DEATH OF A PEER
Inspector Fox sat in a corner of the dressing-room, his notebook on his knee, his pencil held in a large, clean hand. He was perfectly still and quite unobtrusive but his presence made itself felt. The two doctors and the nurse were much aware of him and from time to time glanced towards the corner of the room where he sat waiting. A bedside lamp cast a strong light en the patient and a reflected glow on the faces that bent over him. The only sound in the room, a disgusting sound, was made by the patient. On a table close to Fox was a bag. It contained, among a good deal of curious paraphernalia, a silver-plated skewer, carefully packed.
At thirty-five minutes past eight by Fox’s watch there was a slight disturbance. The doctors moved; the nurse’s uniform crackled. The taller of the doctors glanced over his shoulder into a corner of the room.
“It’s coming, I think. Better send for Lord Charles.” He pressed the hanging bell-push. The nurse went to the door and in a moment spoke in a low voice to someone outside. Fox left his chair and moved a little nearer the bed.
The patient’s left eye was hidden by a dressing. The right eye was open and stared straight up at the ceiling. From somewhere inside him, mingled with the hollow sound of his breathing, came a curious noise. His complicated mechanism of speech was trying unsuccessfully to function. The bedclothes were distrubed and very slowly one of his hands crept out. The nurse made a movment which was checked by Fox.
“Excuse me,” said Fox, “I’d be obliged if you’d let his lordship—”
“Yes, yes,” said the tall doctor. “Let him be, nurse.”
The hand crept on laboriously out of shadow into light. The finger tips, clinging to the surface of the neck, crawling with infinite pains, seemed to have a separate life of their own. The single eye no longer stared at the ceiling but turned anxiously in its deep socket as though questing for some attentive face.
“Is he trying to show us something, Sir Matthew?” asked Fox.
“No, no. Quite impossible. The movement has no meaning. He doesn’t know—”
“I’d be obliged if you’d ask him, just the same.”
The doctor gave the slightest possible shrug, leant forward, slid his hand under the sheet, and spoke distinctly.
“Do you want to tell us something?”
The eyelid flickered.
“Do you want to tell us how you were hurt?”
The door opened. Lord Charles Lamprey came into the half light. He stood motionless at the foot of the bed and watched his brother’s hand move, lagging inch by inch, up the sharp angle of his jaw.
“There’s no significance in this,” said the doctor.
“I’d like to ask him, though,” said Fox, “if it’s all the same to you, Sir Matthew.”
The doctor moved aside. Fox bent forward and stared at Lord Wutherwood.
A deep frown had drawn the eyebrows together. Some sort of sound came from the open mouth. “You want to show us something, my lord, don’t you?” said Fox. The fingers crawled across the cheek and upwards. “Your eyes? You want to show us your eyes?” The one eye closed slowly, and opened again, and a voice oddly definite, almost articulate, made a short sound.
“Is he going?” asked Lord Charles clearly.
“I think so,” said the doctor. “Is Lady Wutherwood—”
“She is very much distressed. She feels that she cannot face the ordeal.”
“She realizes,” said Dr. Kantripp, who had not spoken before, “that there is probably very little time?”
“Yes. My wife says she made it quite clear.”
The doctors turned again to the bed and seemed by this movement to dismiss Lady Wutherwood. The patient’s hand slipped away from his face. His gaze seemed to be fixed on the shadows at the foot of his bed.
“Perhaps,” said Fox, “if he could see you, my lord, he might make a greater effort to speak.”
“He can see me.”
Fox reached out a massive arm and tilted the lamp. The figure at the foot of the bed was thrown into strong relief. Lord Charles blinked in the sudden glare but did not move.
“Will you speak to him, my lord?”
“Gabriel, do you know me?”
“Will you ask him who attacked him, my lord?”
“It is horrible — now — when he—”
“He might manage to answer you,” said Fox.
“Gabriel, do you know who hurt you?”
The frown deepened and the one eye and mouth opened so widely that Lord Wutherwood’s face looked like a mask in a nightmare. There was a sharp violence of sound and then silence. Fox turned away tactfully and the nurse’s hands went out to the hem of the sheet.
II
“I am very sorry, my lord,” said Fox, “to have to trouble you at such a time.”
“That can’t be helped.”
“That is so, my lord. Under the circumstances we’ve got to make one or two inquiries.”
“One or two!” said Lord Charles unevenly. “Do sit down, won’t you? I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
“Fox, my lord. Inspector Fox.”
“Oh, yes. Do sit down.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Fox sat down and with an air of composure drew out his spectacle case. Lord Charles took a chair near the fire and held out his hands to the blaze. They were unsteady and with an impatient movement he drew them back and thrust them into his pockets. He turned to Fox and found the Inspector regarding him blandly through steel-rimmed glasses.
“Before I trouble you with any questions, my lord,” said Fox, “I think it would be advisable for me to ring up my superior officer and report this occurrence. If I may use the telephone, my lord.”
“There is one on that desk. But of course you’d rather be alone.”
“No, thank you, my lord. This will be very convenient. If you will excuse me.”
He moved to the desk, dialled a number, and almost immediately spoke in a very subdued voice into the receiver. “Fox here, Mr. Alleyn’s room.” He waited, looking thoughtfully at the base of the telephone. “Mr. Alleyn? Fox, speaking from Flats 25–26 Pleasaunce Court Mansions, Cadogan Square. Residence of Lord Charles Lamprey. The case reported at seven-thirty-five is a fatality…Circumstances point that way, sir…Well, I was going to suggest it, sir, if it’s convenient. Yes, sir.” Here there was a longish pause during which Fox looked remarkably bland. “That’s so, Mr. Alleyn,” he said finally. “Thank you, sir.”
