CHAPTER VII.Significant InformationAfter a quick luncheon and a visit to the library of the Yard to look up “Aneurism” in the Encyclopedia Britannica, in order to check Sir Horace’s description, Inspector Poole presented himself at 168 Queen Anne’s Gate. On this occasion he did not present his private card, as he thought it unlikely that Miss Fratten would see him on that alone, and he certainly did not intend to entrust his official card to a butler or footman, who would certainly start talking about “a visit from the police”; instead, he enclosed his official card in an envelope with a note explaining that Sir Leward Marradine had instructed him to call.Poole was standing in the large and comfortable hall, waiting for the return of the butler, when a door on one side opened and a tall young man with a dark moustache came out into the hall and walked towards the staircase. Throwing a glance at Poole, the newcomer hesitated, a puzzled expression on his face, then stopped abruptly and exclaimed:“Good God; Puddles! What on earth . . . where have you sprung from?”For a moment Poole struggled with an effort of memory; then a smile broke on his face, and he took a step forward with extended hand:“Mangane! Laurence Mangane!”Suddenly he checked himself and his hand dropped to his side, a peculiar expression replacing the smile on his face.“Good-afternoon, sir,” he said.A look of amazement came into Mangane’s face and he, too, checked his approach.“ ‘Sir’?” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you talking about?”Poole glanced round to see if anyone else was present.“I’m Detective-Inspector Poole, sir,” he said.Slowly Mangane’s face cleared and he broke into a broad grin.“Good Lord, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about your quaint career. So you’re a detective, are you? And an Inspector at that? Jolly good work. I . . .”Poole made a gesture to stop him. The butler was coming downstairs.“Miss Fratten will be down in a few minutes, sir. Will you step this way, sir, please?”He led the way into the morning-room; Poole followed and Mangane brought up the rear. When the door had closed behind the butler, Mangane took the detective’s arm and gave it a friendly shake.“Now, Puddles,” he said, “tell me all about it, and drop this ‘sir’ nonsense.”“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” replied Poole. “If I don’t sink myself completely in my identity as a policeman it may make my position impossibly difficult if I run across any of my old friends in an official capacity. I thought at one time of changing my name when I joined the Force but that seemed making rather a mystery of the business. It’s possible, for instance, that I may have to question you, among other people. That’s absolutely confidential at the moment, please. But if I do, you can see for yourself that I can only do it as an unidentified policeman. You understand that, don’t you—sir?”Mangane slowly nodded his head.“Yes, I see,” he said. “You’re probably right, though I don’t like it. If at any time you do relax your . . .”He was interrupted by the opening of the door into the hall. Inez Fratten walked in, Poole’s note in her hand. Her eyebrows lifted slightly as she saw the two men talking together. Mangane evidently divined at once what was passing in her mind—the suspicion that he might be trying to “pump” the detective as to his business there.“Inspector Poole and I are old friends, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I haven’t seen him for a great many years, though.”Inez’s face at once cleared and broke into a smile.“How jolly,” she said. “Then I shan’t be afraid of him. It makes me feel fearfully inquisitive though; I can’t help imagining that he ran you in at some time in your indiscreet past.”She laughed lightly, and Poole fell an instant victim to her charm. Mangane threw a glance of enquiry at the detective, who nodded.“We were at Oxford together,” said Mangane.Inez just checked herself in time from an exclamation that would have been hardly polite to the policeman.“Better than ever,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve met again.”“I’m afraid it’s not much use to us,” said Mangane. “Poole insists upon remaining a policeman with a number and no old friends. I’ve no doubt he wouldn’t have let me tell about Oxford if he hadn’t known that you must be wondering why we were talking to each other. But I mustn’t stop here talking; you’ve got business, of course.”He touched Poole’s shoulder and walked quickly out of the room. Inez made a mental note that he had gone up a step.Poole’s interview with Inez Fratten did not reveal anything fresh. She talked about her advertisement and told him that she had not yet had any reply to it. She explained how Mr. Hessel had told her and her brother of the accident to their father in the City, and had warned them to stop him, if they could, from taking on some fresh work that he was contemplating; she did not tell him of the stormy interview that Ryland had had with her father on the same evening nor of the difficulty she had had in getting into touch with her brother again after that unfortunate occurrence; she explained how she had cross-questioned her father about his illness and how the latter had at last testily advised her to find out all about it from Sir Horace Spavage; finally, how Ryland had, at her request, gone up and interviewed Sir Horace—she was laid up with a chill and could not go herself—and had brought her back a note explaining all about the aneurism.