The Sittaford Mystery Read online

The Superintendent nodded his comprehension.

  “Well, it’s odd, but it doesn’t get us anywhere,” was his conclusion.

  “Then I’ll take the 1:45 to London.”

  The other nodded.

  On arrival in town Narracott went straight to 21 Cromwell Street. Mr. Pearson, he was told, was at the office. He would be back for certain about seven o’clock.

  Narracott nodded carelessly as though the information were of no value to him.

  “I’ll call back if I can,” he said. “It’s nothing of importance,” and departed quickly without leaving a name.

  He decided not to go to the Insurance Office, but to visit Wimbledon instead and have an interview with Mrs. Martin Dering, formerly Miss Sylvia Pearson.

  There were no signs of shabbiness about The Nook. “New and shoddy,” was how Inspector Narracott described it to himself.

  Mrs. Dering was at home. A rather pert-looking maid dressed in lilac colour showed him into a rather overcrowded drawing room. He gave her his official card to take to her mistress.

  Mrs. Dering came to him almost immediately, his card in her hand.

  “I suppose you have come about poor Uncle Joseph,” was her greeting. “It’s shocking—really shocking! I am so dreadfully nervous of burglars myself. I had two extra bolts put on the back door last week, and new patent catches on the windows.”

  Sylvia Dering, the Inspector knew from Mrs. Gardner, was only twenty-five, but she looked considerably over thirty. She was small and fair and anaemic-looking, with a worried and harassed expression. Her voice had that faintly complaining note in it which is about the most annoying sound a human voice can contain. Still not allowing the Inspector to speak, she went on:

  “If there’s anything I can do to help you in any way, of course, I shall be only too glad to do so, but one hardly ever saw Uncle Joseph. He wasn’t a very nice man—I am sure he couldn’t have been. Not the sort of person one could go to in trouble, always carping and criticizing. Not the sort of man who had any knowledge of what literature meant. Success—true success is not always measured in terms of money, Inspector.”

  At last she paused, and the Inspector, to whom those remarks had opened certain fields of conjecture, was given his turn to speak.

  “You’ve heard of the tragedy very quickly, Mrs. Dering.”

  “Aunt Jennifer wired it to me.”

  “I see.”

  “But I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Dreadful, isn’t it?”

  “I gather you’ve not seen your uncle of late years.”

  “I have only seen him twice since my marriage. On the second occasion he was really very rude to Martin. Of course he was a regular philistine in every way—devoted to sport. No appreciation, as I said just now, of literature.”

  “Husband applied to him for a loan and got refused,” was Inspector Narracott’s private comment on the situation.

  “Just as a matter of form, Mrs. Dering, will you tell me what your movements were yesterday afternoon?”

  “My movements? What a very queer way of putting it, Inspector. I played bridge most of the afternoon and a friend came in and spent the evening with me, as my husband was out.”

  “Out, was he? Away from home altogether?”

  “A literary dinner,” explained Mrs. Dering with importance. “He lunched with an American publisher and had this dinner in the evening.”

  “I see.”

  That seemed quite fair and aboveboard. He went on.

  “Your younger brother is in Australia, I believe, Mrs. Dering?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have his address?”

  “Oh, yes, I can find it for you if you wish—rather a peculiar name—I’ve forgotten it for the minute. Somewhere in New South Wales.”

  “And now, Mrs. Dering, your elder brother?”

  “Jim?”

  “Yes. I shall want to get in touch with him.”

  Mrs. Dering hastened to supply him with the address—the same as that which Mrs. Gardner had already given him.

  Then, feeling there was no more to be said on either side, he cut the interview short.

  Glancing at his watch, he noted that by the time he had returned to town it would be seven o’clock—a likely time, he hoped, for finding Mr. James Pearson at home.

  The same superior-looking, middle-aged woman opened the door of No. 21. Yes, Mr. Pearson was at home now. It was on the second floor, if the gentleman would walk up.

