The Warrielaw Jewel, page 14
“Well, well, let us have breakfast,” said Neil, with a careful assumption of carelessness. “In the midst of death we are at breakfast time. Let us send Mrs. May out for some sausages—plenty of sausages, for I fancy two more guests are arriving—”
It was too late to say any more, too late to try to explain, too late to do anything. The door opened and an inspector, followed by a constable, walked into the room. He looked from one to the other of us and then faced Neil squarely.
“I have to ask you”, he said, “to explain to us certain facts in connection with your actions on Friday, April 13th, of this year, and the subsequent disappearance of your aunt, Miss Jessica Warrielaw.”
“I am so sorry to be disobliging!” I saw a sudden movement in the hand Neil rested on the table, but to all other appearances he remained unmoved. “But I make it a rule never to tell anecdotes about myself before breakfast.”
“Oh Neil!” cried Alison, springing forward, but the constable waved her back. I helped her back to the sofa, and bent over her, while Neil and the police exchanged a few words which escaped me. It was clear that Neil’s manner and voice could only exasperate them and I was not surprised when the inspector produced a warrant, and said firmly:
“Then, Sir, I have no choice but to arrest you on the charges of the murder of Jessica Warrielaw and of theft, and I warn you—”
“That we may take for granted,” said Neil. “I dislike these legal phrases. I may not wait for a little breakfast? No? Doubtless the State will provide me with that. Must I accompany you? I will put no difficulties in your way. Till we meet again, Alison and Betty! Dennis, so long!”
“Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it!” The ominous words flashed through my mind as Neil was led away, pale but smiling. Then I had to dismiss all thoughts but those of Alison. The poor child rushed screaming to the door as Neil disappeared with his escort, and ran up and down the studio when the door was shut, like one demented. She had never, I suppose, recovered from the shock of that day at Warrielaw, and now she had lost every semblance of self-control. She turned shuddering from Dennis, and repulsed me fiercely, and implored to be allowed to go home alone. At last, when she collapsed into low, shuddering sobs, she let me lead her away and let Dennis drive us to Comely Bank. Rhoda was out and I insisted on taking her to her room, for the poor child was not fit to be left alone. She passed from one fit of hysterical crying to another, and when I left her to try to warm some soup for her in the little kitchen, she fainted away altogether. When I brought her round she clung to me and implored me not to leave her alone, and then feverishly she began to discuss the whole dreadful question, listening to no word I said, protesting only her belief in Neil. It was seven o’clock before Rhoda returned, and by that time Alison was so near the sleep of exhaustion that I did not mind leaving her in Rhoda’s bracing charge. Rhoda herself knew our news by this time though she made no comment on it. All Edinburgh knew it, and the streets, as I dragged myself home, were full of paper-boys, and excited groups discussing the latest developments of the mystery. They meant nothing to me. All I wanted to do was to get home, get John to myself, and talk about anything and everything in the world but the Warrielaws till bedtime. It seemed to me that I must insist on getting away at all costs for some hours from the dreadful story.
But my hopes were futile. During dinner, in Christina’s watchful presence, we did indeed keep up some semblance of conversation on other topics, but as soon as we reached the library I realised that yet another sensation had occurred. Bob Stuart was announced as coffee came in, and I was informed that already, that afternoon, Neil had sent for John as his solicitor, and put the case unreservedly into his hands.
John had done his best to get out of it. He had gone up to Neil, when the police telephoned Neil’s summons, determined to make him employ other legal aid. The Morrisons’ firm had been almost exclusively devoted to Scottish family interests till John came into it and tried to enlarge its sphere. He had undertaken already a fair amount of Criminal Court work, so that could not be his excuse, but he had had till lately too many Warrielaw interests in his guardianship to wish to undertake this. It was, moreover, his private impression that Neil was guilty, and that he would prefer to keep his hands clean of the affair. A most cogent and obvious reason for his refusal lay also in the fact that Dennis and I would both be called upon as witnesses for the prosecution. Dennis was one of the last people to see Jessica alive: it was through me that the police had discovered proof of Neil’s probable guilt.
