The White Cottage Mystery Read online

  ‘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 – ’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joan Alice, with sudden enthusiasm, ‘an’ I put the weeds in my pail, didn’t I?’

  The woman sighed with relief, and the detective continued to question the child.

  ‘Joan Alice,’ he said, ‘now try to remember hard. When you were in the garden with your mamma did you hear a big bang somewhere inside the house?’

  The child did not answer him, having apparently lost interest in the proceedings; she was playing with the fountain-pen sticking out of his coat pocket.

  ‘Joan, darling’ – the woman’s voice was frantic – ‘try to remember – did you hear the bang?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the child.

  ‘And were you with your mamma in the garden then?’

  ‘You were, weren’t you, baby?’ The fear in the woman’s voice was terrible to hear.

  The child looked up solemnly and shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said suddenly and distinctly. ‘I was by the bonfire, entying my pail – you remember, Mumma, you sent me to.’

  ‘Where was the bonfire?’

  ‘Oh, down the garden a long way,’ said the child, her careless tones uncanny in the tension-hung room.

  ‘You couldn’t see your mamma when you heard the bang?’ The detective spoke hesitantly, as if loath to continue the inquiry.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Joan!’ There was reproach, appeal and terror in the woman’s voice, and the child looked at her, frightened.

  The detective rose to his feet and handed the child back to the nurse, his face very grave.

  ‘Mrs Christensen,’ he began gently, ‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid I must ask you – ’

  The remainder of his sentence was never uttered, however, for at that moment the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Clarry Gale, his ignoble face pink with excitement, appeared breathless on the threshold.

  ‘’E’s gone!’ he announced explosively.

  ‘Gone? Who’s gone?’ demanded the detective.

  ‘Cellini, of course!’ The words tumbled over one another in Gale’s excitement to get them out.’ Mrs Fisher said that as soon as I come over here the first time she saw him come rushin’ into the house and go up to his room. ’E was up there ten minutes; then she heard him come runnin’ downstairs, go out again. Lookin’ out o’ the kitchen windy she saw ’im get out the guvnor’s car and set off down the Folkstone road as ’ard as ’e could go. I’ve been up to ’is room, and ’is things are gone – ’e’s bolted!’

  3 The Tablecloth

  ‘Now, my boy, they’ll see to that. I think I’ll return to my inquiries in the next room.’ W.T. replaced the telephone receiver as he spoke.

  He had just ‘phoned for a general call to be put out concerning the missing Cellini.

  For a moment Jerry did not speak, but looked round the room and shuddered.

  ‘Mrs Christensen –?’ began Jerry doubtfully.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said the old man. ‘She’s got a secret, you know – it may be important, but it may not. That’s the worst of women in a case like this, Jerry. What they think is serious and worth hiding may be the most idiotic damn’ silly thing in the world, and yet they’ll go and run their heads straight into a noose rather than give it away.’

  He paused, staring moodily in front of him. When he spoke again his tone was like some old lawyer’s vexed over a moot point.

  ‘And there’s that,’ he said suddenly. ‘Did you ever see anything so absurd as that?’

  Jerry followed the direction of his gaze and saw that he was looking at the gun still lying on the table.

  ‘Look at it!’ W.T. repeated. ‘Just look at it.’

  Jerry frowned. ‘I don’t see…’ he began.

  ‘No?’ said W.T. in surprise. ‘Look at that tablecloth – it’s blown to pieces just like Crowther’s chest. That gun was fired from where it is now – it wasn’t raised shoulder-high, it wasn’t even fired at arm’s length, as an ignorant terrified woman might have held it; it was fired from the table. At least, the butt was on the table – the barrel was raised slightly … A man kneeling behind the table might have done it, but then, since he had the point of vantage with the table between him and his unarmed, unsuspecting enemy, why should he kneel?’

  Jerry nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in the room to give any clue, I suppose?’

  W.T. shook his head. ‘Nothing of much use, the photographs may show something, but I’m not hopeful. No, we can’t do anything more in here yet. As soon as the doctors have finished consulting we’ll have that mess removed. But now we’ll return to the questions. I want to have a chat with that nurse – there’s a flight of stairs leading down from the nursery to the lawn just outside these french windows. Send her in to me, will you? … I’ll be with the others.’

