The Sittaford Mystery Read online

  “I think,” said Mr. Enderby, “that you are marvellous. You really are marvellous.”

  “And then,” said Emily pursuing her advantage, “I have access naturally to Jim’s relations. I can get you in there as a friend of mine, where quite possibly you might have the door shut in your face any other way.”

  “Don’t I know that only too well,” said Mr. Enderby with feeling, recalling various rebuffs of the past.

  A glorious prospect opened out before him. He had been in luck over this affair all round. First the lucky chance of the football competition, and now this.

  “It’s a deal,” he said fervently.

  “Good,” said Emily becoming brisk and businesslike. “Now, what’s the first move?”

  “I’m going up to Sittaford this afternoon.”

  He explained the fortunate circumstance which had put him in such an advantageous position with regard to Major Burnaby. “Because, mind you, he is the kind of old buffer that hates newspaper men like poison. But you can’t exactly push a chap in the face who has just handed you £5,000, can you?”

  “It would be awkward,” said Emily. “Well, if you are going to Sittaford, I am coming with you.”

  “Splendid,” said Mr. Enderby. “I don’t know, though, if there’s anywhere to stay up there. As far as I know there’s only Sittaford House and a few old cottages belonging to people like Burnaby.”

  “We shall find something,” said Emily. “I always find something.”

  Mr. Enderby could well believe that. Emily had the kind of personality that soars triumphantly over all obstacles.

  They had arrived by now at the ruined castle, but paying no attention to it, they sat down on a piece of wall in the so-called sunshine and Emily proceeded to develop her ideas.

  “I am looking at this, Mr. Enderby, in an absolutely unsentimental and businesslike way. You’ve got to take it from me to begin with that Jim didn’t do the murder. I’m not saying that simply because I am in love with him, or believe in his beautiful character or anything like that. It’s just well—knowledge. You see I have been on my own pretty well since I was sixteen. I have never come into contact with many women and I know very little about them, but I know a lot about men. And unless a girl can size up a man pretty accurately, and know what she’s got to deal with, she will never get on. I have got on. I work as a mannequin at Lucie’s, and I can tell you, Mr. Enderby, that to arrive there is a Feat.

  “Well, as I was saying, I can size up men pretty accurately. Jim is rather a weak character in many ways. I am not sure,” said Emily, forgetting for a moment her rôle of admirer of strong men, “that that’s not why I like him. The feeling that I can run him and make something of him. There are quite a lot of—well—even criminal things that I can imagine him doing if pushed to it—but not murder. He simply couldn’t pick up a sandbag and hit an old man on the back of the neck with it. He would make a bosh shot and hit him in the wrong place if he did. He is a—he is a gentle creature, Mr. Enderby. He doesn’t even like killing wasps. He always tries to put them out of a window without hurting them and usually gets stung. However, it’s no good my going on like this. You’ve got to take my word for it and start on the assumption that Jim is innocent.”

  “Do you think that somebody is deliberately trying to fasten the crime on him?” asked Charles Enderby in his best journalistic manner.

  “I don’t think so. You see nobody knew about Jim coming down to see his uncle. Of course, one can’t be certain, but I should put that down as just a coincidence and bad luck. What we have to find is someone else with a motive for killing Captain Trevelyan. The police are quite certain that this is not what they call an ‘outside job’—I mean, it wasn’t a burglar. The broken open window was faked.”

  “Did the police tell you all this?”

  “Practically,” said Emily.

  “What do you mean by practically?”

  “The chambermaid told me, and her sister is married to Constable Graves, so, of course, she knows everything the police think.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Enderby, “it wasn’t an outside job. It was an inside one.”

  “Exactly,” said Emily. “The police—that is Inspector Narracott, who, by the way, I should think is an awfully sound man, have started investigating to find who benefits by Captain Trevelyan’s death, and with Jim sticking out a mile, so to speak, they won’t bother to go on with other investigations much. Well, that’s got to be our job.”

