The White Cottage Mystery (2 page)

‘The big grey building next door.'

‘Did he live there alone – no wife, no servants?'

‘No wife, but servants. His valet is in the next room,' said the inspector, his thick voice sounding unexpectedly in the silence that followed the question. ‘I had him brought over as soon as I came.'

‘Very wise, Inspector,' said W.T.; ‘I think we'll have him in at once, constable.'

The policeman disappeared, to return a moment or so later with an untidy man. His small eyes were pale and there was a crop of unattractive dampish yellow-grey hair about his face and chin.

He came creeping in, the policeman's hand on his shoulder as if he were already arrested, and paused before the table without looking up.

The detective sat looking at him in silence for some seconds, his bright eyes grown keen and piercing. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him: ‘Clarry Gale!' he said.

The man winced and his eyes flickered as he glanced at the detective before him.

The next moment a timorous smile spread over his face.

‘W.T.!' he murmured. ‘What a miracle! ‘Ow are you, guv'nor?'

The detective did not smile.

‘What are you calling yourself now?' he inquired.

‘William Lacy, sir.'

‘Good! Take all this down in shorthand, Jerry, will you? … All right, Gale, don't get alarmed; you shall have your dues. Now answer me. How long have you been in Crowther's employ?'

‘Ten years.'

The words were spoken with such a world of feeling that every eye in the room was turned upon the speaker instantly.

Even the ‘Greyhound' seemed surprised.

‘Ten years?' he said. ‘That's ever since you came out of Wormwood Scrubs isn't it? Did he know your record?'

The man who called himself William Lacy nodded.

‘Yes.'

‘You've been going straight for ten years, then?'

‘Yes.'

‘I must congratulate you, Gale.' The detective was plainly puzzled, but he questioned the man no further about himself. When next he spoke it was to talk of the dead man.

‘How long has Crowther had the “Dene”?'

‘About six years.'

‘Has he known the Christensens all that time?'

‘
And
before.'

The detective nodded understandingly.

‘You would call them old friends of his, then,' he said. ‘He knew them well enough to walk into this house without knocking?'

‘He did that with most people 'e knew,' declared Gale. ‘No one wouldn't'ave the nerve to stop ‖im coming in anywhere, if they wanted him or if they didn't.'

The detective looked up sharply.

‘What kind of a man was he?' he said. ‘Was he well liked in the neighbourhood?'

With an expression of hatred made all the more horrible by
the weakness of the face it clothed, Clarry Gale drew in a long whistling breath through his discoloured teeth.

‘He was a devil,' he said, and he spoke fervently and as though he had made no exaggeration.

A flicker of interest passed over the faces of the four listeners, and the detective continued:

‘Do you know why he came across here today?'

‘To find Mrs Christensen.'

‘Do you know why he wanted her?'

‘He'd been waiting for her since half past three and she didn't come.'

‘Did Mrs Christensen often visit Crowther?'

‘No. He'd often taken her into New Campington in his car, but she never came to the “Dene” alone, although I know he was always fidgeting her to. I took a note over to her this morning, though, and 'e told me 'e was expecting 'er this afternoon.'

‘Did he seem angry when he left the “Dene?” '

‘'E was never angry – 'e was just laughin', curse 'im.'

‘And that was the last you saw of him alive?' continued the detective.

Gale nodded.

‘It was,' he said, and with something strangely like relief in his voice.

W.T. paused for a moment, then he looked up.

‘Well, that will do. I'll send for you again later. Oh, by the way – just one thing. How many other servants are there over at the “Dene” beside you?'

‘Only the cook,' said the man, hesitating in the doorway. ‘Nice old party she is, by name of Fisher, Mrs Elsie Fisher.'

‘I see. There were only you three living at the “Dene”, then.'

‘Yes, sir, only us three and Mr Cellini.'

The detective pricked up his ears.

‘Mr Cellini?' he inquired. ‘Who's he?'

‘The Italian chap what lived with the guv'nor.'