  She preceded him, tapped at a door, and in a murmured and apologetic voice said: “The gentleman to see you, sir.” Then, standing back, she allowed the Inspector to enter.

  A young man in evening dress was standing in the middle of the room. He was good-looking, indeed handsome, if you took no account of the rather weak mouth and the irresolute slant of the eye. He had a haggard, worried look and an air of not having had much sleep of late.

  He looked inquiringly at the Inspector as the latter advanced.

  “I am Detective Inspector Narracott,” he began—but got no further.

  With a hoarse cry the young man dropped onto a chair, flung his arms out in front of him on the table, bowing his head on them and muttering:

  “Oh! my God! It’s come.”

  After a minute or two he lifted his head and said, “Well, why don’t you get on with it, man?”

  Inspector Narracott looked exceedingly stolid and unintelligent.

  “I am investigating the death of your uncle, Captain Joseph Trevelyan. May I ask you, sir, if you have anything to say?”

  The young man rose slowly to his feet and said in a low strained voice:

  “Are you—arresting me?”

  “No, sir, I am not. If I was arresting you I would give you the customary caution. I am simply asking you to account for your movements yesterday afternoon. You may reply to my questions or not as you see fit.”

  “And if I don’t reply to them—it will tell against me. Oh, yes, I know your little ways. You’ve found out then that I was down there yesterday?”

  “You signed your name in the hotel register, Mr. Pearson.”

  “Oh, I suppose there’s no use denying it. I was there—why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Why indeed?” said the Inspector mildly.

  “I went down there to see my uncle.”

  “By appointment?”

  “What do you mean, by appointment?”

  “Did your uncle know you were coming?”

  “I—no—he didn’t. It—it was a sudden impulse.”

  “No reason for it?”

  “I—reason? No—no, why should there be? I—I just wanted to see my uncle.”

  “Quite so, sir. And you did see him?”

  There was a pause—a very long pause. Indecision was written on every feature of the young man’s face. Inspector Narracott felt a kind of pity as he watched him. Couldn’t the boy see that his palpable indecision was as good as an admission of the fact?

  At last Jim Pearson drew a deep breath. “I—I suppose I had better make a clean breast of it. Yes—I did see him. I asked at the station how I could get to Sittaford. They told me it was out of the question. The roads were impassable for any vehicle. I said it was urgent.”

  “Urgent?” murmured the Inspector.

  “I—I wanted to see my uncle very much.”

  “So it seems, sir.”

  “The porter continued to shake his head and say that it was impossible. I mentioned my uncle’s name and at once his face cleared up, and he told me my uncle was actually in Exhampton, and gave me full directions as to how to find the house he had rented.”

  “This was at what time, sir?”

  “About one o’clock, I think. I went to the Inn—the Three Crowns—booked a room and had some lunch there. Then afterwards I—I went out to see my uncle.”

  “Immediately afterwards?”

  “No, not immediately.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Well, I couldn’t say for certain.”


  “Half past three? Four o’clock? Half past four?”

  “I—I—” he stammered worse than ever. “I don’t think it could have been as late as that.”

  “Mrs. Belling, the proprietress, said you went out at half past four.”

  “Did I? I—I think she’s wrong. It couldn’t have been as late as that.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I found my uncle’s house, had a talk with him and came back to the Inn.”

  “How did you get into your uncle’s house?”

  “I rang the bell and he opened the door to me himself.”

  “Wasn’t he surprised to see you?”

  “Yes—yes—he was rather surprised.”

  “How long did you remain with him, Mr. Pearson?”

  “A quarter of an hour—twenty minutes. But look here, he was perfectly all right when I left him. Perfectly all right. I swear it.”

  “And what time did you leave him?”

  The young man lowered his eyes. Again, the hesitation was palpable in his tone, “I don’t know exactly.”

  “I think you do, Mr. Pearson.”

  The assured tone had its effect. The boy replied in a low tone.

  “It was a quarter past five.”

  “You returned to the Three Crowns at a quarter to six. At most it could only take you seven or eight minutes to walk over from your uncle’s house.”

