Murder of a Snob (15 page)

The arrival of the waitress gave her time for reflection. Benscombe observed that she was quietly dressed in a tailormade, and looked like a business girl in difficulties.

“I don't see how I've broken the law.”

“In strict confidence, Glenda, we don't care tuppence whether you've broken the law or not. For other reasons, we intend to have the whole story of that cheque.” He added: “We shan't give you away to Fenchurch.”

“Oh well, then!” On her lips the phrase meant that she would comply, but in her own way. “Arthur was as mean as they make 'em but he always expected me to be decently dressed and keep the housekeeping down.

“There was something going on between him and Watlington, and I don't know yet what it was, on Arthur's side. We used to live in Hampstead. As soon as he heard that Watlington was coming to the Lodge, Arthur took that flat so as to be near, had it all fitted up as if he meant to stay there for years.

“After we'd settled in, and only a few days before Watlington turned up at the Lodge, a man came to see me one night when Arthur was at a party. Not a gentleman—oily sort of man. It came out he wanted to know whether I knew anything about Arthur and a Miss Claudia Lofting. Well, I didn't. But I knew there'd been a Claudia because more than once, when he was sleepy and absent-minded and a bit drunk, he had called me Claudia. The oily man got that much out of me before he went.

“He turned up again about a week ago and said Lord Watlington wanted to see me privately. Well, I said I wouldn't go, and then I did, he was so pressing about it and saying it would be to my advantage.

“Watlington dragged out of me about Arthur calling me Claudia. It pleased him and he called me a good kid, which I thought common, coming from a real lord, as I understood he was. Then he got on to asking me whether there were any letters in the flat from the real Claudia, thinking I'd know. He was a very coarse man—asking that sort of question.

“As a matter of fact, I did happen to know there were some letters. Arthur kept them tied up in one of those tin boxes, like lawyers have. Only, the lock didn't work and I had a perfect right to look there one day when a man came to the door with a bill which Arthur'd given me no money to pay. There wasn't any money in the box—only these letters signed ‘Claudia,' and some oddments.

“So Lord Watlington said he'd give me five hundred for the letters if they were any good to him, which of course I knew they would be. Come to that, I was surprised at a real lady writing like that to a man she wasn't married to. And Watlington said how he'd pay me and what was to be done, just as I told you the other night, only I said diamonds and it was really those letters. I daresay you think it was mean of me. But you don't know Arthur. And what I say is that a girl has to look after herself.”

“Quite right, Glenda!” applauded Benscombe. “You're doing fine. Did you leave Arthur suddenly because he found out what you'd done?”

“He didn't find out I'd done it, but I was afraid he would,” she admitted. “It seems luck was against me from the start. First thing, there came a letter from Miss Lofting on the very Saturday morning—day before yesterday—I could see it was from her though I didn't read it, as I knew the handwriting. He read the letter over breakfast, then put it in his pocket and went straight to that tin box. She must have asked him to burn her letters or something. Anyhow, he came back looking very ugly. ‘Glenda,' he says, ‘have you been to my deed box?'

“I made out that if he had lost anything it was probably when we moved, as the box wasn't locked, and he seemed to believe it. But he didn't do any work that morning, and after lunch he said, same as I told you, that he was going round to see Ralph Cornboise.

“I didn't see him again until about ten that night. When he came in he stared at me, almost as if he was trying to think who I was. Then he said: ‘Watlington is dead. Puts us in a tight spot.' I thought he meant he'd lose the money for painting his lordship's portrait, as he didn't tell me about it being murder.

“Of course, I was worrying about my cheque. And when I thought Arthur had settled down to drink himself sleepy, I slipped round. That policeman in the hall told me I'd have to wait. I was a bit put out when Miss Lofting came up to me, all pleasant. She had heard me give the name of ‘Mrs. Fenchurch' and she asked me if I'd mind taking Arthur's sketch book back, as he'd left it. It's a posh book in art leather covers, with his monogram. He carries it in a special pocket to make line-notes when he can borrow a pencil, as he never remembers to carry one himself. I said I didn't mind, but I did mind, because I didn't want Arthur to know where I'd been.

