Chapter XII.The Silverdale Wills“This is Mr. Renard, sir.”Flamborough held open the door of Sir Clinton's office and ushered in the little Frenchman. The Chief Constable glanced up at the interruptors.“Mrs. Silverdale's brother, isn't it?” he asked courteously.Renard nodded vigorously, and turned toward the Inspector, as though leaving explanations to him. Flamborough threw himself into the breach:“It appears, sir, that Mr. Renard isn't entirely satisfied with the state of things he's unearthed in the matter of his sister's will. It's taken him by surprise; and he came to see what I thought about it. He'd prefer to lay the point before you, so I've brought him along. It seems just as well that you should hear it at first-hand, for it looks as though it might be important.”Sir Clinton closed his fountain pen and invited Renard to take a seat.“I'm at your disposal, Mr. Renard,” he said briskly. “Let's hear the whole story, if you please, whatever it is. Inspector Flamborough will make notes, if you don't mind.”Renard took the chair which Sir Clinton indicated.“I shall be concise,” he assured the Chief Constable. “It is not a very complicated affair, but I should like to have it thrashed out, as you English say.”He settled himself at ease and then plunged into his tale.“My sister, Yvonne Renard, as you know, married Mr. Silverdale in 1923. I was not altogether pleased with the alliance, not quite satisfied, you understand? Oh, there was nothing against Mr. Silverdale! But I knew my sister, and Silverdale was not the right man for her: he was too serious, too intent on his profession. He had not the natural gaiety which was needed in a husband for Yvonne. Already I was in doubt, at the very moment of the marriage. There were incompatibilities, you understand. . . . ?”Sir Clinton's gesture assured him that he had made himself sufficiently clear.“I have nothing to say against my brother-in-law, you follow me?” Renard went on. “It was a case of ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ as your English proverb says. They were unsuited to each other, but that was no fault of theirs. When they discovered each other—their real selves—it is clear that they decided to make the best of it. I had nothing to say. I was sorry that my sister had not found a husband more suited to her temperament; but I am not one who would make trouble by sympathising too much.”“I quite understand, Mr. Renard,” Sir Clinton intervened, with the obvious intention of cutting short this elaborate exposition of the self-evident.“Now I come to the important point,” Renard went on. “At the time of the marriage, or shortly afterwards—I do not know your English law about testaments very well—my brother-in-law transferred part of his property in stocks and shares to my sister. It was some question of Death Duties, I was told. If he died first, then she would have had to pay on his whole estate; but by transferring some of his property to her, this could be avoided. In case of his death, she would have to pay only on what he had retained in his own name. It is, I understand, a usual precaution in the circumstances.”“It's often done,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “By the way, Mr. Renard, can you give me some idea of how much he transferred to her on their marriage?”“I cannot give you the precise figures,” Renard explained. “I have seen the lawyer's accounts, of course; but they were involved, and I have no good memory for figures. It was only a few hundred pounds—a mere drop in the bucket, as you would say in English. My brother-in-law is not a rich man, not by any means. But the sum itself is of little importance. It is the sequel which is of more interest, as you shall see.”He leaned forward in his chair as though to fix Sir Clinton's attention.“When my brother-in-law transferred this little property to my sister, they each made their testament. That, I believe, was on the advice of a lawyer. By his will, my brother-in-law left all his property to my sister. He had no relations, so far as I have learned; and that seemed very fair. The second will, my sister's, was in identical terms, so far as the principal clauses went. All her property in stocks, shares, and money, went to my brother-in-law. There was a little provision at the end which left to me a few small souvenirs, things of sentimental value only. It seemed very fair in the circumstances. I suggest nothing wrong. How could there be anything wrong?”“It seems a normal precaution in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton assured him. “Naturally, if she died first, he would expect to get his own property back again—less the Death Duties, of course.”“It was a very small affair,” Renard emphasised. “If I had been consulted, I should certainly have advised it. But I was not consulted. It was no business of mine, except that I was made a trustee. I am not one who mixes himself up with affairs which do not concern him.”“Where is this leading to, Mr. Renard?” Sir Clinton asked patiently. “I don't see your difficulty as yet, I must confess.”“There is no difficulty. It is merely that I wish to lay some further information before you. Now, I proceed. My aunt had been ill for a long time. A disease of the heart, it was: angina pectoris. She was bound to die in a spasm, at a moment's notice. One expected it, you understand? And less than three weeks ago, she had the spasm which we had so long anticipated, and she died.”Sir Clinton's face expressed his sympathy, but he made no attempt to interrupt.“As I told Inspector Flamborough when I saw him last,” Renard continued, “the figure of her fortune came as a surprise to me. I had no idea she was so rich. She lived very simply, very parsimoniously, even. I had always thought of her as hard-up, you understand? Figure to yourself my astonishment when I learned that she had accumulated over £12,000! That is a great sum. Many people would do almost anything to acquire £12,000.”He paused for a moment as though in rapt contemplation of the figures.“Her testament was very simple,” he proceeded. “My sister Yvonne was her favourite. My aunt had always put her in front of me. I make no complaint, you understand? Someone must be preferred. I had a little bequest under my aunt's testament; but Yvonne secured almost the whole of my aunt's fortune. That was how things stood a fortnight ago.”He hitched himself in his chair as though preparing for a revelation.