  As Jerry hurried off to obey him W.T. went back to the morning-room, and resumed his seat behind the table as the heavy-faced inspector from New Campington was saying, ‘The woman didn’t do it, Mrs Christensen didn’t do it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said W.T. ‘You don’t think so … Tell me why?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Had she done it, her sending the child to the bonfire at the far end of the garden would have been a deliberate act and she would not have forgotten it. Yet when she begged you to send for the child she had forgotten that it was not with her when she fired the shot.’

  ‘That’s an interesting point, Inspector. It’s very true.’

  The inspector nodded but W.T. was interrupted by the entrance of Jerry and Estah Phillips, the nurse.

  As soon as the detective saw the woman he again experienced the feeling that his presence was bitterly resented.

  Now that he had more leisure in which to consider her he saw that she was a personality. Tall and gaunt, she bore her years well, and her small, sloe-black eyes glowered at him.

  Her black, unshapely frock was fastened high up at her throat, and her face, rugged and hard, showed parchment pale above it.

  She followed Jerry into the room with the dignity of a captured general, and brusquely declined the chair the detective offered her.

  ‘Now,’ he said, smiling at her in the most affable way imaginable – ‘now, Miss Phillips, I want you to do all you can to help me in this matter.’

  A sharp gust of contemptuous laughter escaped the woman, and for the fraction of a second her graven face splintered into a derisive smile.

  ‘You’ll get no help from me, so don’t expect it,’ she said in a voice that was harsh and vibrant.

  Unexpected as this reply was, W.T. was unmoved by it. He looked at the woman shrewdly.

  ‘You come from the Essex coast, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Colchester way?’

  It was now her turn to be surprised, and her small dark eyes flickered.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, her tone sullen and begrudging. ‘I was born at Goldhanger near there. My folks lived there for lifetimes.’

  ‘So I thought,’ said W.T. ‘Do you want to know how I told?’

  ‘No,’ said she.

  ‘That’s how I told,’ said W.T., and smiled to himself with pardonable pleasure. ‘Now,’ he said, suddenly assuming an almost magisterial air, ‘how long have you been in Mrs Christensen’s employ?’

  ‘Ever since she was able to pay me.’

  W.T. frowned. He had no patience with literal witnesses.

  ‘What I mean is, how long have you known her?’ he said severely.

  ‘Since she was born. I was her nurse.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The ‘Greyhound’s’ tone grew more sympathetic. ‘And you’re very fond of her.’<
br />
  ‘As if she were my own child.’ The intensity of the words was so strong that W.T. looked up. He only caught a glimpse of the fleeting expression in the black eyes, but it was enough. He realized that he had touched on the one ruling passion of her life – deep and primitive and unbelievably strong, the mother instinct of a childless woman centred upon one creature only.

  ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘You must do your best to help me to help her now, then.’

  ‘Help her!’ the woman burst out contemptuously. ‘All you’ve done since you set foot in this house is to drive the poor girl nearly out of her mind – as if she hadn’t enough to worry her before all this shooting set-out.’

  W.T. pricked up his ears.

  ‘Before the shooting?’ he inquired.

  The old woman paused and looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘How much has she told you?’ she demanded.

  ‘About Mr Crowther? Everything,’ said W.T. swiftly. ‘Why should she hide it?’

  The woman’s expression did not change. The suspicion still shone in her eyes.

  ‘No,’ she said at last, ‘that’s true enough. He was always hanging round her. It nigh drove her off her head. He was a devil, that man.’

  ‘No one seems to have liked him, certainly,’ said W.T.

  ‘No one had any cause,’ said the old woman. ‘There’s no one in this house nor in his own that isn’t glad to hear of his death – no one.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little sweeping, Miss Phillips?’ said W.T. mildly. ‘You, for instance – why should you be glad of his death?’

  ‘Why? Wasn’t he making her life a hell on earth?’ said the old creature, allowing her sullen temper to flare. ‘I was glad of his death. It’s what I’ve been praying for upon my knees every night of my life for the past five years. I am glad of his death.’

  ‘Think what you’re saying,’ protested W.T. ‘The man has just been murdered. You can’t go about saying things like this. What can you expect me to think?’

  ‘It isn’t anything to me what you think,’ said the old woman stubbornly. ‘I’m telling the truth, and the Lord in His mercy takes care of the innocent. Had I had the opportunity I won’t say I wouldn’t have done it.’