“I was horribly frightened about it,” she said, “but father was quite hopeless—you couldn’t turn him, once he had made up his mind to a thing. I feel pretty sure that he would have killed himself with overwork, even if it hadn’t been for this accident. That doesn’t make me any the less want to get hold of the rotter who knocked into him, and hasn’t the decency to come and say he’s sorry,” she added vindictively.“I expect we shall find him, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “In the meantime, will you tell me the name of your father’s solicitor?”And with the name and address of Mr. Septimus Menticle of Lincoln’s Inn, Poole took his departure.Mr. Menticle, however, was not in, and Poole was wondering what else he could do to further the enquiry when it occurred to him that Sir Leward had added the name of Mr. Leopold Hessel to the list of his preliminary investigations. The detective had gathered that Mr. Hessel was a director of Fratten’s Bank, so turned his steps now in that direction. He was lucky enough to find Mr. Hessel still in the bank. As soon as Poole had explained his business, the banker motioned him to a chair and sent for an extra supply of tea.“Now, just what is it you want to know, Inspector?” asked Hessel. “About the accident—though it was scarcely as much as that really—before Sir Garth’s death? I’ll tell it you as well as I can, though it’s extraordinarily difficult to be clear in one’s mind, even about the most trivial happenings, when one has to be exact. We were walking from my club in St. James’s Square towards Sir Garth’s house in Queen Anne’s Gate—you know it, I expect. He always walked home across the Park in the evening, though generally from his own club. On this occasion he happened to have had tea in my club and I was walking part of the way home with him; we got absorbed in a topic of conversation and I went on with him past the Athenæum and the Duke of York’s column, though I had not at first intended to go that way. As we went down the steps, some man, who was apparently in a hurry, stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, who in his turn knocked against me.”“Just one minute, sir, please,” interrupted Poole. “I’d like to get it quite clear. You say that the man stumbled and fell against Sir Garth. Could you define that rather more closely? What was the actual degree of force with which he struck into Sir Garth?”Hessel thought for a minute.“It’s just as I said,” he replied—“so difficult to be exact. I was talking, of course, and not noticing very much what was going on around me. I think I was just conscious of some slight noise or commotion—an exclamation, perhaps, and then Fratten staggered against me. Not very heavily—I don’t think he would have fallen if I had not been there. But he was upset—clearly shaken—I suppose it was a shock. The man was very apologetic—seemed quite a decent fellow. As Fratten appeared to be really none the worse there seemed to be no point in detaining him—he was in a hurry—and said something about the Admiralty and a message. He ran on down the steps in that direction and Sir Garth and I walked slowly on—I took his arm in case he was still feeling shaken. Just after we had crossed . . .”“May I interrupt again one minute, sir? Before you leave the incident on the Duke of York’s Steps—can you say definitely whether or not the man who stumbled against Sir Garth actually struck him? Struck him with his fist, that is to say, or some instrument, with sufficient force to cause his death?”Hessel stared at the Inspector with surprise.“I see,” he said. “That’s what you’ve got in your mind? I wonder what put the idea there—still, I suppose that’s not my business. No, I should say myself pretty definitely that such a thing did not occur. I feel quite sure that I must have been aware if any force of that kind had been used. Besides, there were any number of people about—there is always a stream of them going that way towards Victoria and Waterloo at that time of day. Some of them must surely have noticed if any blow had been struck.”Poole thought over this point for a moment; it seemed unanswerable.“I see, sir,” he said. “There really were, then, a lot of witnesses of the occurrence?”“Any number. A small crowd collected round us at once.”“You didn’t take any of their names, I suppose?”“I didn’t; it never occurred to me to—the whole thing was a pure accident and at the time I thought it unimportant. If Sir Garth had fallen dead at once, it might have been different; but, as you know, he did not do so till after we had crossed the Mall. By that time they had probably all dispersed, and in any case I am afraid I was so upset that I didn’t think of it—only of getting him home as quickly as possible.”“I quite understand, sir,” said Poole. “Now about the actual death. You said that you had crossed the Mall.”