“My sister and I were the trustees under my aunt's testament. The lawyer who had charge of the will communicated with me and forwarded a copy of the document. These legal documents are not easy to understand. But I soon saw that my sister had acquired the whole of my aunt's capital in stocks and shares—about a million and a half francs. I am not very good at legal affairs. It took me some time to understand what all this meant; but I thought it out. It is really quite simple, very easy. My sister had gained £12,000 under my aunt's will; but if she died without any change in the circumstances, then under the will which she signed after her marriage, my brother-in-law would inherit the whole of that money. Figure to yourself, he had never even seen my aunt, and all that £12,000 would pour into his lap. And I, who had been almost like a son to my aunt, I would get nothing! I make no complaint, of course.”Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing whatever of his views on the question. He merely waited in silence for Renard to continued his story.“When I understood the position,” Renard resumed, “I sat down and wrote a letter to my sister. ‘Here is the state of affairs,’ I said. ‘Our good aunt is dead, and she has named you as her heiress. A whole million and a half francs! To me she has left some little things, enough at least to buy a suit of mourning. I have no complaints to make: our good aunt had the right to dispose of her money as she chose.’ That was how I began, you understand? Then I went on thus: ‘Things are for the best for the present,’ I said, ‘but one must think of the future as well. Recall the will which you made at the time of your marriage. All is to go to your husband, should anything happen to you. Now,’ I wrote, ‘that seems to me hardly as it should be. If you should die—a motor accident might happen any day—then all the money of our aunt would pass into the hands of your husband, this husband with whom you have so little in common and who had no relations with our good aunt. And I, who am your nearest in kin, would receive not one penny. Think of that,’ I wrote, ‘and consider whether it would be fair. Is the fortune of our family to pass into the hands of strangers and we ourselves to be left without a share in it?’ ”Renard looked from the Inspector to Sir Clinton and back to the Inspector, as though seeking for sympathy. Apparently finding nothing very satisfying in their expressions, he continued his tale.“I put it to her that this state of affairs was not as it should be. I did not plead for myself, of course. That is not my way. I tried to show her that as things stood, injustice would be done if she should happen to die. And I urged her very strongly to make a fresh will. ‘See,’ I wrote, ‘how things would fall out. To you, it would mean nothing, very naturally. You would be far beyond all cares. But this money would be left. Would you desire that it should fall into the hands of this husband of yours, with whom you cannot find anything in common? Or would you not prefer that it should be left to your brother who has always been good to you?’ That is how I put it to her. I asked her to take swift action and to call in a lawyer who could aid her to draw up a fresh will which would be fair to both her husband and myself. I desired to be fair, you understand? merely to be fair. He would have received back his own stocks and shares which he had given to her at the time of their marriage. I would have gained the fortune which descended from my aunt. That seemed reasonable, surely.”“Yes,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “it sounds quite reasonable in the circumstances. And what happened?”“I have been to see the lawyers,” Renard went on. “Figure to yourself what I discovered. My poor Yvonne was not a woman of affairs. She had no business-like habits. If a thing seemed likely to give her trouble, she would put it aside for as long as she could, before dealing with it. Affairs bored her. It was her temperament, like that. So when she received my letter, she put it aside for some days. One cannot blame her. It was not in her nature to go to great trouble over a thing like that. Besides, death was not in her thoughts. One day was as good as another.”He paused, as though wishing to heighten the interest of his narrative; for it was evident that he had produced but little impression on Sir Clinton.“She had a good heart, my poor sister. She understood the position well enough, it seems. And she had no wish to see her good brother left out in the cold, as you English put it. But she delayed and delayed in the affair. And in the end she delayed too long.”Again he hitched himself forward in his chair, as though he were approaching something important.“I went to the lawyers. What did I find? This. My poor Yvonne had not forgotten her good brother. She had the intention of setting things right. One day she rang up the lawyers on the telephone and made an appointment with them for the following afternoon. She informed them that she proposed to alter her will; but of course, over the telephone, she said nothing about her wishes on the point. That is to be understood. But she said she would jot down the points to be embodied in the new will and bring that paper with her. That is all the lawyers know. That is all I know myself. For before the next afternoon, when she had made her appointment with the lawyers—my poor Yvonne was dead! Is it not distressing? Twelve thousand pounds! A million and a half francs! And they slip through my fingers just by a few hours. But I make no complaint, of course. I do not grumble. It is not my way. These things happen, and one has to bear them.”If he had expected to read any sympathy in Sir Clinton's face, he must have been disappointed. The Chief Constable betrayed nothing of the feelings in his mind.“Was it not most inopportune?” Renard continued. “Or most opportune indeed, for Silverdale, that things fell out as they have done. A coincidence, of course. Life is full of these things. I have seen too many to be astonished, myself. But is it not most apt that she should die just at that juncture? Another day of life, and the twelve thousand pounds goes into one pocket; a death, and the money falls into other hands. I am something of a philosopher. One has to be, in this world. And these strange chances have an attraction for my mind. I know there is nothing behind them, nothing whatever, you understand? And yet, is it not most striking that things fall out as they do?”The Chief Constable declined to be drawn into a general discussion on the Universe.“I am afraid it is scarcely a matter for the police, Mr. Renard. Wills hardly fall into our province, you know, unless a case of forgery turns up; and in this case there's nothing of that sort. The only advice I could give you would be to consult a lawyer, but as you've already had the legal position made clear, I don't see that there's anything to be done.”Inspector Flamborough took his cue and, without more ado he hinted to Renard very plainly that enough time had been spent on the matter. At length the little Frenchman withdrew, leaving the two officials together.