  “What a scoop it would be,” said Mr. Enderby, “if you and I discovered the real murderer. The crime expert of the Daily Wire—that’s the way I should be described. But it’s too good to be true,” he added despondently. “That sort of thing only happens in books.”

  “Nonsense,” said Emily, “it happens with me.”

  “You’re simply marvellous,” said Enderby again.

  Emily brought out a little notebook.

  “Now let’s put things down methodically. Jim himself, his brother and sister, and his Aunt Jennifer benefit equally by Captain Trevelyan’s death. Of course Sylvia—that’s Jim’s sister—wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I wouldn’t put it past her husband, he’s what I call a nasty kind of brute. You know—the artistic nasty kind, has affairs with women—all that sort of thing. Very likely to be in a hole financially. The money they’d come into would actually be Sylvia’s, but that wouldn’t matter to him. He would soon manage to get it out of her.”

  “He sounds a most unpleasant person,” said Mr. Enderby.

  “Oh! yes. Good-looking in a bold sort of way. Women talk about sex with him in corners. Real men hate him.”

  “Well, that’s suspect No. 1,” said Mr. Enderby, also writing in a little book. “Investigate his movements on Friday—easily done under the guise of interview with popular novelist connected with the crime. Is that all right?”

  “Splendid,” said Emily. “Then there’s Brian, Jim’s younger brother. He’s supposed to be in Australia, but he might quite easily have come back. I mean, people do sometimes without saying.”

  “We could send him a cable.”

  “We will. I suppose Aunt Jennifer is out of it. From all I’ve heard she’s a rather wonderful person. She’s got character. Still, after all, she wasn’t very far away, she was only at Exeter. She might have come over to see her brother, and he might have said something nasty about her husband whom she adores, and she might have seen red and snatched up a sandbag and biffed him one.”

  “Do you really think so?” said Mr. Enderby dubiously.

  “No, not really. But one never knows. Then, of course, there’s the batman. He only gets £100 under the will and he seems all right. But there again, one never knows. His wife is Mrs. Belling’s niece. You know Mrs. Belling who keeps the Three Crowns. I think I shall weep on her shoulder when I get back. She looks rather a motherly and romantic soul. I think she would be terribly sorry for me with my young man probably going to prison, and she might let slip something useful. And then, of course, there’s Sittaford House. Do you know what struck me as queer?”

  “No, what?”

  “These people, the Willetts. The ones that took Captain Trevelyan’s house furnished in the middle of winter. It’s an awfully queer thing to do.”

  “Yes, it is odd,” agreed Mr. Enderby. “There might be something at the bottom of that—something to do with Captain Trevelyan’s past life.

  “That séance business was queer too,” he added. “I’m thinking of writing that up for the paper. Get opinions from Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and a few actresses and people about it.”

  “What séance business?”

  Mr. Enderby recounted it with gusto. There was nothing connected with the murder that he had not managed somehow or other to hear.

  “Bit odd, isn’t it?” he finished. “I mean, it makes you think and all that. May be something in these things. First time I’ve really ever come across anything authentic.”

  Emily gave a slight shiver
. “I hate supernatural things,” she said. “Just for once, as you say, it does look as though there was something in it. But how—how gruesome!”

  “This séance business never seems very practical, does it? If the old boy could get through and say he was dead, why couldn’t he say who murdered him? It ought to be all so simple.”

  “I feel there may be a clue in Sittaford,” said Emily thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I think we ought to investigate there thoroughly,” said Enderby. “I’ve hired a car and I’m starting there in about half an hour’s time. You had better come along with me.”

  “I will,” said Emily. “What about Major Burnaby?”

  “He’s going to tramp it,” said Enderby. “Started immediately after the inquest. If you ask me, he wanted to get out of having my company on the way there. Nobody could like trudging there through all this slush.”

  “Will the car be able to get up all right?”

  “Oh! yes. First day a car has been able to get through though.”