But Neil, smiling urbanely, would take no excuse. His own story, he said, would dispose of any need of Dennis’s evidence or mine. When John had heard it, he could make up his mind what to do. But from John he was determined to hear the whole story of events as they were known to the force at present. Only John could tell him that, he gathered, and he must know what was being said before he appeared in the Sheriff Court next day. All the facts John offered to give at once to any other legal firm Neil liked to name. But at Neil’s final plea that family affairs made it essential he should deal with someone who knew all the wretched Warrielaw intrigues and quarrels already, John gave way and undertook the case. I imagine that Neil’s charm had already begun to work on my sober husband.
Neil withheld his tale till John had given him every detail of my story of that April afternoon. He had considered it carefully and asked many searching questions—(“All that pose of his is only surface, Betty,” said John: “he’s a very good Scot mind under that silly Bohemian manner.”) Then he told his tale, prefacing it with the remark that it was one which could only set a noose round his neck—“if, indeed, nooses are still worn”.
Jessica had remained behind us in the studio on the evening of April 12th. She had been even more overbearing, fussy and mysterious than ever. She had raked over all his drawers, she had sent him out to buy newspaper with which to line them. Finally she told him she had chosen him to do an important errand for her. He was to take his car and motor to Carstairs next morning in time to meet the London train, and there she would entrust him with some very confidential and serious negotiations for her. Neil was bored and impatient, but the old lady had just given him a handsome cheque and he was, he said cynically, inspired by that spurious affection we feel for relations who are about to relieve us of their presence for some weeks. He promised his attendance and next morning he went to the garage, found that his car was still undergoing repairs, and hired a Lanchester instead. He was late already and he was delayed further by the accident at Rose Cottage and his promise to telephone for the doctor. When he reached Carstairs the London train had gone. He motored on to Lockerbie, looked up and down the train and saw no signs of Jessica. He motored back, in a bad temper, at top speed to Warrielaw, imagining that Jessica must have put off her journey after all. He approached Warrielaw by the back entrance, as he did not wish to be run in for repairs to the tyres of the hired car by the insufferable surface of the front avenue. He rang at the bell, walked round to the front, looked into the hall and called out, to get no reply. He went to Jessica’s room, which was empty, and then out into the garden. After searching there in vain he made up his mind to go, and he finally left in disgust at about 3.30. It was, as he pointed out, quite obvious that his story was too thin to be believed, but such as it was, it was the truth.
“Well, anyhow, the story about Lockerbie could be verified!” cried Dennis. “If he really went on there, he’d never have had time to get back to Warrielaw and do the trick and get off by 3.30!”
“Seventy-five miles and she’d have got off the train at 12.21,” said John, looking at the Murray time table. “He could have got back with her by three o’clock, I’m afraid.”
“What was he wearing?” asked Bob. “A hat and cape?”
“No, just tweeds. I asked him. And he didn’t lunch at Lockerbie or speak to anyone, not even a porter.”
“And even if anybody could identify him as a tall, fair gentleman he spoke to some two months ago, it wouldn’t clear him, it appears,” said Bob, making a note. “We’ll have a look at Lockerbie though. But it’s not much of a story, even if it’s true, and that’s a fact.”
“Did you think it true, John?” asked Dennis. “He’s such a poseur and liar that I imagine—”
“He wasn’t posing at all, and I believed him at the time,” admitted John, “but I must admit I didn’t feel he was being absolutely candid with me about that afternoon. He’d nothing to say about Warrielaw or leaving the house.”
“Did you not say Mrs. Murray told you she had some trouble with her car at the lodge gates of the North Avenue, Mrs. Morrison?” asked Bob slowly.
We all stared at each other, as a new light dawned on us.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, she did. You mean he may have seen her there? But that was before she went to the house.”
“Yes, but if he saw her and passed her, perhaps without a word to her, perhaps just mentioning that no one was at home, and then heard later that she was on the premises that day, mightn’t he assume that she’d gone down and found the jewel and walked off with it?”
“But then how did it get into his room?” asked Dennis.