“I don't much care for his way of telling his story, sir,” Flamborough remarked, “but I'm not sure, if I were in his shoes, that I wouldn't feel much the same as he seems to do. It must be a bit galling to lose £12,000 by a few hours’ delay. And he's quite reasonably suspicious, evidently.”Sir Clinton refused to be drawn.“Don't let's be too much influenced by the stop press news, Inspector. Renard's evidence is the latest we have; but that adds nothing to its value, remember. Look at the case as a whole and try to reckon up the people who could conceivably gain anything by the crime. Then you can assess the probabilities in each case—apart altogether from the order in which the facts have come to light.”The Inspector had evidently considered the matter already from this stand-point. He hardly paused before offering his views.“Well, sir, if you ask me, Silverdale had at least two sound motives for committing murder. By getting his wife out of the way, he opened the road to a marriage with the Deepcar girl, whom he's obviously keen on. Also, if Renard's story's true, the death of his wife at that particular juncture put £12,000 into his pocket, which he'd have lost if Mrs. Silverdale had lived a day or two longer.”“One has to admit that he hadn't evidence to get a divorce, which would have been an obvious alternative to murder,” Sir Clinton acknowledged. “And the cash affair makes the death of Mrs. Silverdale peculiarly opportune. It's no use burking the plain fact that either money or a woman might tempt a man to murder; and when you've got both of them together, one can't brush them aside cavalierly. But go on with your list, Inspector.”“There's that money-lender, Spratton,” Flamborough pursued. “If young Hassendean's death can be proved to be a murder, then Spratton lifts some thousands out of the pocket of the insurance company in return for the payment of a single premium. That's a motive, certainly.”“It's a sound motive forprovingthat it was a case of murder and not suicide; and it's a possible motive for murder, I admit. But the position of a gentleman who commits a murder for gain and can only collect the money by proving that murder was done . . . Well, it sounds a bit complicated, doesn't it?”“Unless he can be sure of fixing the murder on someone else, sir.”“It's a bit difficult in practice to produce a frame-up of that description, isn't it?”The Inspector refrained from betraying any opinion on this point.“Then there's the Hailsham girl, sir. She's a vindictive type; and she quite obviously had the worst kind of grudge against both of them. Revenge might have been at the back of the business for all one can tell. I don't say it's likely; but I'm considering possibilities, not necessarily probabilities.”“I don't think Miss Hailsham can reckon me among her admirers,” Sir Clinton confessed. “But that's hardly evidence against her in a murder case. We'd need something a bit more concrete.”“She admitted that she left the dance early that night and took her car home, sir. She hasn't got a clean alibi for the time the murder was committed.”“So I noticed when she told her story. But the absence of an alibi doesn't establish murderous intent, you know. Go ahead.”“Well, sir, there's the Deepcar girl. She's keen on Silverdale. It's always a motive.”“Save me from being mixed up in any murder case that you have charge of, Inspector. My character wouldn't escape, I see. You'll need to have something better than that before you start arresting anyone.”“I'm not talking about arresting anyone, sir,” the Inspector replied in an injured tone. “I'm just reviewing possible motives.”“Quite true. Can't one make a feeble joke without rasping your susceptibilities? Now is that the end of your list?”“I think so, sir.”“Ah! You didn't think of including someone with the initial ‘B,’ then? You remember the ‘B’ on the bracelet?”The Inspector seemed rather startled.“You mean this fellow B. might have been a discarded lover of Mrs. Silverdale's who was out for revenge like the Hailsham girl? I hadn't thought of that. It's possible, of course.”“Now let's turn to a fresh side of the case,” Sir Clinton suggested. “One thing's certain; hyoscine played a part in the affair. What about Mr. Justice's pertinent inquiry: ‘Who had access to hyoscine at the Croft-Thornton Institute?’ ”“Every blessed soul in the place, so far as I could see,” the Inspector confessed, rather ruefully. “Silverdale, Markfield, young Hassendean, and the two girls: they all had equal chances of helping themselves from that bottle in the store. I don't think that leads very far. That hyoscine was common property so far as access to it went. Anyone might have taken some.”“Then push the thing a little further. Out of all that list, who had an opportunity of administering hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale—directly or indirectly—on the night she died?”“Directly or indirectly?” Flamborough mused. “There's something in that perhaps. On the face of it, only three people could have administered the drug directly, since there were only three people at Heatherfield in a fit state to do it. I take it that she swallowed the stuff at Heatherfield, sir, because I found no trace of a paper which might have held it, either at the bungalow or on the bodies of young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale.”“That's sound, I believe,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “She swallowed the stuff at Heatherfield before going out. Now who are your three suspects?”“Mrs. Silverdale herself might have taken it, sir, either on purpose or by mistake.”“But she had no access to hyoscine that we know of.”“No, sir, but both Silverdale and young Hassendean had. She may have taken it in mistake for a headache powder or something of that sort. And it might have been added to a headache powder by either Silverdale or young Hassendean.”“That's a good enough suggestion, Inspector. But I didn't see any sign of a powder paper in her room when I searched it; and you remember she came straight downstairs and went out of the house, according to the maid's evidence. Any other view?”“Then it must have been administered in the coffee, sir, by either young Hassendean or the maid.”“The maid? Where would she get hyoscine?”“From Silverdale, sir. It's just occurred to me. Silverdale wanted a divorce; but he couldn't get evidence because his wife was simply playing with young Hassendean and keeping well within the limits. But if she were drugged, then young Hassendean might seize the chance that was offered to him, and if Silverdale was prepared beforehand, he'd have his evidence at the cost of watching them for an hour or two.”“So Silverdale gave the maid the drug to put in one of the cups of coffee and ordered her to give that cup to Mrs. Silverdale, you think?”