  “Well,” said Emily rising to her feet. “It’s about time we went back to the Three Crowns, and I will pack my suitcase and do a short weeping act on Mrs. Belling’s shoulder.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Mr. Enderby rather fatuously. “You leave everything to me.”

  “That’s just what I mean to do,” said Emily with a complete lack of truth. “It’s so wonderful to have someone you can really rely on.”

  Emily Trefusis was really a very accomplished young woman.

  Twelve

  THE ARREST

  On her return to the Three Crowns, Emily had the good fortune to run right into Mrs. Belling who was standing in the hallway.

  “Oh! Mrs. Belling,” she exclaimed. “I am leaving this afternoon.”

  “Yes, Miss. By the four ten train to Exeter, Miss?”

  “No, I am going up to Sittaford.”

  “To Sittaford?”

  Mrs. Belling’s countenance showed the most lively curiosity.

  “Yes, and I wanted to ask you if you knew of anywhere there where I could stay.”

  “You want to stay up there?”

  The curiosity was heightened.

  “Yes, that is—Oh! Mrs. Belling, is there somewhere I could speak to you privately for a moment?”

  With something like alacrity Mrs. Belling led the way to her own private sanctum. A small comfortable room with a large fire burning.

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” began Emily, knowing well that of all openings on earth this one is the most certain to provoke interest and sympathy.

  “No, indeed, Miss, that I won’t,” said Mrs. Belling her dark eyes aglitter with interest.

  “You see, Mr. Pearson—you know—”

  “The young gentleman that stayed here on Friday? And that the police have arrested?”

  “Arrested? Do you mean really arrested?”

  “Yes, Miss. Not half an hour ago.”

  Emily had gone very white.

  “You—you’re sure of that?”

  “Oh! yes, Miss. Our Amy had it from the Sergeant.”

  “It’s too awful!” said Emily. She had been expecting this, but it was none the better for that. “You see, Mrs. Belling, I—I’m engaged to him. And he didn’t do it, and, oh dear, it’s all too dreadful!”

  And here Emily began to cry. She had, earlier in the day, announced her intention to Charles Enderby of doing so, but what appalled her so was with what ease the tears came. To cry at will is not an easy accomplishment. There was something much too real about these tears. It frightened her. She mustn’t really give way. Giving way wasn’t the least use to Jim. To be resolute, logical and clear-sighted—these were the qualities that were going to count in this game. Sloppy crying had never helped anyone yet.

  But it was a relief all the same, to let yourself go. After all she had meant to cry. Crying would be an undeniable passport to Mrs. Belling’s sympathy and help. So why not have a good cry while she was about it? A real orgy of weeping in which all her troubles, doubts and unacknowledged fears might find vent and be swept away.

  “There, there, my dear, don’t ee take on so,” said Mrs. Belling.

  She put a large motherly arm round Emily’s shoulders and patted her consolingly.

  “Said from the start I have that he didn’t do it. A regular nice young gentleman. A lot of chuckleheads the police are, and so I’ve said before now. Some thieving tramp is a great deal more likely. Now, don’t ee fret, my dear, it’ll all come right, you see if it don’t.”

  “I am so dreadfully fond of him,” wailed Emily.

  Dear Jim, dear, sweet, boyish, helpless, impractical Jim. So utterly to be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong moment. What possible chance had he got against that steady, resolute Inspector Narracott?

  “We must save him,” she wailed.

  “Of course, we will. Of course, we will,” Mrs. Belling consoled her.

  Emily dabbed her eyes vigorously, gave one last sniff and gulp, and raising her head demanded fiercely:

  “Where can I stay at Sittaford?”

  “Up to Sittaford? You’re set on going there, my dear?”

  “Yes,” Emily nodded vigorously.

