Ten Star Clues (14 page)

“I think so sir,” agreed Bobby. “That slipped out very much as if he had actually seen Mr. Longden and noticed something in his attitude that suggested the act of prayer. Probably if he did he would think it awfully funny and weak minded and remember it. But even if he were there and did leave those footprints and cigarette ends, it doesn't prove he was the murderer. He is badly frightened certainly, but innocent people are often that, if they think appearances are against them.”

“Can there be anything in his nasty little hint about Miss Longden and the earl?”

“I think we must try to follow it up,” Bobby said. “There may have been gossip; spiteful, unfounded gossip very likely. The more spiteful and the more unfounded, the better some people like gossip. It's just possible some such talk came to Mr. Longden's ears. It's just possible that he saw a woman entering the library from the terrace. If so, he may have thought at first it was the countess and then been afraid it was Miss Sophy or at any rate felt he must make sure. That doubt might explain his prayer for guidance. If he did try to make sure, a quarrel may have resulted. And it is a fact that Mr. Longden knew there was an automatic in the estate office safe and either by accident or design the key of the safe was in his possession at the time of the murder.”

“Put like that, I don't much like it,” the colonel said slowly. He shook his head. “Father avenging injured daughter's honour,” he said doubtfully. “Take a lot to make that go down with a modern jury. Generally it's not so much murder as an action for damages. And I don't see Longden as a murderer. Still, I suppose you never know.”

“No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “For that matter, the primitive instincts are pretty strong in some of us still. Scratch the civilized, conventional man, and you find the primaeval underneath.”

The door opened. A constable appeared. He had brought the report of the Wakefield finger expert. Among other matters of less interest, it stated that a clear imprint, the last made, on the switch controlling the wireless set, was that of Miss Sophy Longden. Another print, less clearly defined, but still recognizable as hers, seemed also to have been the last made on the handle of the library door.

“And what,” said Colonel Glynne, when he had studied this report, “what are we to make of that?” Bobby said nothing, for the good reason that he had nothing to say. In the minds of both men was a memory of Sophy as they had seen her only a little before. Small, gentle, shy, with large, frightened eyes and a tendency to slip away unperceived on the first opportunity. An odd, incongruous figure to crop up in the middle of a murder investigation. One could imagine her clinging trustfully to some strong man's arm. One could imagine her gravely intent on arranging the flowers in the drawingroom or wrinkling that smooth, white forehead of hers over some difficult question of which hat went best with which frock. But to suppose a connection between that dainty little figure and the grim business of murder, seemed more difficult. Yet there were these finger-prints to be accounted for!

“A pretty little thing, too,” the colonel said abruptly.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. He had thought so himself when he had seen her with Olive, and Olive had said later on that even though one was apt to overlook her at first, because she was so small and of such quiet, retiring ways, yet her looks took her very nearly into the rare class of beauty. No doubt two or three inches more of height would have been an advantage. “Still, even pretty little things...” he said and paused, not caring to complete the sentence.

“Of course, of course,” the colonel said. “We must hear what she has to say. It does seem to fit in rather uncomfortably with Arthur Hoyle's hints and with Mr. Longden's own story. Worrying about those keys, too, and that estate automatic. If Longden saw someone he thought was a woman, went to make sure, found it was his own girl... well, there you are.”

“It might be like that,” admitted Bobby uncomfortably. “Only if Mr. Longden had the Wych estate automatic with him, then it would appear premeditated.”

“We don't know what weapon was used,” Glynne pointed out. “Ralph Hoyle seems confident his must be still in the estate office safe. For that matter, the pistol actually used may have belonged to Earl Wych himself. I can't remember if he had a licence for a pistol. If he had, it will be in the Firearms Register. He had licences for several guns, naturally. Owen, are we to attach any importance to what Arthur told us about Longden's having said a prayer?”