“It's possible, sir. I don't put it higher. That maid was a simple creature—look how the doctor pumped her on the pretence of getting medical information that night. She was devoted to Silverdale; he told us that himself. She'd swallow any talk he chose to hand out to her. Suppose he faked up some yarn about Mrs. Silverdale needing a sedative but refusing to take it. The maid would believe that from Silverdale, and she'd put the hyoscine into the cup quite innocently. If the worst came to the worst, and the cups got mixed, then young Hassendean would get the dose instead.”“It's asking a bit too much, I'm afraid. Remember it was a heavy over-dose that was given.”“Everybody's liable to make a mistake, sir.”“True. And I suppose you'd say that after the murder at the bungalow Silverdale awoke to the fact that the maid's evidence about the hyoscine would hang him, probably; so he went back and murdered her also.”“It was someone well known to her who did her in, sir. That's clear enough.”“In the meantime, you've left aside the possibility that young Hassendean may have administered the stuff. How does that strike you?”“It's possible, sir,” the Inspector admitted cautiously. “But there's no evidence for it.”“Oh, I shouldn't like to go so far as that,” Sir Clinton said, chaffingly. “I'll tell you what evidence there is on the point. There's Hassendean's own diary, first of all. Then there's what we found in young Hassendean's laboratory notebook.”“But that was just some stuff about weighing potash-bulbs, whatever they may be.”“Quite correct. That was what it was.”“Well, I'm no chemist, sir. It's off my beat.”“There's no chemistry in it. I gave you the key to it at the time. Then there's other evidence. Young Hassendean was a careless worker. Everyone agreed on that; and his notebook confirmed it. Next, there's what Miss Hailsham said about hyoscine, which is more or less common knowledge, nowadays, of course. And there's young Hassendean's interference in the serving of coffee at Heatherfield, that night. Finally, there's what the maid said about Mrs. Silverdale's appearance when she was going out of the house. Put all these points together, and I'll engage to satisfy a jury that young Hassendean administered the hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale in her coffee, with a definite purpose—but not murder—in view.”“I'll need to think over all that, sir. You seem pretty sure about it.”“I'm practically certain. Now look at the business from another stand-point. Who had a grudge against the two victims, either separately or together?”“Silverdale, obviously.”“Obviously, as you say. That's if you take them together, of course. Now for a final problem. Who is Mr. Justice? He seems to be in the know, somehow. If we could lay hands on him, we might be near the centre of things. He knew before anyone else that something had happened at the bungalow. He knew about the hyoscine at the Institute—although as Silverdale's a fairly well-recognised authority on alkaloids, that might have been just a shot aimed on chance. Anyhow, look at it as you choose, Mr. Justice has information, and he seems to have a motive. Who is he, can you guess?”“Somebody who won't come out into the open until he's dragged there, evidently. It might be an unwilling accomplice, sir.”“That's possible. Anyone else?”“It might be Spratton. He's got an interest in establishing that it was a case of murder and not suicide.”“Obviously true. Anyone else?”“I can't think of anyone else who would fit the case, sir. By the way, I've got the originals of these advertisements—the code ones. I sent down to the newspaper offices and got hold of them.”He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket-book and handed them to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton glanced over them.“H'm! The first one—the letters—is built up as usual from telegram forms. The one with the numbers is fitted together from numbers printed in a newspaper; it might have been clipped from one of these lists of the results of drawings of bonds for redemption—Underground Electric Railways, and that kind of thing. These advertisements have columns and columns of figures out of which he'd be able to pick what he wanted easily enough. Now what about this address that he's put down—the usual guarantee of good faith at the bottom. It's fictitious, of course?”“Yes, sir. There's no such place.”“It's in writing. It looks like a girl's writing. This is a dangerous game for Mr. Justice; but I suppose if he'd put all the advertisement in clipped-out letters the newspaper people might have got suspicious and refused to print it. What about this handwriting, Inspector?”Flamborough's expression showed that he felt he had done his work thoroughly.“I managed to get hold of specimens of the writing of Miss Hailsham and Miss Deepcar. It isn't either of them. Then I tried to get it recognised—and I succeeded, sir. Miss Hailsham recognised it at once. It's Mrs. Silverdale's own writing!”“A forgery, then? That's very neat of Mr. Justice. I feel inclined to take off my hat to that fellow. He thinks of everything.”“Well, it's a blank end for us, so far as I can see, sir.”Sir Clinton seemed to be so lost in admiration of Mr. Justice's ingenuity that he failed to notice Flamborough's dissatisfaction. When he spoke again, it was on a different topic.“What about your friend, Mr. Whalley, Inspector? It seems to me we ought to have him up and put him through it as quick as possible. Quite obviously he knows something.”“I've tried to get hold of him, sir. But he's left the town and I can't get on his track. He's gone off to some race-meeting or other, I expect. He often goes off like that and leaves no address. I'll lay hands on him as soon as he comes back to Westerhaven.”“He's an essential witness, I suspect; so don't let him slip through your fingers. You'd better ask for assistance from the local police in likely places.”“Very good, sir.”“And now, Inspector, how are you getting along with the game of eliminations? How low have you brought the possibles out of the original nine solutions?”Flamborough produced his often-unfolded scrap of paper and scanned it once more.“If one accepts what you said a minute or two ago, sir, then the drugging of Mrs. Silverdale was meant to be plain drugging and wasn't wilful murder. So the last case drops out.”He put his pencil through the line of writing.“That leaves only two alternatives:HassendeanMrs. SilverdaleX—SuicideAccidentY—MurderAccidentAnd young Hassendean, from all accounts, was hardly the lad to suicide by shooting himself twice in the body—too painful for him. So it really looks rather like Case Y. Certainly it's coming down to brass tacks quicker than I thought it would.”
