arrived at Skeffington’s at about a quarter to eight on the 19th of June. He remembered it particularly because Mr. Westray had glanced at his watch and mentioned the time when he arrived, saying that he could not stay long as he was expected at a ball he was not much looking forward to.

  ‘That’s nearly three hours after he left the house,’ said Freddy. ‘Was he sober?’

  ‘Perfectly so when he arrived, although I shouldn’t like to comment on his state after he left,’ said Sam delicately.

  ‘As bad as that, eh? What was he drinking?’

  ‘He ordered several cocktails, then invited Colonel Lomas to join him in a drink. The colonel doesn’t hold with cocktails, and so they changed to whisky at that point.’

  ‘Is Colonel Lomas here now?’ said Freddy.

  ‘I saw him somewhere about,’ said the secretary.

  ‘I should like to speak to him if I may.’

  ‘Listen, what’s this all about? There’ll be the most fearful row if you’re caught.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, except that there were one or two odd circumstances about Westray’s death, and there’s been some suggestion that it might not have been suicide, so I said I’d prowl around and ask a question or two. Now, Sam, I don’t suppose you noticed Mr. Westray’s shoes, did you?’

  ‘No, sir. He was in his evening-things, but I didn’t notice his shoes in particular.’

  ‘He didn’t, for example, take them off when he arrived then walk off with the wrong ones when he left?’

  Sam stared.

  ‘Not that I know of. I’m sure somebody would have mentioned it if he had.’

  ‘Ye-es, I’m sure they would have. At what time did he leave the club?’

  ‘Just before nine, sir. He asked us to get him a taxi and then he went off.’

  ‘Very well, that will do for now.’

  Sam was dismissed, puzzling over shoes, and Freddy was given permission to go and speak to Colonel Lomas, on the strict understanding that if Mr. Calder arrived he was to depart without fuss and must not, under any circumstances, mention that the assistant secretary knew anything about his visit. Colonel Lomas was eventually located in the bar, making obeisance to his fourth whisky and soda of the evening. He peered short-sightedly at Freddy, and was with some difficulty and the promise of another drink persuaded to cast back his mind to the night of the 19th of June.

  ‘Ah—er—yes—Westray. Terrible business. Suicide, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what they said at the inquest, but we’re just trying to make sure,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Felt very bad when I heard about it. Must have been one of the last people to speak to him. Wish I’d known—might have been able to say something to dissuade him.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything that suggested he was thinking of killing himself, then?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Dismal enough, of course. Said he’d had the most awful day, and now he had to go and spend the evening at some ghastly dance or other when he wasn’t in the mood. Talked about how chaps kept letting him down. First one, then another. And women, too. Well, I know all about that. Plenty of fish in the sea, I told him. One woman’s much like the next. If one slips out of your hands it’s easy enough to catch another. Trying to buck him up, you know.’

  ‘He’d had an awful day, had he? Did he say why?’

  ‘Well, I assumed he was talking about this girl, whoever she was.’

  ‘I’m not sure it was that,’ said Freddy. ‘Do you remember his exact words?’

  The colonel huffed and grumbled, but remembered the promised drink and tried to recall.

  ‘He’d been talking to
someone,’ he said at last. ‘He’d gone to consult a friend of his about something that was worrying him, but then he’d had a shock and had had to come away.’

  ‘A shock? Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘Not that I recall—ah, yes! He said that he’d had a double knock, and that it wasn’t fair that everything should be laid on his shoulders when he had nothing to do with any of it.’

  ‘Do you know what he was referring to?’

  ‘I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me. He just said his faith in human nature had been shaken that day. “I can’t decide whether or not to speak up, or whether to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said. “If I speak up then it’ll cause the most terrible stink—and what if I’m wrong? But if I don’t then I’m party to murder, and I couldn’t do that to the old girl.’

  ‘Murder?’ said Freddy. ‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was as surprised as you are, and said so. That put the wind up him, and he begged pardon and said he’d misspoken, and that he’d been exaggerating. Then he started talking about honour and decency, and how there didn’t seem to be much of it about these days. Of course, I know all about that. Chap ran off with my wife back in ‘99 while I was on my way out to Mafeking, and I never saw either of them again. Dreadful pity—I should like to speak to the man face to face, and shake his hand for doing me a good turn. Frightful harpy, she was. Never had a moment’s peace. Pretty, though.’

  He began to reminisce about the old days. Just then Freddy glanced up and saw the assistant secretary gesticulating frantically to him from the door and pointing behind him. Evidently Mr. Calder was on his way. He stood up and thanked Colonel Lomas, then made a furtive retreat from the club with the help of a marble bust of Caesar, which provided effective cover, and then through the cloak-room. When he got home it was nearly seven o’clock, and he decided to telephone Gertie again. This time she was at home.

  ‘What have you found out?’ she said.

  Freddy told her about Douglas’s visit to the club before he arrived at the Browncliffes’ ball.

  ‘So now we know where he went immediately before the dance, and where he got tight,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to know where he went between leaving the house and arriving at Skeffington’s.’