“Well, remember, he knew nothing, according to his own story, of how the jewel got there at all. All he knows is that it was found in a cupboard of his, stuck away in a tobacco-tin. For all we know Mrs. Murray may have been to his studio when Jessica was safely out of the way. He may well think that she stuffed it into one of his drawers, fearing that she’d be found with it on her, and not liking to take it abroad with her.”
“But then, surely she’d have told him!”
“She may have. That may be what he wishes to conceal. How does he account for its presence, John?”
“He says he imagines Jessica must have stuffed it into his drawers when she was poking into them. No, by the way, it was I who suggested that. He wouldn’t offer any opinion.”
“I must get hold of that tin and have a look for finger-prints,” said Bob, feeling for his notebook again. “But it’s not likely we’ll get much out of that. And of course we’ve no way of getting hold of Miss Warrielaw’s.”
It was remarks like that which brought the horrible story, in its full ghastliness, back to us again, and we were all reduced to silence.
“What looks worse in the case, of course,” said Bob at last, “is that he kept quiet about the jewel when there was all that hue and cry after it.”
“But he didn’t know he’d got it,” I cried.
“If his story is true,” repeated Bob.
“You must remember, though,” urged John, “that if it’s true he’s fighting absolutely in the dark. He hasn’t seen this thing develop as we have. He comes back to find Jessica murdered and the jewel in his keeping, to hear that Mrs. Murray was seen leaving the house in what to him must seem most suspicious circumstances, to hear that she’s too ill for any message to reach her, so that any question of collusion now would be impossible even if he hadn’t been arrested. ‘It seems to me that Agag must be my model,’ he said to me, and I could get no more out of him.”
“Well, anyhow, I’m clear of the case now,” said Bob, rising. “I’ve no official status any longer.”
“Not at all,” replied John. “I said I must employ a detective on his behalf at once, and he declared that he would have no one but you. His point is that you know all that is to be known, and a new man would merely begin to stir the dust up again. ‘You can use your influence with him if I have any instructions to give later,’ he said. I fancy he thinks that I could persuade you to keep quiet about Mrs. Murray if she becomes involved in any way.”
“He’s wrong there,” said Bob grimly.
“Well, right or wrong, I’m to employ you. When that was fixed he asked how long it would be before the Crown officials would have prepared the indictment. Naturally I said that I couldn’t tell him. It seems to me that though the police have suspicion enough to warrant his arrest they can’t produce a really convincing case. It depends of course on what sort of evidence, if any, they collect in the next week or so. He is resigned to the fact that they’ll bring the indictment, and that he’ll have to reserve his defence and appear in the High Court. He is quite willing that I shall retain the best possible counsel for his defence when that happens. I suggested Askew Firle—he’s far the most outstanding man—and Neil murmured that any economy in this particular business would be misplaced. He is brave, you know, and one can’t help liking him. And he insists that the case must be hurried forward, and that the defence is not to create any delay by prolonging the search for evidence. I urged him then to admit that he was trying to shield someone whom he had reason to suspect, but he merely laughed and told me that heroism was not in his line, but that he wished to be able to smoke again as soon as possible. That will be permitted to me as a free man or a convicted murderer,’ he said, ‘and till then my life will be hell.’”
Far away in the street below I heard the newsboys shout out: “Late Special Edition!” and shivered to think of the story the papers had to tell.
“Well, I’ll do my best for the case,” said Bob. “The trouble is that there’s so little to work upon. I can’t imagine that the police will make anything of the place where the jewel was found. I had a look myself to-day. It’s just the sort of cupboard where a man with a huge, untidy studio might overlook a thing for months, or equally well, hide a thing in the hope of concealing it for ever, because the place was so little used and inconspicuous. I shall have to pool my information with the police, you know, if I’m to get anything from them in return. They’ve let me in to everything so far. But it’s hard to see what more direct evidence we can get till we can interview Miss Mary.”
John shook his head.
“Physically she’s much better, the doctor says. She has regained movement in her arm and leg in a way which surprises him. But she hasn’t spoken yet.”
