The Warrielaw Jewel, page 11
After 5.30 p.m. Rhoda arrived for the night. Miss Jessica returned to Warrielaw.
April 13th, 8.30 a.m. A cab from Small’s called at Warrielaw, picked up Miss Jessica and her suit-case and drove to Princes Street Station.
10 a.m. Miss Jessica seen at the station by Miss Wise and Mrs. Morrison.
10.40 a.m. Miss Jessica seen at Carstairs Station by Mr. Howard and Mr. Carruthers.
At some early hour. Miss Macpherson and Miss Mary started out to lunch at Erleigh, a seven miles’ walk or bicycle ride.
Warrielaw was left deserted except for old woman at the lodge who was bed-ridden and deaf. Back and front gates alike were open.
3 p.m. Mrs. Morrison arrived at Warrielaw. Walked about gardens.
3.30 p.m. Saw Lanchester car disappearing at back entrance. Rain began and took shelter in the lodge.
4 p.m. Returned to front of house and found Mrs. Murray’s car (a De Dion) standing before the house. From the lodge Mrs. Morrison had overlooked the back drive, but could not see the front drive nor hear sound of car approaching. Time of Mrs. Murray’s arrival therefore unknown.
4-4.15 p.m. Mrs. Morrison slept in Mrs. Murray’s car.
4.15 p.m. Mrs. Murray emerged from house and after a short talk drove away.
4.30 p.m. (or a little earlier) Effie returned and took Mrs. Morrison into the house.
4.30 p.m. (or shortly afterwards) Miss Mary and Miss Macpherson returned from Erleigh.
4.35-5 p.m. John and Dennis arrived. Miss Mary taken ill.
About 5.30 p.m. Doctor and nurse arrived.
About 5.45 p.m. John, Mrs. Morrison, Dennis and Rhoda left the house. House closed securely by Effie. Back lodge locked up by new, capable keeper, niece of old woman, with large family of children.
“Hmhm,” said Bob. “Well, let’s look at our facts. The only solid evidence we have is that Miss Warrielaw left her house at 8.30, took the train at Princes Street at 10, and was last seen at Carstairs. Before three o’clock that afternoon, when Mrs. Morrison reached Warrielaw, she had been murdered and put into that tool-shed next the manure heap in the yard.”
“But where was she murdered? There or at Carstairs?” I asked desperately.
“That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
“Weren’t there any footprints in the shed?” asked Dennis. “Or finger-prints? Or anything to catch hold of?”
“There were no footprints, for the ground had been carefully scrabbled over with a rake, presumably one hanging on the wall. After seven weeks you can’t hope for footprints outside or fingerprints on the latch.”
“But on the body?” I ventured. Dennis turned away suddenly and Bob shook his head.
“Better not ask details. All that is clear is that the weapon was thrust into the heart just below the sternum and was broken off against it, presumably as it was removed hurriedly, the bone being used as a lever. The weapon is a puzzle, too. It’s just a sharp, short steel instrument, pointed at the top and rounded towards the hilt. Its handle is missing. It was broken right off at the shaft, presumably as it broke on a bone after piercing the heart, and it’s hard to see just what it was or how it was thrust into the body. We’ve hunted everywhere for the handle and the case and can find no traces at all. It didn’t take a straight line. It almost seemed to me as if she might have fallen on to it by some accident and smashed her head at the same time, but the police surgeon doesn’t agree. They’ll keep photographs of that, of course. And if it was some such accident, why should anyone conceal the body? The only fact we have to go on is that it wasn’t presumably any common thief who did for her. All her odds and ends of jewellery were on her, and a notecase containing fifty pound notes. They may, of course, have been left as a blind. She may have been wearing the famous jewel and that may have been the motive for the robbery. Only one other thing we know. Her clothes were identified by Effie as those she had laid out for her journey the night before, and the shoes, though dusty and mouldy of course, were unscratched and free from mud. She must have been carried from the place of her death to the shed. We can assume, therefore, that she was murdered either by one powerful man or by two confederates: no ordinary woman could have done it alone.”