“Yes, we crossed the Mall all right and were walking towards the Guards Memorial when he suddenly staggered, made a sort of choking, gasping sound and sank to the ground. He nearly pulled me down with him. I had my arm linked through his, as I told you. I believe he died almost at once, though I did not realize it at the time.”“It must have been a great shock for you, sir. I suppose there was no further accident just before the fall?”“Oh no, nothing. Evidently it was the result of the shock he received on the steps. After all, it was only a hundred yards or so away.”“And the man concerned, of course, had disappeared by then?”“Absolutely. I never saw or heard of him again.”Poole thought for a while, trying to find some fresh line of approach.“It’s probably quite immaterial,” he said at last, “but could you by any chance tell me what was the subject of your conversation with Sir Garth that evening? You said that you were so engrossed in it that you went out of your way.”The slight raising of Hessel’s eyebrows had a curious effect of rebuke upon the detective.“If it is material, I can tell you,” he replied. “We were talking of Sir Garth’s son, Ryland Fratten. He was worried about him. They were a case of father and son, both very charming people, not understanding one another. I always thought Sir Garth rather unjust to Ryland.”Poole had pricked up his ears.“What was the trouble between them, sir?”But Hessel evidently thought that he had said enough.“Ah, Inspector,” he replied, “I don’t think I can enter into what amounts to little more than gossip—it’s not quite my line. So far as our conversation that evening went, it concerned Ryland’s affection or apparent lack of affection for his father. That is what I can tell you of my own knowledge; beyond that I am not prepared to go.”Poole decided not to press the point. He tried a fresh tack.“Sir Garth was a rich man, Mr. Hessel, and of course, in his way, a powerful man. I suppose it is possible that he may have made enemies?”But Hessel was not to be drawn. He smiled and shook his head.“Aren’t we verging a little bit on the melodramatic, Inspector?” he said. “I suppose your suggestion is that some City magnate hired an assassin to put a hated rival out of the way. That may have been the custom a couple of centuries ago, but hardly today—quite apart from the fact that I can’t see how you make the death out to be anything but accidental.”Poole realized that he had now lost the sympathy of his audience; he wisely decided to go. Thanking the banker for his help and courtesy, as well as for his tea, the detective made his way out into the street. When he called upon Mr. Menticle in the afternoon he had learned that the latter lived in Lincoln’s Inn, as well as working there, and might well be at home later in the day. He decided now to try his luck again.He arrived at Mr. Menticle’s chambers at about six o’clock and found that the owner had “sported his oak.” In ordinary circumstances Poole, as an Oxford man, would have respected this appeal for privacy, but as it was he felt that the chariot wheels of justice must roll through even this sacred tradition. He knocked firmly on the outer door.There was no answer to his first knock, but he had the curious feeling that the silence within had become even more silent. He knocked more sharply and soon heard footsteps approaching, followed by the opening of the inner door; he stepped back a pace and the heavy outer door swung slowly out towards him. In the doorway stood a curious figure, which might have stepped out of a page of Dickens; an elderly man, dressed in baggy subfuscous trousers, a worn velvet jacket, and a tasselled cap, such as Poole imagined to have been extinct since Balmoral lifted its ban upon smoking. The face underneath the cap, however, was by no means Victorian; the nose certainly was aquiline and carried a pair of gold pince-nez, but the skin was clear and healthy, the mouth sensitive, and the eyes bright and intelligent. Probably Mr. Menticle amused himself in his solitude by posing as a participator in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.At the moment there was a frown of displeasure on the lawyer’s fine brow. He remained in the doorway, waiting for his visitor to explain his presence.“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Poole. “My card will explain my insistence.”Mr. Menticle took the card, glanced at it, and, with a short nod, signed to Poole to come in.“Shut the outer door behind you,” said Mr. Menticle. “It may prevent our being disturbed.”Poole thought he caught a slight emphasis on the “may” and a faint chuckle from the retreating figure of his host. He followed, and found himself in a remarkably comfortable room, with a soft carpet, two easy-chairs, and a blazing wood fire. The walls were lined with bookcases, with an occasional well-balanced engraving, whilst over the fireplace hung a photograph of an O.U. Cricket Eleven. Poole checked with difficulty his natural inclination to go straight up and look at it.