  “I didn’t go straight back. I walked about the town.”

  “In that icy weather—in the snow!”

  “It wasn’t actually snowing then. It came on to snow later.”

  “I see. And what was the nature of your conversation with your uncle?”

  “Oh! nothing in particular. I—I just wanted to talk to the old boy, look him up, that sort of thing, you know.”

  “He’s a poor liar,” thought Inspector Narracott to himself. “Why, I could manage better than that myself.”

  Aloud he said:

  “Very good, sir. Now, may I ask you why, on hearing of your uncle’s murder, you left Exhampton without disclosing your relationship to the murdered man?”

  “I was scared,” said the young man frankly. “I heard he had been murdered round about the time I left him. Now, dash it all, that’s enough to scare anyone, isn’t it? I got the wind up and left the place by the first available train. Oh, I daresay I was a fool to do anything of the sort. But you know what it is when you are rattled. And anyone might have been rattled under these circumstances.”

  “And that’s all you have to say, sir?”

  “Yes—yes, of course.”

  “Then, perhaps you’ll have no objection, sir, to coming round with me and having this statement taken down in writing, after which you will have it read over to you, and you will sign it.”

  “Is—is that all?”

  “I think it possible, Mr. Pearson, that it may be necessary to detain you until after the inquest.”

  “Oh! my God,” said Jim Pearson. “Can nobody help me?”

  At that moment the door opened and a young woman walked into the room.

  She was, as the observant Inspector Narracott noted at once, a very exceptional kind of young woman. She was not strikingly beautiful, but she had a face which was arresting and unusual, a face that having once seen you could not forget. There was about her an atmosphere of common sense, savoir faire, invincible determination and a most tantalizing fascination.

  “Oh! Jim,” she exclaimed. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s all over, Emily,” said the young man. “They think I murdered my uncle.”

  “Who thinks so?” demanded Emily.

  The young man indicated his visitor by a gesture.

  “This is Inspector Narracott,” he said, and he added with a dismal attempt at introduction, “Miss Emily Trefusis.”

  “Oh!” said Emily Trefusis.

  She studied Inspector Narracott with keen hazel eyes.

  “Jim,” she said, “is a frightful idiot. But he doesn’t murder people.”

  The Inspector said nothing.

  “I expect,” said Emily, turning to Jim, “that you’ve been saying the most frightfully imprudent things. If you read the papers a little better than you do, Jim, you would know that you must never talk to policemen unless you have a strong solicitor sitting beside you making objections to every word. What’s happened? Are you arresting him, Inspector Narracott?”

  Inspector Narracott explained technically and clearly exactly what he was doing.

  “Emily,” cried the young man, “you won’t believe I did it? You never will believe it, will you?”

  “No, darling,” said Emily kindly. “Of course not.” And she added in a gentle meditative tone, “You haven’t got the guts.”

  “I don’t feel as if I had a friend in the world,” groaned Jim.

  “Yes, you have,” said Emily. “You’ve got me. Cheer up, Jim, look at the winking diamonds on the third finger of my left hand. Here stands the faithful fiancée. Go with the Inspector and leave everything to me.”

  Jim Pearson rose, still with a dazed expression on his face. His overcoat was lying over a chair and he put it on. Inspector Narracott handed him a hat which was lying on a bureau near by. They moved towards the door and the Inspector said politely:

  “Good evening, Miss Trefusis.”

  “Au revoir, Inspector,” said Emily sweetly.

  And if he had known Miss Emily Trefusis better he would have known that in these three words lay a challenge.

  Eleven

  EMILY SETS TO WORK

  The inquest on the body of Captain Trevelyan was held on Monday morning. From the point of view of sensation it was a tame affair, for it was almost immediately adjourned for a week, thus disappointing large numbers of people. Between Saturday and Monday Exhampton had sprung into fame. The knowledge that the dead man’s nephew had been detained in connection with the murder made the whole affair spring from a mere paragraph in the back pages of the newspapers to gigantic headlines. On the Monday, reporters had arrived at Exhampton in large numbers. Mr. Charles Enderby had reason once more to congratulate himself on the superior position he had obtained from the purely fortuitous chance of the football competition prize.