“When I got back to the flat I just had time to hide the sketch book when he popped out of the studio. He asked me where I'd been, but he didn't listen to the answer. He said: ‘When I left here after lunch, did I tell you where I was going?' And I said: ‘Yes, you told me you were going to Watlington Lodge.' He said: ‘Forget it. I changed my mind and went for a walk by the river, because it was too hot to sleep.' I remembered how you'd wheedled the truth out of me on the phone, so I said: ‘I wouldn't say that if I were you. Ralph might give you away.' And he got ugly again and he said: ‘I wasn't asking you for advice.' And then—well, I think that's all that matters.”

“No, it isn't,” said Benscombe. “Keep going.”

“I don't like to,” she simpered. “He started talking about my face.”

“Let's have it,” prompted Benscombe. “It's waste to be shy of me when I'm on duty.”

“Well, I'm only telling you what
he
said, mind! ‘Your saccharin prettiness,' he said, ‘which you're so proud of, depends on the balance of your features.' Of course, being an artist he says things like that, and he knows all about women's dress, which is awkward sometimes. Only I'm sure nobody could call me proud.”

While Benscombe was trying to fit it in, she continued:

“‘A comparatively light blow with the open hand,' he says, ‘would give you a cauliflower ear. Then you'd look like a prizefighter's auntie, and no one would notice your legs. And that's what you'll get if you tell anybody I was going to Watlington Lodge'.”

Glenda broke off and tapped the table. “It's no use you looking as if you thought he'd committed the murder,” she warned him, “because I happen to know he was counting on Lord Watlington's money for the picture. It's my belief the talk about Ralph was just a blind, and he was really going to see Miss Lofting and he didn't want it talked about.”

That was one to Glenda. By an unguarded expression he had stopped her in mid-stream. He remembered Fenchurch's rot about admiring her vanity.

“I think you're right, Glenda. And it's obvious you can read that feller's mind like an open book. But why did you walk out on him?”

“That was your fault, getting me to say what I did on the telephone. I knew it would be sure to come out sooner or later, and Arthur would know. You see, artists know a lot about what the body is made of. And of course, I don't think I'm at all pretty and no one else does, and, besides, it's a silly word. But I've seen a girl with a cauliflower ear. So I quarrelled a bit and said I'd had enough and I was going to pack and I did pack, and I slipped away by an early train while he was sleeping it off.”

Benscombe decided that her words rang true. She might be a spineless little cheat, but she was very unsubtle. He remembered how feeble had been her attempt to lie to the Chief.

“If you'll give me your address, we probably shan't trouble you again,” he said. “And you needn't worry about Fenchurch. As a matter of fact, you don't know that he did go to Watlington Lodge until about dinner time.”

“I may not know, but I'm sure, all the same,” she retorted. “For one thing, there was all that fuss he made about telling me what to say about the river. And for another, while he was storming about at night and saying what he'd do to my face, I saw one of those funny pencils of Lord Watlington's, sticking out of his top pocket, which wasn't there when he left the flat.”

That was a point, thought Benscombe. Not one of the dinner guests had been permitted to enter the house after the arrival of the police. Fenchurch had not entered until he had been escorted to the interview with Crisp.

But Glenda did not know this, and he was not going to tell her.

“But he might have picked that pencil up when he was there at dinner time. After all, he had his sketch book with him.”

“I never thought of that,” said Glenda indifferently.

In order to be ready for the Coroner's inquest at eleven, the Chief Constable had to start work at eight—beginning with the wire basket on his desk marked ‘urgent,' now overflowing. True that all reports went into that basket, even those which merely confirmed earlier reports. But as a check-up by one man would sometimes affect the report of another, the sorting could only be undertaken by a principal.

Among the new reports was one—marked ‘N,' meaning negative—which concerned the missing registered package delivered at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon. Beyond stating that the package had been dispatched at 10.30 a.m. on Saturday from the Western District Office, the officials could not help. There had been the usual queue at the counter, and the clerk was unable to remember even the sex of the sender.