“Take a chair, Inspector,” said the lawyer, pointing to the least worn of the two. “You’ve come just in time for a glass of sherry.”He opened an oak corner cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter, two tulip sherry-glasses, and a tin of biscuits.“Amontillado,” he said. “Sound stuff. Not to be found everywhere in these days.”The two men lifted their glasses to each other. Poole’s glance lifting for an instant to the photograph over the fire, Mr. Menticle allowed his gaze to rest for a time upon his visitor’s face, before he spoke.“What year were you up?” he asked.Poole stared at him, then broke into a laugh.“You’re very quick, sir,” he said. “ ’17 to ’19. St. James’s.”“Get a blue?”“Half-blue, sir—Athletic. I played in a Seniors match once, but didn’t get any further in cricket.”“ ’Tics, I suppose?”“Yes, sir.”“And now you’ve taken to police work—C.I.D. Very interesting career. And I suppose you want to forget all about Oxford when you’re on your job?”“That’s exactly what I do want, sir. Curiously enough it’s come out twice today, and I’m rather annoyed with myself for letting it.”“Well, Inspector, I’ll forget about it now. What did you want to see me about?”“It’s about the death of Sir Garth Fratten, sir.”Poole was watching the lawyer very closely when he said this, and he thought he saw a shadow of distress or anxiety come into his eyes. He gave no other sign, however, and the detective continued.“We have been given to understand that there are some grounds for uncertainty about the circumstances of the death. I must say frankly that so far we have very little to go on, but I have been instructed to make certain preliminary investigations, in which you, sir, as the family solicitor, naturally take a prominent place.”Mr. Menticle nodded but did not volunteer any statement.“There are one or two points, sir,” Poole continued, “which I thought might help us. In the first place, the will. I could of course, get particulars from Somerset House, but I shall get a very much clearer idea of it if you will go through the principal features of it with me.”Mr. Menticle gave the suggestion a moment’s thought, then nodded his head.“Yes,” he said. “I think I can do that. I might refuse, of course, but you would get the information just the same, by using your powers, and I should merely have established an atmosphere of hostility.”He rose, and, leaving the room, presently returned with a bundle of papers which he laid on the table beside him. Poole could not help admiring the cool common sense with which his host made a virtue of necessity.“The will is a very simple one,” said Mr. Menticle, laying it out on his knees, and running over its clauses with his finger. “Sir Garth left comfortable though not large legacies to various distant relations, to his employees at the bank and to his domestic staff. There are various bequests to charities and two special legacies of £5000 each, one to myself and one to his intimate friend, Mr. Leopold Hessel, whom he appointed his sole executor. But taking all these together, the total forms a very small portion of his fortune, the residue of which, after paying all duties, was divided equally between Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten.”“His son and daughter?” said Poole and, as Mr. Menticle made no comment, took silence for consent.The detective had jotted down the outline of the will as Mr. Menticle sketched it. He ran his eye over it again.“And the residue will amount to?” he asked.“Impossible to say yet. Sir Garth had very wide interests. The death duties, of course, will vary according to the total amount dutiable.”“But roughly?”“Roughly, between four and five hundred thousand pounds, I should say.”“So that Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten will each get over £200,000.”“Presumably.”“Large sums,” said Poole, “even in these days. Very large compared with the other legacies, I gather. What was the largest of those?”“Mine and Mr. Hessel’s. None of the others amounted to more than an annuity of £100.”“Hardly enough to invite murder—still, one never knows. Now, Mr. Menticle, I am going to ask you a straight question. Do you believe that any of these legatees, residuary or otherwise, had any inducement to bring about the premature death of the testator?”Mr. Menticle rose abruptly from his chair and, walking over to the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out on to the November night. Coming back into the room, he stood in front of the fire, with one foot on the fender, seeming to seek for inspiration from the blazing logs.“That is a very direct question,” he temporized.“It is,” said the detective, “and I want your answer, please, Mr. Menticle.” The expression of Poole’s face would have told anyone who knew him that, having got his grip, nothing now would cause him to relax it.At last the lawyer straightened his shoulders and, turning his back to the fire, looked down at his interlocutor.“I think I must tell you,” he said, “that a week or so before his death, Sir Garth instructed me to draw up a new will. I was to have brought it to him to sign the morning after he actually died.”“There were important alterations?” Poole’s voice was tense.“There was one. Ryland Fratten was cut out of the will as a residuary legatee.”