  It was the journalist’s intention to stick to Major Burnaby like a leech, and under the pretext of photographing the latter’s cottage, to obtain exclusive information of the inhabitants of Sittaford and their relationship with the dead man.

  It did not escape Mr. Enderby’s notice that at lunchtime a small table near the door was occupied by a very attractive girl. Mr. Enderby wondered what she was doing in Exhampton. She was well dressed in a demure and provocative style, and did not appear to be a relation of the deceased, and still less could be labelled as one of the idle curious.

  “I wonder how long she’s staying?” thought Mr. Enderby. “Rather a pity I am going up to Sittaford this afternoon. Just my luck. Well, you can’t have it both ways, I suppose.”

  But shortly after lunch, Mr. Enderby received an agreeable surprise. He was standing on the steps of the Three Crowns observing the fast-melting snow, and enjoying the sluggish rays of wintry sunshine, when he was aware of a voice, an extremely charming voice, addressing him.

  “I beg your pardon—but could you tell me—if there is anything to see in Exhampton?”

  Charles Enderby rose to the occasion promptly.

  “There’s a castle, I believe,” he said. “Not much to it—but there it is. Perhaps you would allow me to show you the way to it.”

  “That would be frightfully kind of you,” said the girl. “If you are sure you are not too busy—”

  Charles Enderby disclaimed immediately the notion of being busy.

  They set out together.

  “You are Mr. Enderby, aren’t you?” said the girl.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Mrs. Belling pointed you out to me.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “My name is Emily Tref
usis. Mr. Enderby—I want you to help me.”

  “To help you?” said Enderby. “Why, certainly—but—”

  “You see, I am engaged to Jim Pearson.”

  “Oh!” said Mr. Enderby, journalistic possibilities rising before his mind.

  “And the police are going to arrest him. I know they are. Mr. Enderby, I know that Jim didn’t do this thing. I am down here to prove he didn’t. But I must have someone to help me. One can’t do anything without a man. Men know so much, and are able to get information in so many ways that are simply impossible to women.”

  “Well—I—yes, I suppose that is true,” said Mr. Enderby complacently.

  “I was looking at all these journalists this morning,” said Emily. “Such a lot of them I thought had such stupid faces. I picked you out as the one really clever one among them.”

  “Oh! I say. I don’t think that’s true, you know,” said Mr. Enderby still more complacently.

  “What I want to propose,” said Emily Trefusis, “is a kind of partnership. There would, I think, be advantages on both sides. There are certain things I want to investigate—to find out about. There you in your character of journalist can help me. I want—”

  Emily paused. What she really wanted was to engage Mr. Enderby as a kind of private sleuth of her own. To go where she told him, to ask the questions she wanted asked, and in general to be a kind of bond slave. But she was aware of the necessity of couching these proposals in terms at once flattering and agreeable. The whole point was that she was to be the boss, but the matter needed managing tactfully.

  “I want,” said Emily, “to feel that I can depend upon you.”

  She had a lovely voice, liquid and alluring. As she uttered the last sentence a feeling rose in Mr. Enderby’s bosom that this lovely helpless girl could depend upon him to the last ditch.

  “It must be ghastly,” said Mr. Enderby, and taking her hand he squeezed it with fervour.

  “But you know,” he went on with a journalistic reaction, “my time is not entirely my own. I mean, I have got to go where I am sent, and all that.”

  “Yes,” said Emily. “I have thought of that, and that you see is where I come in. Surely I am what you call a ‘scoop,’ aren’t I? You can do an interview with me every day, you can make me say anything that you think your readers will like. Jim Pearson’s fiancée. Girl who believes passionately in his innocence. Reminiscences of his childhood which she supplies. I don’t really know about his childhood, you know,” she added, “but that doesn’t matter.”