“This is Mr. Renard, sir.”
Flamborough held open the door of Sir Clinton's office and ushered in the little Frenchman. The Chief Constable glanced up at the interruptors.
“Mrs. Silverdale's brother, isn't it?” he asked courteously.
Renard nodded vigorously, and turned toward the Inspector, as though leaving explanations to him. Flamborough threw himself into the breach:
“It appears, sir, that Mr. Renard isn't entirely satisfied with the state of things he's unearthed in the matter of his sister's will. It's taken him by surprise; and he came to see what I thought about it. He'd prefer to lay the point before you, so I've brought him along. It seems just as well that you should hear it at first-hand, for it looks as though it might be important.”
Sir Clinton closed his fountain pen and invited Renard to take a seat.
“I'm at your disposal, Mr. Renard,” he said briskly. “Let's hear the whole story, if you please, whatever it is. Inspector Flamborough will make notes, if you don't mind.”
Renard took the chair which Sir Clinton indicated.
“I shall be concise,” he assured the Chief Constable. “It is not a very complicated affair, but I should like to have it thrashed out, as you English say.”
He settled himself at ease and then plunged into his tale.
“My sister, Yvonne Renard, as you know, married Mr. Silverdale in 1923. I was not altogether pleased with the alliance, not quite satisfied, you understand? Oh, there was nothing against Mr. Silverdale! But I knew my sister, and Silverdale was not the right man for her: he was too serious, too intent on his profession. He had not the natural gaiety which was needed in a husband for Yvonne. Already I was in doubt, at the very moment of the marriage. There were incompatibilities, you understand. . . . ?”
Sir Clinton's gesture assured him that he had made himself sufficiently clear.
“I have nothing to say against my brother-in-law, you follow me?” Renard went on. “It was a case of ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ as your English proverb says. They were unsuited to each other, but that was no fault of theirs. When they discovered each other—their real selves—it is clear that they decided to make the best of it. I had nothing to say. I was sorry that my sister had not found a husband more suited to her temperament; but I am not one who would make trouble by sympathising too much.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Renard,” Sir Clinton intervened, with the obvious intention of cutting short this elaborate exposition of the self-evident.
“Now I come to the important point,” Renard went on. “At the time of the marriage, or shortly afterwards—I do not know your English law about testaments very well—my brother-in-law transferred part of his property in stocks and shares to my sister. It was some question of Death Duties, I was told. If he died first, then she would have had to pay on his whole estate; but by transferring some of his property to her, this could be avoided. In case of his death, she would have to pay only on what he had retained in his own name. It is, I understand, a usual precaution in the circumstances.”
“It's often done,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “By the way, Mr. Renard, can you give me some idea of how much he transferred to her on their marriage?”
“I cannot give you the precise figures,” Renard explained. “I have seen the lawyer's accounts, of course; but they were involved, and I have no good memory for figures. It was only a few hundred pounds—a mere drop in the bucket, as you would say in English. My brother-in-law is not a rich man, not by any means. But the sum itself is of little importance. It is the sequel which is of more interest, as you shall see.”
He leaned forward in his chair as though to fix Sir Clinton's attention.
“When my brother-in-law transferred this little property to my sister, they each made their testament. That, I believe, was on the advice of a lawyer. By his will, my brother-in-law left all his property to my sister. He had no relations, so far as I have learned; and that seemed very fair. The second will, my sister's, was in identical terms, so far as the principal clauses went. All her property in stocks, shares, and money, went to my brother-in-law. There was a little provision at the end which left to me a few small souvenirs, things of sentimental value only. It seemed very fair in the circumstances. I suggest nothing wrong. How could there be anything wrong?”
“It seems a normal precaution in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton assured him. “Naturally, if she died first, he would expect to get his own property back again—less the Death Duties, of course.”
“It was a very small affair,” Renard emphasised. “If I had been consulted, I should certainly have advised it. But I was not consulted. It was no business of mine, except that I was made a trustee. I am not one who mixes himself up with affairs which do not concern him.”
“Where is this leading to, Mr. Renard?” Sir Clinton asked patiently. “I don't see your difficulty as yet, I must confess.”
“There is no difficulty. It is merely that I wish to lay some further information before you. Now, I proceed. My aunt had been ill for a long time. A disease of the heart, it was: angina pectoris. She was bound to die in a spasm, at a moment's notice. One expected it, you understand? And less than three weeks ago, she had the spasm which we had so long anticipated, and she died.”
Sir Clinton's face expressed his sympathy, but he made no attempt to interrupt.
“As I told Inspector Flamborough when I saw him last,” Renard continued, “the figure of her fortune came as a surprise to me. I had no idea she was so rich. She lived very simply, very parsimoniously, even. I had always thought of her as hard-up, you understand? Figure to yourself my astonishment when I learned that she had accumulated over £12,000! That is a great sum. Many people would do almost anything to acquire £12,000.”
He paused for a moment as though in rapt contemplation of the figures.
“Her testament was very simple,” he proceeded. “My sister Yvonne was her favourite. My aunt had always put her in front of me. I make no complaint, you understand? Someone must be preferred. I had a little bequest under my aunt's testament; but Yvonne secured almost the whole of my aunt's fortune. That was how things stood a fortnight ago.”
He hitched himself in his chair as though preparing for a revelation.