“But do you think yourself she left the train at Carstairs?” I asked.
“That’s one of the main problems of the case,” said Bob slowly. “We have no proof as to whether she took her ticket that morning or the day before. All we do know is that it had not been clipped. The guard may, of course, have missed her in the corridor when he looked at the tickets between Edinburgh and Carstairs, but it’s curious, very curious. Another strange thing is this. We told the reporters that the ticket and pound notes were found on her person. So they were in a sense, and I thought that safe old phrase was enough for them, and Ard agreed with me. But as a matter of fact—forgive me for these details, Mrs. Morrison—they were in a pocket of her cape which was folded beneath her. When once she had been well—placed in the shed, no one could have got at them without moving the corpse. To my mind that puts it out of the question once and for all that it was done by some casual tramp on the road, or by anyone who had broken into the house at Warrielaw.”
“What’s the theory of the tramp?” asked John, puzzled.
“Well, Ard is considering alternative possibilities about the case which might possibly incriminate some well-known bad characters in the neighbourhood. He considers it possible that she was lured from the train at Carstairs by some pretext (Heaven knows what!) and was killed somewhere on that lonely high road and brought back and hidden in the tool-shed. Or he suggests that she left the train on some impulse, took a slow train back to Edinburgh, walked to Warrielaw and found someone making off with the valuables in the house. It’s true, as he points out, that local gossip would make it known that the house was empty on that day. But all the evidence we have is against either hypothesis. Suppose this unknown and resourceful criminal persuaded Miss Jessica to leave the train and travel home in some van or motor of which he’d possessed himself, he would certainly have seen to it that she brought her suitcase, which would very probably contain any valuables she would have in the world.”
“And why should he motor her corpse back to Warrielaw?” broke in Dennis.
“A corpse is a difficult thing to get rid of, Mr. Dennis,” said Bob. “He couldn’t leave it on the road or risk carrying it down to the river by Symington. If he knew something of Warrielaw he might well hope that she would not be discovered for some time on the premises. And the very fact of her being found there would increase the puzzle about her movements. It certainly does, you see! On the other hand no ordinary thief, out for what he could get, would fail to search the poor lady’s pockets before he put her away. And above all Miss Jessica’s character seems to me to make either theory untenable. She’s not the sort of lady to be persuaded to leave the train to London, and her suit-case with it, by any story from some chance acquaintance in an odd encounter at Carstairs, and accept a lift home in a stranger’s vehicle. Ard admits himself that is a bit farfetched. I’ll allow that she may have let the London train go off without her by accident, when she was seen standing on Carstairs Station. No doubt she was absent-minded enough or little enough of a traveller for that. But even if she made up her mind then that there was nothing for it but to go home and start again by the morning train next day, she’d have had three-quarters of an hour to cool her heels at Carstairs. The express arrives there at 10.40 and there isn’t a slow train back till 11.33. You don’t tell me that she wouldn’t have realised the suit-case was missing then, and bothered the whole staff of the station about it. There was a crowd of tourists going off on the same line to Midcalder by a slow excursion, the station-master told me when I was making enquiries last month—some Irish Catholic pilgrimage for Good Friday, you see. But after they were away the station was almost empty: there were only three tickets taken for the 11 33 to Edinburgh she’d have had to travel by. And the one fact I did get clear in my previous enquiries was that there had been no correspondence of any sort about the suit-case when we found it at Euston.”
“Still the fact remains,” said John, “that in some way or another she was got from Carstairs to Warrielaw on April 13th, alive or dead.”
“That’s true,” said Bob gravely. “But I think we may put all these chance encounters out of the way once and for all if we’re to get at the truth, though it’s all to the good that Ard should be making public enquiries about tramps. As I see it, Miss Jessica must have been murdered by someone who knew she was travelling with this famous jewel, and was planning to get hold of it. That person must have known that Warrielaw was deserted that day, and I don’t admit that even the gossips of a Scottish village would be likely to know beforehand all the several reasons for that coincidence: and the coincidence narrows itself down remarkably. The 11.33 gets back to Edinburgh at 12.31. Unless she took a cab, which was unlikely and would have been seen at the back of the house, she had to journey home by tram and then walk five miles. She couldn’t have been back till two, and no local person could expect her then.