‘His companion?'

‘Something of that sort.'

‘I see. And this man is an Italian. Was he on equal footing with your master? I mean was he in the position of a friend?'

‘Oh no, they weren't
friends
.'

There was the ghost of a smile on the old lag's face, and the detective glanced at him sharply.

‘What do you mean by that?' he demanded.

Clarry Gale sneered.

‘'E 'adn't no
friends,
' he said. ‘Mr Cellini felt the same towards 'im as most of us, I reckon.'

‘And how was that?'

‘'E ‘ated 'im!'

There was an almost ferocious intensity in the man's voice, and the detective sat back in his chair.

‘You yourself, of course, have a pretty strong alibi, I suppose, Gale?' he said.

‘Me? I been with Mrs Fisher in the kitchen ever since lunch.'

A faint smile appeared on the detective's face.

‘So I imagined,' he said. ‘If you hadn't your animosity towards your late employer might have been misunderstood. However – where is Mr Cellini now?'

‘Over in his room, I expec'. 'E spends most of 'is time in there when 'e can get away from the guv'nor.'

‘You didn't see him before you came out?'

‘No, I ain't set eyes on him all the arternoon.'

‘Very well; that'll do for the present; but go over to the “Dene” and ask Mr Cellini to come across as I'd like to speak to him. Oh, and Gale – don't say anything to Mrs Fisher when you're there. Just come straight back with Cellini.'

‘Righto, sir.'

On the last word the man turned and disappeared from the room with as much alacrity as ever a discharged offender stepped from the dock.

As the door closed behind him, W.T. took a deep breath.

‘That was curious,' he said. ‘That man was one of the most incorrigible old rogues on the books fifteen years ago. We'd lost sight of him, and now he turns up here with ten years'
employment behind him, a murdered master, and an alibi. I think the next person to interview is Mrs Christensen.'

The detective rose from his chair as the door opened and Mrs Christensen and the constable came in.

Jerry recognized her as the woman who had screamed to the policeman not to go to the murdered man when they were all in the hall.

Grace Christensen was very pale and there were dark hollows under her eyes. She seemed much more composed now, however, and took the chair the detective set for her with a certain dignity.

W.T. fussed round her in a way that was peculiarly his own, behaving more like an old family doctor than a detective on a murder trail.

‘Now,' he said at last when he had satisfied himself that she was comfortable and entirely at her ease, ‘I don't wish to distress you, Mrs Christensen, but it would be of great assistance to me if you would tell just exactly what happened this afternoon. Don't hurry or excite yourself in any way; let us have the facts.'

The woman raised her eyes to his and spoke very softly.

‘I was in the garden,' she said, ‘weeding round the far side of the house; my baby was with me. I noticed a storm coming up, and I gathered up my tools, preparing to go in. I had just got them all together when I heard the shot. It was so near that I knew it must be in the house, and I ran round to see what it was. The french windows in the dining-room were open, and I went in. The gun was lying on the table, and on the floor, the other side, was … Oh, it's too terrible to think of!' She covered her face with her hands as if to block out the sight of a horror that was still before her.

W.T. leant across the table and patted her arm soothingly.

‘Never mind,' he said. ‘Don't think of it. Now tell me, did you know Mr Crowther well?'

The woman looked up, a faintly scared expression in her eyes.

‘He was our nearest neighbour – he used to come in to see us fairly often,' she said at last.

The detective nodded understandingly.

‘He used to run in and out as he liked?' he said.

She nodded eagerly.

‘Yes, that was it.'

‘But you didn't go to see him in the same way?'

The scared expression returned.

‘No,' she said.

The detective smiled encouragingly, his face becoming more benign and fatherly at every moment.

‘How was that?'

The woman paused for a while before she replied.

‘Mr Crowther was a curious man, Mr Challoner,' she said at last, and hesitated.

‘You and your husband were not so fond of him as he was of you, perhaps?' suggested the detective.