“My sister and I were the trustees under my aunt's testament. The lawyer who had charge of the will communicated with me and forwarded a copy of the document. These legal documents are not easy to understand. But I soon saw that my sister had acquired the whole of my aunt's capital in stocks and shares—about a million and a half francs. I am not very good at legal affairs. It took me some time to understand what all this meant; but I thought it out. It is really quite simple, very easy. My sister had gained £12,000 under my aunt's will; but if she died without any change in the circumstances, then under the will which she signed after her marriage, my brother-in-law would inherit the whole of that money. Figure to yourself, he had never even seen my aunt, and all that £12,000 would pour into his lap. And I, who had been almost like a son to my aunt, I would get nothing! I make no complaint, of course.”
Sir Clinton's face betrayed nothing whatever of his views on the question. He merely waited in silence for Renard to continued his story.
“When I understood the position,” Renard resumed, “I sat down and wrote a letter to my sister. ‘Here is the state of affairs,’ I said. ‘Our good aunt is dead, and she has named you as her heiress. A whole million and a half francs! To me she has left some little things, enough at least to buy a suit of mourning. I have no complaints to make: our good aunt had the right to dispose of her money as she chose.’ That was how I began, you understand? Then I went on thus: ‘Things are for the best for the present,’ I said, ‘but one must think of the future as well. Recall the will which you made at the time of your marriage. All is to go to your husband, should anything happen to you. Now,’ I wrote, ‘that seems to me hardly as it should be. If you should die—a motor accident might happen any day—then all the money of our aunt would pass into the hands of your husband, this husband with whom you have so little in common and who had no relations with our good aunt. And I, who am your nearest in kin, would receive not one penny. Think of that,’ I wrote, ‘and consider whether it would be fair. Is the fortune of our family to pass into the hands of strangers and we ourselves to be left without a share in it?’ ”
Renard looked from the Inspector to Sir Clinton and back to the Inspector, as though seeking for sympathy. Apparently finding nothing very satisfying in their expressions, he continued his tale.
“I put it to her that this state of affairs was not as it should be. I did not plead for myself, of course. That is not my way. I tried to show her that as things stood, injustice would be done if she should happen to die. And I urged her very strongly to make a fresh will. ‘See,’ I wrote, ‘how things would fall out. To you, it would mean nothing, very naturally. You would be far beyond all cares. But this money would be left. Would you desire that it should fall into the hands of this husband of yours, with whom you cannot find anything in common? Or would you not prefer that it should be left to your brother who has always been good to you?’ That is how I put it to her. I asked her to take swift action and to call in a lawyer who could aid her to draw up a fresh will which would be fair to both her husband and myself. I desired to be fair, you understand? merely to be fair. He would have received back his own stocks and shares which he had given to her at the time of their marriage. I would have gained the fortune which descended from my aunt. That seemed reasonable, surely.”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “it sounds quite reasonable in the circumstances. And what happened?”
“I have been to see the lawyers,” Renard went on. “Figure to yourself what I discovered. My poor Yvonne was not a woman of affairs. She had no business-like habits. If a thing seemed likely to give her trouble, she would put it aside for as long as she could, before dealing with it. Affairs bored her. It was her temperament, like that. So when she received my letter, she put it aside for some days. One cannot blame her. It was not in her nature to go to great trouble over a thing like that. Besides, death was not in her thoughts. One day was as good as another.”
He paused, as though wishing to heighten the interest of his narrative; for it was evident that he had produced but little impression on Sir Clinton.
“She had a good heart, my poor sister. She understood the position well enough, it seems. And she had no wish to see her good brother left out in the cold, as you English put it. But she delayed and delayed in the affair. And in the end she delayed too long.”
Again he hitched himself forward in his chair, as though he were approaching something important.
“I went to the lawyers. What did I find? This. My poor Yvonne had not forgotten her good brother. She had the intention of setting things right. One day she rang up the lawyers on the telephone and made an appointment with them for the following afternoon. She informed them that she proposed to alter her will; but of course, over the telephone, she said nothing about her wishes on the point. That is to be understood. But she said she would jot down the points to be embodied in the new will and bring that paper with her. That is all the lawyers know. That is all I know myself. For before the next afternoon, when she had made her appointment with the lawyers—my poor Yvonne was dead! Is it not distressing? Twelve thousand pounds! A million and a half francs! And they slip through my fingers just by a few hours. But I make no complaint, of course. I do not grumble. It is not my way. These things happen, and one has to bear them.”
If he had expected to read any sympathy in Sir Clinton's face, he must have been disappointed. The Chief Constable betrayed nothing of the feelings in his mind.
“Was it not most inopportune?” Renard continued. “Or most opportune indeed, for Silverdale, that things fell out as they have done. A coincidence, of course. Life is full of these things. I have seen too many to be astonished, myself. But is it not most apt that she should die just at that juncture? Another day of life, and the twelve thousand pounds goes into one pocket; a death, and the money falls into other hands. I am something of a philosopher. One has to be, in this world. And these strange chances have an attraction for my mind. I know there is nothing behind them, nothing whatever, you understand? And yet, is it not most striking that things fall out as they do?”
The Chief Constable declined to be drawn into a general discussion on the Universe.
“I am afraid it is scarcely a matter for the police, Mr. Renard. Wills hardly fall into our province, you know, unless a case of forgery turns up; and in this case there's nothing of that sort. The only advice I could give you would be to consult a lawyer, but as you've already had the legal position made clear, I don't see that there's anything to be done.”
Inspector Flamborough took his cue and, without more ado he hinted to Renard very plainly that enough time had been spent on the matter. At length the little Frenchman withdrew, leaving the two officials together.
“I don't much care for his way of telling his story, sir,” Flamborough remarked, “but I'm not sure, if I were in his shoes, that I wouldn't feel much the same as he seems to do. It must be a bit galling to lose £12,000 by a few hours’ delay. And he's quite reasonably suspicious, evidently.”