“The murderer must have known a great deal. He must have known, I consider, that in Miss Warrielaw’s absence no one was likely to go near the tool-sheds. And the fact that the ticket and notes were left on the corpse makes it pretty evident that money was no object for one thing, and for another that whoever did it counted on getting back to cover the traces of the crime a little more effectively. No one could do that but some person whose presence at Warrielaw would arouse no comment of any kind, we can be sure of that. As a matter of fact, owing to Miss Mary’s illness and to John’s orders about the lodge, no one had the chance. The old woman of the lodge got her daughter in and her daughter brought a pack of children who are always in the drive, I’m told. No one would have dared to get round to the stables lest they’d be noticed, except indeed one of the women about the place. And not one of them could have moved the body alone.”
“What you’re implying”, said John slowly, “is that it was someone very nearly connected with the family who was responsible?”
“It might be,” said Bob equably. “Anyhow let’s go through our papers here and mark off the people who can’t be suspected. You see, in my earlier investigations I got hold of a good few facts about the 13th of April. First of all there’s Miss Mary and Miss Macpherson. They certainly did walk seven miles to Erleigh, lunch there at one o’clock and walk home. I got that as precisely as you could wish from General Wise, who is a methodical gentleman, and agreed with me that you can’t trust a lady’s memory for dates. He had wished to send Miss Mary home in the carriage, but the vet. was over, looking at one of the horses, so he couldn’t. I checked that up from the vet’s ledger.”
“And Effie and the other girl, Annie?” asked John.
“Yes. The district nurse vouched for Effie’s presence at the confinement all the night of the 12th April and all morning on the 13th. Mr. Hay’s master was going into Edinburgh about two o’clock, and she couldn’t have got to Warrielaw by tram and then taken a five miles’ walk afterwards to Warrielaw before 4.30, as he only dropped her at the West End at three o’clock. Annie has an even better alibi. She made the breakfast and took the children to school in Bathgate. She waited about for them there till 12, but when she went to meet them there was a difficulty. She seemed so odd in her ways that their teacher kept her waiting while she went to find out about the girl. The headmistress remembers because, when she was free, she vouched for Annie, as a note from the nurse had explained that Mrs. Hay was laid up. They remembered all the more clearly because Annie was very angry at being kept waiting for over half an hour, and all the teachers agreed they would never trust the girl in the house with a new baby. No, the other movements I have still to discover on that day are Mr. Logan’s. It may be very difficult for him and for us to account for them.”
“But his car’s an Argyle,” I broke in, “and it was a Lanchester I saw!”
“Betty!” said my husband, “it’s a mistake to provide excuses when there has been no accusation!”
“And besides that,” continued Bob imperturbably, “I want to hear a little more of Mrs. Murray’s movements. You haven’t been quite explicit about them, you know, Mrs. Morrison!”
I glanced appealingly at John, but he shook his head.
“That was my own impression, too, Betty. You’d better tell us the whole story from the beginning.”
There was no help for it and I pulled myself together.
“First of all,” I said, “it’s perfectly true that Cora said she had come to get hold of Annie. As a matter of fact, John, your mother happened to tell me next day that Cora had been sending one of her maids away at a moment’s notice. She’s a byword for quarrelling with her servants in Edinburgh. And I wasn’t in the least surprised at her wanting to get Annie because, you know, she always wants to know what is going on at Warrielaw. I admit that she seemed dreadfully upset, but I thought that was because she realised Miss Warrielaw had really gone to London with the jewel.”
“But why”, asked Bob, glancing at his notes, “should she have taken at least a quarter of an hour, and possibly three-quarters of an hour, to look for a servant who obviously wasn’t there?”
“She did something else. That was what she came to tell me to-day. She went there to look for some correspondence of her own which had fallen into Miss Jessica’s hands. I don’t want to tell you what it’s about, but I do assure you it had nothing to do with the jewel, or Miss Jessica herself.”