After a quick luncheon and a visit to the library of the Yard to look up “Aneurism” in the Encyclopedia Britannica, in order to check Sir Horace’s description, Inspector Poole presented himself at 168 Queen Anne’s Gate. On this occasion he did not present his private card, as he thought it unlikely that Miss Fratten would see him on that alone, and he certainly did not intend to entrust his official card to a butler or footman, who would certainly start talking about “a visit from the police”; instead, he enclosed his official card in an envelope with a note explaining that Sir Leward Marradine had instructed him to call.
Poole was standing in the large and comfortable hall, waiting for the return of the butler, when a door on one side opened and a tall young man with a dark moustache came out into the hall and walked towards the staircase. Throwing a glance at Poole, the newcomer hesitated, a puzzled expression on his face, then stopped abruptly and exclaimed:
“Good God; Puddles! What on earth . . . where have you sprung from?”
For a moment Poole struggled with an effort of memory; then a smile broke on his face, and he took a step forward with extended hand:
“Mangane! Laurence Mangane!”
Suddenly he checked himself and his hand dropped to his side, a peculiar expression replacing the smile on his face.
“Good-afternoon, sir,” he said.
A look of amazement came into Mangane’s face and he, too, checked his approach.
“ ‘Sir’?” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Poole glanced round to see if anyone else was present.
“I’m Detective-Inspector Poole, sir,” he said.
Slowly Mangane’s face cleared and he broke into a broad grin.
“Good Lord, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about your quaint career. So you’re a detective, are you? And an Inspector at that? Jolly good work. I . . .”
Poole made a gesture to stop him. The butler was coming downstairs.
“Miss Fratten will be down in a few minutes, sir. Will you step this way, sir, please?”
He led the way into the morning-room; Poole followed and Mangane brought up the rear. When the door had closed behind the butler, Mangane took the detective’s arm and gave it a friendly shake.
“Now, Puddles,” he said, “tell me all about it, and drop this ‘sir’ nonsense.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” replied Poole. “If I don’t sink myself completely in my identity as a policeman it may make my position impossibly difficult if I run across any of my old friends in an official capacity. I thought at one time of changing my name when I joined the Force but that seemed making rather a mystery of the business. It’s possible, for instance, that I may have to question you, among other people. That’s absolutely confidential at the moment, please. But if I do, you can see for yourself that I can only do it as an unidentified policeman. You understand that, don’t you—sir?”
Mangane slowly nodded his head.
“Yes, I see,” he said. “You’re probably right, though I don’t like it. If at any time you do relax your . . .”
He was interrupted by the opening of the door into the hall. Inez Fratten walked in, Poole’s note in her hand. Her eyebrows lifted slightly as she saw the two men talking together. Mangane evidently divined at once what was passing in her mind—the suspicion that he might be trying to “pump” the detective as to his business there.
“Inspector Poole and I are old friends, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I haven’t seen him for a great many years, though.”
Inez’s face at once cleared and broke into a smile.
“How jolly,” she said. “Then I shan’t be afraid of him. It makes me feel fearfully inquisitive though; I can’t help imagining that he ran you in at some time in your indiscreet past.”
She laughed lightly, and Poole fell an instant victim to her charm. Mangane threw a glance of enquiry at the detective, who nodded.
“We were at Oxford together,” said Mangane.
Inez just checked herself in time from an exclamation that would have been hardly polite to the policeman.
“Better than ever,” she said. “I’m so glad you’ve met again.”
“I’m afraid it’s not much use to us,” said Mangane. “Poole insists upon remaining a policeman with a number and no old friends. I’ve no doubt he wouldn’t have let me tell about Oxford if he hadn’t known that you must be wondering why we were talking to each other. But I mustn’t stop here talking; you’ve got business, of course.”
He touched Poole’s shoulder and walked quickly out of the room. Inez made a mental note that he had gone up a step.
Poole’s interview with Inez Fratten did not reveal anything fresh. She talked about her advertisement and told him that she had not yet had any reply to it. She explained how Mr. Hessel had told her and her brother of the accident to their father in the City, and had warned them to stop him, if they could, from taking on some fresh work that he was contemplating; she did not tell him of the stormy interview that Ryland had had with her father on the same evening nor of the difficulty she had had in getting into touch with her brother again after that unfortunate occurrence; she explained how she had cross-questioned her father about his illness and how the latter had at last testily advised her to find out all about it from Sir Horace Spavage; finally, how Ryland had, at her request, gone up and interviewed Sir Horace—she was laid up with a chill and could not go herself—and had brought her back a note explaining all about the aneurism.