“When you next go down,” said Bob, “you might find out if she could at least be moved from her room soon. I’ve never had a look round it yet and though it’s not a promising spot, should like to cast a glance over it. But of course the really important witness is Mrs. Murray. How is she?”
“She’s better. The fever is leaving her, Charles says. But I imagine Lisle will shield her from any questions for as long as possible. At the moment I imagine the police are occupied with the case against Neil.”
“Hmhm,” said Bob. “Well, as soon as I can make time I must see if I can get anything out of this queer maid of hers, Annie Hope, at Carglin. At least she hasn’t taken to her bed yet!”
CHAPTER X
THE WITNESS OF A HALF-WIT
Neil was brought before the Sheriff Court next morning, Friday, June 8th. He refused to make any statement and was remanded in custody. Early that morning Bob ran down to Lockerbie and hunted in vain for any station official or local gossip who could remember any particulars about the London train on the morning of April 13th. The police reported to him that there were no results from the most careful scrutiny of the tobacco-tin. Just after lunch Bob appeared to request Dennis to take him out to Carglin in search of Annie. If, as he said, there seemed little hope of finding out any information of importance there was nothing else at the moment for him to do in Edinburgh. By John’s instructions I was to accompany them.
We spread out a map and then for the first time I realised how curiously varied is the country to the south-west of Edinburgh. From the Caledonian Station a branch of the Caledonian Railway and a main road lead through suburbs, under winding hills, to the village of Balerno, ten miles away. There the Pentland Hills rise like a miniature mountain range with lonely crags and valleys, lochs and burns. A mile or so to the north of the village the Erleighs looked from their terraces, across a valley, to moors untenanted save by sheep and curlews. To the west of that country the road, and the main Caledonian line to the South, strike through a country fringed by industry until at Midcalder, seventeen miles from the city, they plunge into a patch of the black shale country, from it they emerge to strike triumphantly southward to the Lanark Moors and the upper waters of the Clyde, by Carstairs to Lockerbie. West of that line country roads from Edinburgh wind out to country places like Warrielaw which lie beneath the menace of the smoke and dirt of industry. And west again the North British line plunges from Edinburgh into the heart of the mining districts which lead to Glasgow, and here in the shadow of the shale pits lies Bathgate, with the little village of Carglin two miles to the north. From Warrielaw, it may be seen, one could walk some seven miles eastwards into the heart of the hills or some ten miles westwards into the dark satanic land of oil and coal on the North British line. Few countries can show a swifter transition.
“I’ve looked at that map often enough,” said Bob, staring over my shoulder. “I can’t get over one feature of it, that here on the radius of a rough semi-circle lie Erleigh, Warrielaw, Carstairs and Bathgate with no means of communication between them except by car, unless you get back to Edinburgh first. It worries me badly, that map of the district!”
The road to Bathgate was grim and dull enough, but I was thankful to be out of Edinburgh, and safe from the unceasing telephone and door bells of my house in those dreadful days. From Bathgate we struck northwards and found a little oasis from the shale heaps in a lane overtopped by hawthorn trees. Their scent in the sun obscured every other, and made me realise with a sudden pang that for Neil there were no white highways nor flowering hedges. Behind us lay rows of ugly slate-roofed miners’ cottages, but before us a low, white-washed cottage on the edge, evidently, of a private estate. Larches rose in radiant green behind the house and a garden crowded with polyanthus and tulips in front. Beyond it a long, straight open road led to a little village centred round a square, dull country church. The place seemed asleep in the sunshine, but even as we drew up, and Dennis remarked he must have a good look at his sparking-plugs, a woman came swiftly out of the house. Her hair and eyes were dark, her figure and bearing majestic, and her voice the slow sing-song of the Highlander who learnt English as a foreign tongue. Nothing in Annie’s shapeless figure, greasy hair and wide, fat face had ever reminded me of her tinker father. But Ellen Hay, her married sister, proclaimed her descent, and proclaimed also the kinship between the tinkers’ clan to which she belonged and the true gipsy race. And all the gipsy’s distrust of law and order woke in her glance as Bob said he had come for a few words with Annie Hope.