‘Mr Crowther was not a likeable man,' she said stiffly.

There was silence for a moment or two, and then the detective leaned across the table.

‘Mrs Christensen,' he said, ‘believe me, I am only trying to get to the bottom of this affair to save future unpleasantness and bother. So tell me, was your husband – jealous of Mr Crowther?'

The woman hung her head, but she did not answer, and the detective continued:

‘Had he any cause?'

Still she did not reply, and he went on speaking slowly.

‘You had a note from Crowther this morning asking you to go across to the “Dene” this afternoon. Why didn't you keep that appointment?'

The woman stared at him, her eyes wide and horror-stricken.

‘Who told – ' she began hysterically.

‘Does it matter?' interrupted W.T. gently. ‘Now listen, Mrs Christensen. There is no need for you to answer my questions unless you like – you are not in a court of law. But there will be an inquest, and in your own interest it would be best for you to tell all you can about this affair.'

The woman looked at him for a minute.

‘I'll tell you,' she said impulsively, and continued breathlessly as if she could not speak quickly enough.

‘Eric Crowther knew me before I married, and the year after
my baby was born he came to live at the “Dene”, next door. Since then he has done nothing but pester me with his attentions. Naturally I did not return them. I love my husband, but I could never escape Crowther – never shake him off. I could not forbid him the house without my husband becoming suspicious, and I had no wish for that. The last month or so he has become more persistent, and I have been at my wits' end to keep my husband from guessing the truth. This morning I had a note from him demanding that I should go over there this afternoon. I took no notice of it. The rest I have already told you.'

There was silence in the room for a moment after her voice had died away, then the detective spoke.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Christensen,' he said, ‘but – wouldn't it have been simpler to tell your husband all about Mr Crowther's pursuit of you in the first place?'

‘Oh no … I couldn't do that – never – never!' There was such insistence in her voice that a suspicion that she had not yet told the whole truth sprang instantly into the minds of her listeners.

The detective hesitated.

‘Mrs Christensen,' he said, ‘the situation is a difficult one. You suggest that your life was made a burden to you by this man. You had a note from him this morning, you ignored it; he came across to your house presumably to fetch you – you
say
you hear a shot and go in to find him dead, but what can I think?'

The woman sat up suddenly in her chair and stared at him, her eyes glazing with surprise.

‘You don't think – I – ?' she whispered. ‘Oh, it's too monstrous! You can't – you don't – '

‘Calm yourself, my dear lady. Nothing has been said at all yet,' said W.T., his fatherly manner returning; but the woman was terrified, and she spoke wildly.

‘But you can't think of such a thing!' she insisted. ‘Why, my baby was with me the whole time – she can tell you I didn't leave the garden for some moments after the shot was fired. Send for her – ask her – she'll tell you.'

The old detective understood her mood too well to refuse her, and he despatched the constable for the child.

She waited until he returned, her head held high but the shadow of fear still lurking in her blue eyes.

A few minutes later the door opened and the red-headed policeman ushered in a tall gaunt woman of sixty-five or so, who bore in her arms a sturdy little pig-tailed girl in a flannel nightgown.

W.T. smiled at her.

‘Bring the baby here a moment, please,' he said.

The woman looked at him fiercely, and he was conscious that her black eyes were suspicious and hostile.

He held out his arms for the child, however, and unwillingly she gave her to him.

W.T. set the little creature on his knee, where she sat solemnly staring at him with the blank impenetrable eyes of five years old.

‘What's your name?' he demanded, smiling at her blandly.

‘Joan Alice,' said she after some hesitation.

‘A nice name,' said the detective. ‘Now, Joan Alice, you were in the garden this evening with your mother, weren't you?'

The child did not reply and the nervous woman on the other side of the table leant across to her eagerly.

‘Tell him, darling,' she said, striving vainly to keep the anxiety out of her tone; ‘you remember being in the garden with Mummy this evening – you remember when we pulled up the weeds so that the flowers could grow – '