Sir Clinton refused to be drawn.
“Don't let's be too much influenced by the stop press news, Inspector. Renard's evidence is the latest we have; but that adds nothing to its value, remember. Look at the case as a whole and try to reckon up the people who could conceivably gain anything by the crime. Then you can assess the probabilities in each case—apart altogether from the order in which the facts have come to light.”
The Inspector had evidently considered the matter already from this stand-point. He hardly paused before offering his views.
“Well, sir, if you ask me, Silverdale had at least two sound motives for committing murder. By getting his wife out of the way, he opened the road to a marriage with the Deepcar girl, whom he's obviously keen on. Also, if Renard's story's true, the death of his wife at that particular juncture put £12,000 into his pocket, which he'd have lost if Mrs. Silverdale had lived a day or two longer.”
“One has to admit that he hadn't evidence to get a divorce, which would have been an obvious alternative to murder,” Sir Clinton acknowledged. “And the cash affair makes the death of Mrs. Silverdale peculiarly opportune. It's no use burking the plain fact that either money or a woman might tempt a man to murder; and when you've got both of them together, one can't brush them aside cavalierly. But go on with your list, Inspector.”
“There's that money-lender, Spratton,” Flamborough pursued. “If young Hassendean's death can be proved to be a murder, then Spratton lifts some thousands out of the pocket of the insurance company in return for the payment of a single premium. That's a motive, certainly.”
“It's a sound motive forprovingthat it was a case of murder and not suicide; and it's a possible motive for murder, I admit. But the position of a gentleman who commits a murder for gain and can only collect the money by proving that murder was done . . . Well, it sounds a bit complicated, doesn't it?”
“Unless he can be sure of fixing the murder on someone else, sir.”
“It's a bit difficult in practice to produce a frame-up of that description, isn't it?”
The Inspector refrained from betraying any opinion on this point.
“Then there's the Hailsham girl, sir. She's a vindictive type; and she quite obviously had the worst kind of grudge against both of them. Revenge might have been at the back of the business for all one can tell. I don't say it's likely; but I'm considering possibilities, not necessarily probabilities.”
“I don't think Miss Hailsham can reckon me among her admirers,” Sir Clinton confessed. “But that's hardly evidence against her in a murder case. We'd need something a bit more concrete.”
“She admitted that she left the dance early that night and took her car home, sir. She hasn't got a clean alibi for the time the murder was committed.”
“So I noticed when she told her story. But the absence of an alibi doesn't establish murderous intent, you know. Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, there's the Deepcar girl. She's keen on Silverdale. It's always a motive.”
“Save me from being mixed up in any murder case that you have charge of, Inspector. My character wouldn't escape, I see. You'll need to have something better than that before you start arresting anyone.”
“I'm not talking about arresting anyone, sir,” the Inspector replied in an injured tone. “I'm just reviewing possible motives.”
“Quite true. Can't one make a feeble joke without rasping your susceptibilities? Now is that the end of your list?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Ah! You didn't think of including someone with the initial ‘B,’ then? You remember the ‘B’ on the bracelet?”
The Inspector seemed rather startled.
“You mean this fellow B. might have been a discarded lover of Mrs. Silverdale's who was out for revenge like the Hailsham girl? I hadn't thought of that. It's possible, of course.”
“Now let's turn to a fresh side of the case,” Sir Clinton suggested. “One thing's certain; hyoscine played a part in the affair. What about Mr. Justice's pertinent inquiry: ‘Who had access to hyoscine at the Croft-Thornton Institute?’ ”
“Every blessed soul in the place, so far as I could see,” the Inspector confessed, rather ruefully. “Silverdale, Markfield, young Hassendean, and the two girls: they all had equal chances of helping themselves from that bottle in the store. I don't think that leads very far. That hyoscine was common property so far as access to it went. Anyone might have taken some.”
“Then push the thing a little further. Out of all that list, who had an opportunity of administering hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale—directly or indirectly—on the night she died?”
“Directly or indirectly?” Flamborough mused. “There's something in that perhaps. On the face of it, only three people could have administered the drug directly, since there were only three people at Heatherfield in a fit state to do it. I take it that she swallowed the stuff at Heatherfield, sir, because I found no trace of a paper which might have held it, either at the bungalow or on the bodies of young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale.”
“That's sound, I believe,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “She swallowed the stuff at Heatherfield before going out. Now who are your three suspects?”
“Mrs. Silverdale herself might have taken it, sir, either on purpose or by mistake.”
“But she had no access to hyoscine that we know of.”
“No, sir, but both Silverdale and young Hassendean had. She may have taken it in mistake for a headache powder or something of that sort. And it might have been added to a headache powder by either Silverdale or young Hassendean.”
“That's a good enough suggestion, Inspector. But I didn't see any sign of a powder paper in her room when I searched it; and you remember she came straight downstairs and went out of the house, according to the maid's evidence. Any other view?”
“Then it must have been administered in the coffee, sir, by either young Hassendean or the maid.”
“The maid? Where would she get hyoscine?”
“From Silverdale, sir. It's just occurred to me. Silverdale wanted a divorce; but he couldn't get evidence because his wife was simply playing with young Hassendean and keeping well within the limits. But if she were drugged, then young Hassendean might seize the chance that was offered to him, and if Silverdale was prepared beforehand, he'd have his evidence at the cost of watching them for an hour or two.”
“So Silverdale gave the maid the drug to put in one of the cups of coffee and ordered her to give that cup to Mrs. Silverdale, you think?”