“I was horribly frightened about it,” she said, “but father was quite hopeless—you couldn’t turn him, once he had made up his mind to a thing. I feel pretty sure that he would have killed himself with overwork, even if it hadn’t been for this accident. That doesn’t make me any the less want to get hold of the rotter who knocked into him, and hasn’t the decency to come and say he’s sorry,” she added vindictively.
“I expect we shall find him, Miss Fratten,” said Poole. “In the meantime, will you tell me the name of your father’s solicitor?”
And with the name and address of Mr. Septimus Menticle of Lincoln’s Inn, Poole took his departure.
Mr. Menticle, however, was not in, and Poole was wondering what else he could do to further the enquiry when it occurred to him that Sir Leward had added the name of Mr. Leopold Hessel to the list of his preliminary investigations. The detective had gathered that Mr. Hessel was a director of Fratten’s Bank, so turned his steps now in that direction. He was lucky enough to find Mr. Hessel still in the bank. As soon as Poole had explained his business, the banker motioned him to a chair and sent for an extra supply of tea.
“Now, just what is it you want to know, Inspector?” asked Hessel. “About the accident—though it was scarcely as much as that really—before Sir Garth’s death? I’ll tell it you as well as I can, though it’s extraordinarily difficult to be clear in one’s mind, even about the most trivial happenings, when one has to be exact. We were walking from my club in St. James’s Square towards Sir Garth’s house in Queen Anne’s Gate—you know it, I expect. He always walked home across the Park in the evening, though generally from his own club. On this occasion he happened to have had tea in my club and I was walking part of the way home with him; we got absorbed in a topic of conversation and I went on with him past the Athenæum and the Duke of York’s column, though I had not at first intended to go that way. As we went down the steps, some man, who was apparently in a hurry, stumbled and fell against Sir Garth, who in his turn knocked against me.”
“Just one minute, sir, please,” interrupted Poole. “I’d like to get it quite clear. You say that the man stumbled and fell against Sir Garth. Could you define that rather more closely? What was the actual degree of force with which he struck into Sir Garth?”
Hessel thought for a minute.
“It’s just as I said,” he replied—“so difficult to be exact. I was talking, of course, and not noticing very much what was going on around me. I think I was just conscious of some slight noise or commotion—an exclamation, perhaps, and then Fratten staggered against me. Not very heavily—I don’t think he would have fallen if I had not been there. But he was upset—clearly shaken—I suppose it was a shock. The man was very apologetic—seemed quite a decent fellow. As Fratten appeared to be really none the worse there seemed to be no point in detaining him—he was in a hurry—and said something about the Admiralty and a message. He ran on down the steps in that direction and Sir Garth and I walked slowly on—I took his arm in case he was still feeling shaken. Just after we had crossed . . .”
“May I interrupt again one minute, sir? Before you leave the incident on the Duke of York’s Steps—can you say definitely whether or not the man who stumbled against Sir Garth actually struck him? Struck him with his fist, that is to say, or some instrument, with sufficient force to cause his death?”
Hessel stared at the Inspector with surprise.
“I see,” he said. “That’s what you’ve got in your mind? I wonder what put the idea there—still, I suppose that’s not my business. No, I should say myself pretty definitely that such a thing did not occur. I feel quite sure that I must have been aware if any force of that kind had been used. Besides, there were any number of people about—there is always a stream of them going that way towards Victoria and Waterloo at that time of day. Some of them must surely have noticed if any blow had been struck.”
Poole thought over this point for a moment; it seemed unanswerable.
“I see, sir,” he said. “There really were, then, a lot of witnesses of the occurrence?”
“Any number. A small crowd collected round us at once.”
“You didn’t take any of their names, I suppose?”
“I didn’t; it never occurred to me to—the whole thing was a pure accident and at the time I thought it unimportant. If Sir Garth had fallen dead at once, it might have been different; but, as you know, he did not do so till after we had crossed the Mall. By that time they had probably all dispersed, and in any case I am afraid I was so upset that I didn’t think of it—only of getting him home as quickly as possible.”
“I quite understand, sir,” said Poole. “Now about the actual death. You said that you had crossed the Mall.”