  “Well, now,” Mrs. Belling cogitated the matter. “There’s only one place for ee to stay. There’s not much to Sittaford. There’s the big house, Sittaford House, which Captain Trevelyan built, and that’s let now to a South African lady. And there’s the six cottages he built, and No. 5 of them cottages has got Curtis, what used to be gardener at Sittaford House, in it, and Mrs. Curtis. She lets rooms in the summer time, the Captain allowing her to do so. There’s nowhere else you could stay and that’s a fact. There’s the blacksmith’s and the post office, but Mary Hibbert, she’s got six children and her sister-in-law living with her, and the blacksmith’s wife she’s expecting her eighth, so there won’t be so much as a corner there. But how are you going to get up to Sittaford, Miss? Have you hired a car?”

  “I am going to share Mr. Enderby’s.”

  “Ah, and where will he be staying, I wonder?”

  “I suppose he will have to be put up at Mrs. Curtis’s too. Will she have room for both of us?”

  “I don’t know that that will look quite right for a young lady like you,” said Mrs. Belling.

  “He’s my cousin,” said Emily.

  On no account, she felt, must a sense of propriety intervene to work against her in Mrs. Belling’s mind.

  The landlady’s brow cleared. “Well, that may be all right then,” she allowed grudgingly, “and likely as not if you’re not comfortable with Mrs. Curtis they would put you up at the big house.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot,” said Emily mopping once more at her eyes.

  “It’s only natural, my dear. And you feel better for it.”

  “I do,” said Emily truthfully. “I feel much better.”

  “A good cry and a cup of tea—there’s nothing to beat them, and a nice cup of tea you shall have at once, my dear, before you start off on that cold drive.”

  “Oh, thank you, but I don’t think I really want—”

  “Never mind what you want, it’s what you’re going to have,” said Mrs. Belling rising with determination and moving towards the door. “And you tell Amelia Curtis from me that she’s to look after you and see you take your food proper and see you don’t fret.”

  “You are kind,” said Emily.

  “And what’s more I shall keep my eyes and ears open down here,” said Mrs. Belling entering with relish into her part of the romance. “There’s many a little thing that I hear that never goes to the police. And anything I do hear I’ll pass on to you, Miss.”

  “Will you really?”

  “That I will. Don’t ee worry, my dear, we’ll have your young gentleman out of his trouble in no time.”

  “I must go and pack,” said Emily rising.

  “I’ll send the tea up to you,” said Mrs. Belling.

  Emily
went upstairs, packed her few belongings into her suitcase, sponged her eyes with cold water and applied a liberal allowance of powder.

  “You have made yourself look a sight,” she apostrophized herself in the glass. She added more powder and a touch of rouge.

  “Curious,” said Emily, “how much better I feel. It’s worth the puffy look.”

  She rang the bell. The chambermaid (the sympathetic sister-in-law of Constable Graves) came promptly. Emily presented her with a pound note and begged her earnestly to pass on any information she might acquire in roundabout ways from police circles. The girl promised readily.

  “Mrs. Curtis’s up to Sittaford? I will indeed, Miss. Do anything, that I will. We all feel for you, Miss, more than I can say. All the time I keep saying to myself, ‘Just fancy if it was you and Fred,’ I keep saying. I would be distracted—that I would. The least thing I hears I’ll pass it on to you, Miss.”

  “You angel,” said Emily.

  “Just like a sixpenny I got at Woolworth’s the other day, The Syringa Murders it was called. And do you know what led them to find the real murderer, Miss. Just a bit of common sealing wax. Your gentleman is good-looking, Miss, isn’t he? Quite unlike his picture in the papers. I’m sure I’ll do anything I can, Miss, for you and for him.”

  Thus the centre of romantic attention, Emily left the Three Crowns, having duly gulped down the cup of tea prescribed by Mrs. Belling.

  “By the way,” she said to Enderby as the aged Ford sprang forward, “you are my cousin, don’t forget.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve got such pure minds in the country,” said Emily. “I thought it would be better.”

  “Splendid. In that case,” said Mr. Enderby rising to his opportunities, “I had better call you Emily.”

  “All right, cousin—what’s your name?”

  “Charles.”

  “All right, Charles.”