“I expect I can guess what it was,” said John. “I know something about Cora’s correspondence from Miss Jessica herself. But what had it to do with you?”
“She must have realised that I noticed she came out of the house with her little red handbag simply bursting with papers or something! I think I did comment on it, and I know when the search for the jewel began I did wonder about it a little, John, and wonder, too, if I should tell you. But I couldn’t believe she’d really stolen it, and I couldn’t bear to let you in for the scandal in Edinburgh if you felt you must charge her with the theft and it was all my imagination. I made up my mind I’d wait till she came back from Cannes and charge her with it myself if the jewel hadn’t turned up. I knew, you see, that anyhow it was safe with her. She was almost the only one of the family who could be trusted not to sell it or lose it.”
“I say, John,” broke in Dennis boyishly, “you haven’t got Betty very well in hand yet! Of course she should have told you!”
I could see by John’s expression that I should hear the same opinion from him later on, but Bob’s manner was unchanged as I turned to him.
“Anyhow,” I said, “I’m quite clear of one thing. She couldn’t possibly have been into the stables or near them while she was at Warrielaw. You see, that path through the rhododendrons from the formal garden comes out by the stable gates and no one passed through them while I was sheltering at the lodge. I was sitting near the window all the time, for it was so dreadfully stuffy, and I couldn’t have helped seeing her. And when I got to her car it was all in perfect order inside. It’s absurd to think it could possibly have been used to bring—to bring a corpse in! Why, there was a cream rug on the seat which was so fresh and immaculate that I noticed when her red bag left a mark on it. It was wet and some of the pink dye came off, I remember, and it looked so queer because the wrap was so tidy and perfect.”
“Why was her bag wet?” asked Bob.
“I suppose she’d been in the gardens in the rain looking for Effie or Annie. How could Cora possibly be suspected of having done the sort of thing that happened, for a moment? Why, she’s so slight and delicate, and Miss Warrielaw …”
“That’s all very well, but there’s always the possibility of collusion,” was Bob’s comment. “When can we get at Mrs. Murray, John?” John went to the telephone and came back shrugging his shoulders. Mrs. Murray was out in her car for the day.
“All for the best really, however,” he said. “We’ll go round when Charles has come back from his office this evening. He’s the only person to get any sense out of her.”
“The police will be here to take their evidence this afternoon,” said Bob. “I’ll be here then, but I’d like to come with you to your office now and see how affairs stand with regard to the Warrielaw estate. I should like to know exactly who will benefit by Miss Jessica’s death and to what extent. I must get down there again and look round tomorrow, but there are a good many jobs here today. It’s a tiresome enough place to get to, I must confess.”
“Look here, Sir,” said Dennis, jumping up, “I want to ask you. Will you let me be your chauffeur and run you about? I’ve always been specially interested in your kind of work—and—and I’m specially interested in the whole of this story, you know.”
Bob accepted willingly. He had not yet had time to purchase a car or learn to drive since he came into his money, and Dennis looked as if he had been appointed General of some military staff. John also applauded the scheme.
“And take Betty with you as much as possible wherever you go. Every gossip in Edinburgh will come to see her or ring her up in the next few days. Oh yes, Betty, I know you’d mean to be discreet, but you’d be no match for their ingenuity and experience in ferreting out a scandal. Go out with the car as much as you can, and if Dennis’s Renault falls to pieces he can use our Albion.”
It is curious to discover how the things one dreads in anticipation pass by easily, and the unexpected can prove so overwhelming. I was terrified by the prospect of giving my deposition to the police, and Dennis was not much better, but in the end it resolved itself into telling my oft-told tale to two pleasant, sensible men with notebooks, who made little or no comment save the inevitable Hmhm. We had only to give the facts and pursue their implications no further. But what was worse, far worse than I expected, was the sight of Charles Murray’s face when he appeared unexpectedly just after dinner. From his worn looks and dragging step I could only realise, as John took him to the library, that the Warrielaws’ tragedies were not yet over.