“It's possible, sir. I don't put it higher. That maid was a simple creature—look how the doctor pumped her on the pretence of getting medical information that night. She was devoted to Silverdale; he told us that himself. She'd swallow any talk he chose to hand out to her. Suppose he faked up some yarn about Mrs. Silverdale needing a sedative but refusing to take it. The maid would believe that from Silverdale, and she'd put the hyoscine into the cup quite innocently. If the worst came to the worst, and the cups got mixed, then young Hassendean would get the dose instead.”
“It's asking a bit too much, I'm afraid. Remember it was a heavy over-dose that was given.”
“Everybody's liable to make a mistake, sir.”
“True. And I suppose you'd say that after the murder at the bungalow Silverdale awoke to the fact that the maid's evidence about the hyoscine would hang him, probably; so he went back and murdered her also.”
“It was someone well known to her who did her in, sir. That's clear enough.”
“In the meantime, you've left aside the possibility that young Hassendean may have administered the stuff. How does that strike you?”
“It's possible, sir,” the Inspector admitted cautiously. “But there's no evidence for it.”
“Oh, I shouldn't like to go so far as that,” Sir Clinton said, chaffingly. “I'll tell you what evidence there is on the point. There's Hassendean's own diary, first of all. Then there's what we found in young Hassendean's laboratory notebook.”
“But that was just some stuff about weighing potash-bulbs, whatever they may be.”
“Quite correct. That was what it was.”
“Well, I'm no chemist, sir. It's off my beat.”
“There's no chemistry in it. I gave you the key to it at the time. Then there's other evidence. Young Hassendean was a careless worker. Everyone agreed on that; and his notebook confirmed it. Next, there's what Miss Hailsham said about hyoscine, which is more or less common knowledge, nowadays, of course. And there's young Hassendean's interference in the serving of coffee at Heatherfield, that night. Finally, there's what the maid said about Mrs. Silverdale's appearance when she was going out of the house. Put all these points together, and I'll engage to satisfy a jury that young Hassendean administered the hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale in her coffee, with a definite purpose—but not murder—in view.”
“I'll need to think over all that, sir. You seem pretty sure about it.”
“I'm practically certain. Now look at the business from another stand-point. Who had a grudge against the two victims, either separately or together?”
“Silverdale, obviously.”
“Obviously, as you say. That's if you take them together, of course. Now for a final problem. Who is Mr. Justice? He seems to be in the know, somehow. If we could lay hands on him, we might be near the centre of things. He knew before anyone else that something had happened at the bungalow. He knew about the hyoscine at the Institute—although as Silverdale's a fairly well-recognised authority on alkaloids, that might have been just a shot aimed on chance. Anyhow, look at it as you choose, Mr. Justice has information, and he seems to have a motive. Who is he, can you guess?”
“Somebody who won't come out into the open until he's dragged there, evidently. It might be an unwilling accomplice, sir.”
“That's possible. Anyone else?”
“It might be Spratton. He's got an interest in establishing that it was a case of murder and not suicide.”
“Obviously true. Anyone else?”
“I can't think of anyone else who would fit the case, sir. By the way, I've got the originals of these advertisements—the code ones. I sent down to the newspaper offices and got hold of them.”
He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket-book and handed them to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton glanced over them.
“H'm! The first one—the letters—is built up as usual from telegram forms. The one with the numbers is fitted together from numbers printed in a newspaper; it might have been clipped from one of these lists of the results of drawings of bonds for redemption—Underground Electric Railways, and that kind of thing. These advertisements have columns and columns of figures out of which he'd be able to pick what he wanted easily enough. Now what about this address that he's put down—the usual guarantee of good faith at the bottom. It's fictitious, of course?”
“Yes, sir. There's no such place.”
“It's in writing. It looks like a girl's writing. This is a dangerous game for Mr. Justice; but I suppose if he'd put all the advertisement in clipped-out letters the newspaper people might have got suspicious and refused to print it. What about this handwriting, Inspector?”
Flamborough's expression showed that he felt he had done his work thoroughly.
“I managed to get hold of specimens of the writing of Miss Hailsham and Miss Deepcar. It isn't either of them. Then I tried to get it recognised—and I succeeded, sir. Miss Hailsham recognised it at once. It's Mrs. Silverdale's own writing!”
“A forgery, then? That's very neat of Mr. Justice. I feel inclined to take off my hat to that fellow. He thinks of everything.”
“Well, it's a blank end for us, so far as I can see, sir.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be so lost in admiration of Mr. Justice's ingenuity that he failed to notice Flamborough's dissatisfaction. When he spoke again, it was on a different topic.
“What about your friend, Mr. Whalley, Inspector? It seems to me we ought to have him up and put him through it as quick as possible. Quite obviously he knows something.”
“I've tried to get hold of him, sir. But he's left the town and I can't get on his track. He's gone off to some race-meeting or other, I expect. He often goes off like that and leaves no address. I'll lay hands on him as soon as he comes back to Westerhaven.”
“He's an essential witness, I suspect; so don't let him slip through your fingers. You'd better ask for assistance from the local police in likely places.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And now, Inspector, how are you getting along with the game of eliminations? How low have you brought the possibles out of the original nine solutions?”
Flamborough produced his often-unfolded scrap of paper and scanned it once more.
“If one accepts what you said a minute or two ago, sir, then the drugging of Mrs. Silverdale was meant to be plain drugging and wasn't wilful murder. So the last case drops out.”
He put his pencil through the line of writing.
“That leaves only two alternatives:
And young Hassendean, from all accounts, was hardly the lad to suicide by shooting himself twice in the body—too painful for him. So it really looks rather like Case Y. Certainly it's coming down to brass tacks quicker than I thought it would.”