“Not the sort of thing it would be any good bringing up in court,” Bobby answered. “Defending counsel would make fun of it, and Hoyle had an explanation ready—as pat as the explanation Martin gave over his knowledge of the cigar. But all that does suggest very strongly to my mind that Martin was hanging about outside the library, though he says he wasn't, and that it was Arthur Hoyle who was watching by the rhododendron bushes. And it seems to me that takes away some of the significance of Miss Longden's finger-prints. It does leave it open whether she was the last person in the room. Either Arthur Hoyle or Martin may have been hanging about, and may have been in here later than Miss Longden.”

“Well, why was she here at all at that time of night?” demanded the colonel irritably. “Martin is the snooping type. He may have been merely eavesdropping out of curiosity. But if it was Arthur Hoyle under the rhododendrons, what was he up to? No good, I'll be bound.”

“I'm afraid it will be difficult to get the truth out of him if he chooses to stick to his motoring story,” Bobby observed.

“A tough customer, one of our hard-faced business men,” pronounced the colonel. He spoke gloomily, and then brightened up. “Luckily,” he said, “it won't be much trouble to get the truth out of the little Longden girl. Girls often lie like blazes, but they soon get scared and all tangled up.”

Bobby made no comment on this pronouncement in feminine psychology. Nor was he altogether in agreement with it. In his experience, some girls could not only ‘lie like blazes', but could also prove themselves very cool and skilful liars. It all depended on the girl. Probably, he thought, it would be nearer the truth to say that when a girl was a good liar, she was very, very good, and when she was bad at it, then she was perfectly hopeless. As in other things, women tended to the extremes. The colonel cleared his throat and said half apologetically:—

“I think, Owen, you had better let me do the questioning this time. It may come a bit better from an older man, get her confidence and that sort of thing. I can tell her I've a daughter myself just about her age. The chief thing will be to avoid frightening her. Once a girl starts crying,” said the colonel profoundly, “you just simply jolly well can't do a thing.”

This time Bobby was in full agreement, and now Sophy appeared in answer to their summons.

A forlorn, scared little figure she did in fact present as she stood there facing the two men, her hands clasped before her, a tremulous quiver at the corners of her mouth, her breathing uneven and hurried.

A very pretty, dainty picture she made, too, with her complexion of cream and roses—roses the country air had recently made to blossom in her cheeks—her large, scared eyes that looked up at them so appealingly from under long, curling lashes any film star would have envied, the perfectly-shaped little nose, the two rows of tiny, even teeth like two rows of well-matched pearls, showing, too, to such advantage now as they parted to let that quick, uneven breath come through.

The shorthand writer, unimpressed, for here he was not so much man as stenographer, opened his notebook and hoped she would speak clearly and not too quickly. He did not know whether he hated most the gabblers or the mumblers, but he did know that the world was almost entirely composed of the one or the other. The stenographer's daily cross. But the colonel was impressed, and indeed began to look so extremely paternal that Bobby half-expected him to get up and welcome Sophy with a kiss—an entirely, completely paternal kiss, of course. Bobby wasn't sorry his superior officer was going to do the questioning. He thoroughly agreed that when a girl, especially an unusually pretty girl, starts crying, it's like being up against a royal flush at poker.

Nothing to be done.

“Please sit down, Miss Longden,” the colonel was saying—cooing would be perhaps a better word to use. “We just want to ask you a few questions about this dreadful business. We won't bother you any more than we can help, because, of course, we all quite understand what a dreadful shock it has been.”

He paused. Sophy did not speak, but Bobby saw how her small hands clasped together before her tightened till the knuckles were white. Her eyes were hidden now, fixed on the floor, concealed behind those long curling lashes. Only a slight movement of the small head showed that she had heard. The colonel continued, still in his most paternal manner:—

“I am sure, my dear young lady, you understand how necessary it is we should know everything that happened last night, even though it may seem quite irrelevant. It's the only way in which we can hope to discover the truth, to bring to justice whoever is guilty of this shocking crime. I know how painful, how distressing it must be to you, but I'm sure you'll be brave and courageous.”

He paused, as inviting a reply. When none came, he said coaxingly:—

“We quite understand how dreadful it is for a young girl like you—a young, sensitive girl—to find herself concerned in any way in such a dreadful business. I'll do my best to help you and you will be brave, won't you?”