“Yes, we crossed the Mall all right and were walking towards the Guards Memorial when he suddenly staggered, made a sort of choking, gasping sound and sank to the ground. He nearly pulled me down with him. I had my arm linked through his, as I told you. I believe he died almost at once, though I did not realize it at the time.”
“It must have been a great shock for you, sir. I suppose there was no further accident just before the fall?”
“Oh no, nothing. Evidently it was the result of the shock he received on the steps. After all, it was only a hundred yards or so away.”
“And the man concerned, of course, had disappeared by then?”
“Absolutely. I never saw or heard of him again.”
Poole thought for a while, trying to find some fresh line of approach.
“It’s probably quite immaterial,” he said at last, “but could you by any chance tell me what was the subject of your conversation with Sir Garth that evening? You said that you were so engrossed in it that you went out of your way.”
The slight raising of Hessel’s eyebrows had a curious effect of rebuke upon the detective.
“If it is material, I can tell you,” he replied. “We were talking of Sir Garth’s son, Ryland Fratten. He was worried about him. They were a case of father and son, both very charming people, not understanding one another. I always thought Sir Garth rather unjust to Ryland.”
Poole had pricked up his ears.
“What was the trouble between them, sir?”
But Hessel evidently thought that he had said enough.
“Ah, Inspector,” he replied, “I don’t think I can enter into what amounts to little more than gossip—it’s not quite my line. So far as our conversation that evening went, it concerned Ryland’s affection or apparent lack of affection for his father. That is what I can tell you of my own knowledge; beyond that I am not prepared to go.”
Poole decided not to press the point. He tried a fresh tack.
“Sir Garth was a rich man, Mr. Hessel, and of course, in his way, a powerful man. I suppose it is possible that he may have made enemies?”
But Hessel was not to be drawn. He smiled and shook his head.
“Aren’t we verging a little bit on the melodramatic, Inspector?” he said. “I suppose your suggestion is that some City magnate hired an assassin to put a hated rival out of the way. That may have been the custom a couple of centuries ago, but hardly today—quite apart from the fact that I can’t see how you make the death out to be anything but accidental.”
Poole realized that he had now lost the sympathy of his audience; he wisely decided to go. Thanking the banker for his help and courtesy, as well as for his tea, the detective made his way out into the street. When he called upon Mr. Menticle in the afternoon he had learned that the latter lived in Lincoln’s Inn, as well as working there, and might well be at home later in the day. He decided now to try his luck again.
He arrived at Mr. Menticle’s chambers at about six o’clock and found that the owner had “sported his oak.” In ordinary circumstances Poole, as an Oxford man, would have respected this appeal for privacy, but as it was he felt that the chariot wheels of justice must roll through even this sacred tradition. He knocked firmly on the outer door.
There was no answer to his first knock, but he had the curious feeling that the silence within had become even more silent. He knocked more sharply and soon heard footsteps approaching, followed by the opening of the inner door; he stepped back a pace and the heavy outer door swung slowly out towards him. In the doorway stood a curious figure, which might have stepped out of a page of Dickens; an elderly man, dressed in baggy subfuscous trousers, a worn velvet jacket, and a tasselled cap, such as Poole imagined to have been extinct since Balmoral lifted its ban upon smoking. The face underneath the cap, however, was by no means Victorian; the nose certainly was aquiline and carried a pair of gold pince-nez, but the skin was clear and healthy, the mouth sensitive, and the eyes bright and intelligent. Probably Mr. Menticle amused himself in his solitude by posing as a participator in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
At the moment there was a frown of displeasure on the lawyer’s fine brow. He remained in the doorway, waiting for his visitor to explain his presence.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Poole. “My card will explain my insistence.”
Mr. Menticle took the card, glanced at it, and, with a short nod, signed to Poole to come in.
“Shut the outer door behind you,” said Mr. Menticle. “It may prevent our being disturbed.”
Poole thought he caught a slight emphasis on the “may” and a faint chuckle from the retreating figure of his host. He followed, and found himself in a remarkably comfortable room, with a soft carpet, two easy-chairs, and a blazing wood fire. The walls were lined with bookcases, with an occasional well-balanced engraving, whilst over the fireplace hung a photograph of an O.U. Cricket Eleven. Poole checked with difficulty his natural inclination to go straight up and look at it.
“Take a chair, Inspector,” said the lawyer, pointing to the least worn of the two. “You’ve come just in time for a glass of sherry.”