That registered package, in short, promised to become a first class nuisance. It was but one of a score of trifles that had to be checked, on the minute chance of something important emerging.

“Probably somebody knocked it off the table in the hall and later one of the waiters spotted it and mopped it up—which means an expensive check-up,” reflected Crisp. He was already using a lot of men on the case and would soon have to use more.

Another new report contained a duplicate copy of the ticket handed to every patron of the car park at the Three Witches, showing that a Reindert two-seater, registered number noted, had been parked by Mr. Cornboise at five forty-six. A covering note by the constable explained that the time stated could be taken as being within a minute of the actual time of arrival. Pinned to it was Benscombe's note estimating eight minutes for the journey. Given that Ralph had left Watlington Lodge not later than five-twenty, that left a margin of some sixteen minutes to be accounted for.

From a bulging pocket, Crisp brought out a wad of unused postcards, secured with a rubber band. On the topmost was his own private chart of the peak features of the case.

Querk was assumed to have left the library at five twenty-eight, some eight minutes after Mrs. Cornboise had seen Ralph depart in the Reindert.

Suppose Ralph had driven to a point, say, a couple of minutes walk from the house—and then come back? Assuming that he could have entered the house unobserved by Mrs. Cornboise, he would have had at least five minutes for the murder and two minutes in which to return to the car—leaving eight minutes for the journey to the Three Witches car park. He wrote a slip for Benscombe on the points to be checked.

At ten-thirty he was revising the notes of the evidence to be given at the inquest, when an orderly reported that the Registrar would like a word with the Chief Constable.

Crisp's guess as to the Registrar's business was proved correct.

“Young Cornboise, the old man's heir, and a Miss Lofting were in my office five minutes ago giving statutory notice. I'm to marry them to-day week. It seems a bit surprising in the circumstances, and I thought you might like to know before it gets about.”

“Officially, of course, it's no affair of ours,” said Crisp.

The Registrar nodded. “I came for my own sake as much as yours, Colonel. As you know, we're supposed to keep our eyes open. And I didn't quite like the look of those two! I wondered whether you'd give a tip, off the record. Is young Cornboise a sane man?”

“Difficult to give you a straight answer,” replied Crisp. “He's neurotic. He did some funny business with us—though we're not taking any action about it. His friends called in Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist. He might give you some information. Anyhow, I think she is a bit frightened about his mental condition, and that's why she's marrying him at once.”

“She's marrying him all right!” said the Registrar. “Practically led him in—it was like the music hall joke, except that she's not the man-chasing type. All the same, she pushed him and prompted him, told him his name and address—”

“Was he as bad as that!”

“Oh not really, I suppose. But when I asked him his name he glared at me. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Possibly Cornboise, possibly Watlington.' Then he laughed like a hyena. ‘That's a knotty point of law, Mr. Registrar, with more in it than meets the eye,' he said. I explained the legal difference between a name and a title, and that they could leave the title out if they wanted to, and that seemed to please her. I suppose, as far as you know, she isn't ‘dominating' him is she? Those cases always mean a lot of bother for us. Especially when there's a peerage and a good deal of money hanging to it.”

“I don't think she is ‘dominating' him within the meaning of the Act.”

The interview satisfied the Registrar, but left Crisp uneasy.

“She ought to have seen the folly of rushing it like this!” ran his thoughts. “The newspapers will make a splash. Also, it throws the whole thing out of focus for us. And it's bound to upset the coroner's jury.”

He snatched up the house telephone and rang the head of the legal department.

“There's been a new development,” he announced. “I want you to stall the inquest. Go all out for formal evidence only, and a fortnight's adjournment.”

A coroner rarely refuses a police request for adjournment. The actual hearing occupied but a few minutes. While Crisp was giving the formal evidence as to the finding of the body, his eye lit on the bench of witnesses—who would not be called. The Big Three and Bessie Walters. Ralph whispered to Claudia, then, at a nod from her, crept out of court.