“I'll try,” said Sophy in the smallest voice imaginable. The colonel gave what it is hardly an exaggeration to call a triumphant glance at Bobby. It seemed to say:—‘You young fellows may think you score with the girls, but it's us older men they really trust.'

He went on, his voice fairly oozing kindliness and protectiveness and fatherliness:—

“First of all, I've got to explain that everything you are going to tell us will be taken down in writing, and afterwards you'll be asked to sign it to show it's correct. Now, I know that sounds very alarming, but it isn't really, it's only so that we may be able to refer to it if we want to be sure exactly what you did say without having to bother you again with more questions. You do understand, don't you? that anything you can tell us may be used in evidence. That means, you see, my dear,” explained the colonel carefully to the small, demure, listening figure, “you might be asked to go into the witness-box and repeat there on oath what you tell us to-day. And after all I don't suppose you would find it such a dreadful ordeal as I expect it seems now. You do quite understand, don't you?”

This time Sophy nodded, and the colonel thought that little forlorn nod so pathetic he had to clear his throat before he could proceed. He almost wished he had let Bobby do the questioning. It seemed such a shame to have to examine officially this timid unprotected child, so utterly helpless. But it was a duty, and it had to be done. And then really it was better for the questioning to be done by a—well, by a man of so to say mature age, one, too, who was himself a father—rather than by a comparative boy like young Bobby Owen. Besides, he wasn't getting on so badly. That ‘my dear' he had slipped in so naturally, so paternally, had had, he was sure, a most reassuring effect.

“There is one thing more I must explain,” he continued kindly, “you need not answer any question if for any reason you feel you would prefer not to. We can't force you to speak, you know.”

He smiled at the mere idea of applying force to the timid little figure shrinking down in the chair opposite, and the stenographer thought suddenly:—

“Old boy fancies himself with the girls. Why the blazes doesn't he get down to it? I could have squeezed the truth out of her in half a brace of shakes while he's been talking all round the show.” 

“Just one thing more,” the colonel went on, “if you wish you can have a lawyer present to help you. Would you like one?”

“Oh, no,” breathed Sophy very earnestly.

This talkative old gentleman was bad enough, and Bobby Owen was looking very grim, and the presence of the short-hand writer was awfully alarming, but to have a lawyer there, Sophy felt, would simply be altogether too much. So her “oh, no” was heartfelt, and the colonel beamed approval.

“Very well, just as you like,” he said. “I'll repeat. You understand that what you are going to tell us may be used in evidence, that you are under no obligation to answer questions if you prefer not to, and that you can have a lawyer present if you wish it. Now we'll begin, shall we? I want you to start, if you will, with the dinner last night. You were present, I think?”

“If you please,” said Sophy timidly, “if you don't mind, I would rather not say.”

“Eh?” said the colonel, thinking he had not heard correctly.

“Please,” repeated Sophy as timidly as before, “if you really don't mind very much, I would rather not say.”

“But... but...” the colonel said, still paternal, though now slightly less so, “I didn't mean you mustn't answer questions. I meant you needn't, and of course we know already you dined with the others last night.”

“Yes, I know, of course I did really,” Sophy agreed, “only, please, I thought it would be so much easier if I didn't say anything at all about anything.”

“Yes... but... my dear young lady... my dear Miss Longden... you must realize... began the colonel, and paused, not quite knowing what to say next.

“You said I needn't answer if I didn't want, and I don't want,” explained Sophy, “and so I thought it would be simplest if I didn't.” 

The colonel blinked. He supposed he hadn't understood, and he was sure she didn't understand. She was looking straight at him now, through those long curling lashes of hers, looking at him very timidly and also very determinedly. Impossible to convey in words the impression of sheer panic, of distress, of absolute resolution, that she gave. It came rather absurdly into Bobby's mind that against that gentle resolution of hers even the old method of thumbscrew and rack would be equally ineffective. She would have shrunk, she would have wept, but not a word would have been wrenched from her. The colonel was struggling to persuade himself that he had heard aright. The stenographer thought:—