He opened an oak corner cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter, two tulip sherry-glasses, and a tin of biscuits.
“Amontillado,” he said. “Sound stuff. Not to be found everywhere in these days.”
The two men lifted their glasses to each other. Poole’s glance lifting for an instant to the photograph over the fire, Mr. Menticle allowed his gaze to rest for a time upon his visitor’s face, before he spoke.
“What year were you up?” he asked.
Poole stared at him, then broke into a laugh.
“You’re very quick, sir,” he said. “ ’17 to ’19. St. James’s.”
“Get a blue?”
“Half-blue, sir—Athletic. I played in a Seniors match once, but didn’t get any further in cricket.”
“ ’Tics, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now you’ve taken to police work—C.I.D. Very interesting career. And I suppose you want to forget all about Oxford when you’re on your job?”
“That’s exactly what I do want, sir. Curiously enough it’s come out twice today, and I’m rather annoyed with myself for letting it.”
“Well, Inspector, I’ll forget about it now. What did you want to see me about?”
“It’s about the death of Sir Garth Fratten, sir.”
Poole was watching the lawyer very closely when he said this, and he thought he saw a shadow of distress or anxiety come into his eyes. He gave no other sign, however, and the detective continued.
“We have been given to understand that there are some grounds for uncertainty about the circumstances of the death. I must say frankly that so far we have very little to go on, but I have been instructed to make certain preliminary investigations, in which you, sir, as the family solicitor, naturally take a prominent place.”
Mr. Menticle nodded but did not volunteer any statement.
“There are one or two points, sir,” Poole continued, “which I thought might help us. In the first place, the will. I could of course, get particulars from Somerset House, but I shall get a very much clearer idea of it if you will go through the principal features of it with me.”
Mr. Menticle gave the suggestion a moment’s thought, then nodded his head.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can do that. I might refuse, of course, but you would get the information just the same, by using your powers, and I should merely have established an atmosphere of hostility.”
He rose, and, leaving the room, presently returned with a bundle of papers which he laid on the table beside him. Poole could not help admiring the cool common sense with which his host made a virtue of necessity.
“The will is a very simple one,” said Mr. Menticle, laying it out on his knees, and running over its clauses with his finger. “Sir Garth left comfortable though not large legacies to various distant relations, to his employees at the bank and to his domestic staff. There are various bequests to charities and two special legacies of £5000 each, one to myself and one to his intimate friend, Mr. Leopold Hessel, whom he appointed his sole executor. But taking all these together, the total forms a very small portion of his fortune, the residue of which, after paying all duties, was divided equally between Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten.”
“His son and daughter?” said Poole and, as Mr. Menticle made no comment, took silence for consent.
The detective had jotted down the outline of the will as Mr. Menticle sketched it. He ran his eye over it again.
“And the residue will amount to?” he asked.
“Impossible to say yet. Sir Garth had very wide interests. The death duties, of course, will vary according to the total amount dutiable.”
“But roughly?”
“Roughly, between four and five hundred thousand pounds, I should say.”
“So that Mr. Ryland and Miss Inez Fratten will each get over £200,000.”
“Presumably.”
“Large sums,” said Poole, “even in these days. Very large compared with the other legacies, I gather. What was the largest of those?”
“Mine and Mr. Hessel’s. None of the others amounted to more than an annuity of £100.”
“Hardly enough to invite murder—still, one never knows. Now, Mr. Menticle, I am going to ask you a straight question. Do you believe that any of these legatees, residuary or otherwise, had any inducement to bring about the premature death of the testator?”
Mr. Menticle rose abruptly from his chair and, walking over to the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out on to the November night. Coming back into the room, he stood in front of the fire, with one foot on the fender, seeming to seek for inspiration from the blazing logs.
“That is a very direct question,” he temporized.
“It is,” said the detective, “and I want your answer, please, Mr. Menticle.” The expression of Poole’s face would have told anyone who knew him that, having got his grip, nothing now would cause him to relax it.
At last the lawyer straightened his shoulders and, turning his back to the fire, looked down at his interlocutor.
“I think I must tell you,” he said, “that a week or so before his death, Sir Garth instructed me to draw up a new will. I was to have brought it to him to sign the morning after he actually died.”
“There were important alterations?” Poole’s voice was tense.
“There was one. Ryland Fratten was cut out of the will as a residuary legatee.”