He hung up the receiver and returned to his chair.
“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, my lord,” said Fox, “will take over the case. He will be here in half an hour. In the meantime he has instructed me to carry on. So if I may trouble you, my lord…” He took out his note-book and adjusted his glasses. Lord Charles shivered, hunched up a shoulder, put his glass in his eye and waited.
“I have here,” said Fox, “the statement taken by the officer who was called in from the local station. I’d just like to check that over, my lord, if I may.”
“Yes. It’s my own statement, I imagine, but check it by all means if you will.”
“Yes. Thank you. Times. I understand Lord Wutherwood arrived here shortly after six and left at approximately seven-fifteen?”
“About then. I heard seven strike some little time before he left.”
“Yes, my lord. Your butler gets a little closer than that. He noticed it was seven-fifteen before his lordship rang for his man.”
“I see.”
“His lordship was alone in the lift for some minutes before anyone went out to the landing,” read Fox.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, my lord. After he had been there for some minutes he was joined by her ladyship — Lady Wutherwood — that is — and by Lady Charles Lamprey and by Mr. Lamprey. Which Mr. Lamprey would that be, my lord?”
“Let me think. You must forgive me but my thoughts are intolerably confused.”
Fox waited politely.
“My brother,” said Lord Charles at last, “left me in the drawing-room. Soon after that the boys, I mean my three sons, joined me there. Then I think my wife opened the door and asked if one of the boys would take my brother and sister-in-law down in the lift. They never take themselves down. One of the boys went out. That will be the one you mean?”
“Yes. That is so, my lord.”
“I don’t know which it was.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not that exactly. It was one of the twins. I didn’t notice which. Shall I ask them?”
“Not just yet thank you, my lord. Do I understand you to say that the two young gentlemen are so much alike that you couldn’t say which of them left the room?”
“Oh, I should have been able to tell you if I had looked at all closely but you see I didn’t. I just saw one of the twins had gone. I — was thinking of something else.”
“The other two remained in the drawing-room with you? Mr. Henry Lamprey and the other twin?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you. Then you will have noticed the remaining twin if I may put it that way?”
“No. No, I didn’t. He didn’t speak. I didn’t look at the boys. I was sitting by the fire. Henry, my eldest son, said something, but otherwise none of us spoke. They’ll tell you themselves which it was.”
“Yes, my lord, so they will. It would be correct to say that while the lift went down you remained in the drawing-room with Mr. Lamprey and his brother until when, my lord?”
“Until…” Lord Charles took out his glass and put it in his waistcoat pocket. It was an automatic gesture. Without the glass the myopic look in his weak eye was extremely noticeable. His lips trembled slightly. He paused and began afresh. “Until I heard there was — until I heard my sister-in-law scream.”
“And did you realize, my lord—”
“I realized nothing,” interrupted Lord Charles swiftly. “How could I? I know now, of course, that they had gone down in the lift and that she had made that — that terrible discovery, and that it was while the lift returned that she screamed. But at the time I was quite in the dark. I simply became aware of the sound.”
“Thank you,” said Fox again, and wrote in his notebook. He looked over the top of his spectacles at Lord Charles.
“And then, my lord? What would you say happened next?”
“What happened next was that I went out to the landing followed by the two boys. My wife and my girls — my daughters — came out of 26 at the same time. I think my youngest boy, Michael, appeared from somewhere but he wasn’t there for long. The lift was returning and was almost up to our landing.”
“Up to the landing,” repeated Fox to his notes. “And who was in the lift, my lord?”
“Surely that’s clear enough,” said Lord Charles. “I thought you understood that my brother and his wife and my son were in the lift.”
“Yes, my lord, that is how I understand the case at present. I’m afraid this will seem very annoying to you but you see we usually take statements separately for purposes of comparison.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fox. Of course you do. I’m afraid I’m—”
“Very natural, my lord, that you should be, I’m sure. Then I take it that Lady Wutherwood must have begun to scream while the lift was near the bottom of the shaft?”
Lord Charles twisted his mouth wryly and said yes.
“And continued as it returned to your landing?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. Would you mind telling me what happened when the lift stopped at the top landing?”
“We were bewildered. We couldn’t think what had happened, why she was — was making such an appalling scene. She — she — I should explain that she is rather highly-strung. A little hysterical, perhaps. The lift stopped and Henry opened the doors. She rushed out, almost fell out, into my wife’s arms. My son, the twin — I — it’s too stupid that I can’t tell you which it was — came out without speaking, or if he did speak I didn’t hear him. You see I was looking in the lift.”
“That must have been a great shock to you, my lord,” said Fox simply.
“Yes: A great shock.”
“I saw my brother,” said Lord Charles loudly and rapidly. “He was sitting at the end of the seat. The injury — it was there — I saw it — I–I didn’t understand then, that they — my sister-in-law and my son — had gone down in the lift without at first realizing there was anything the matter.”
“When did you realize this, my lord?”
“As soon as my wife had calmed her down a little she began to speak about it. She was very wild and incoherent, but I made out as much as that.”
“You did not question your son, my lord? Whichever son it was,” inquired Fox, as if the confusion of one’s children’s identities was the most natural thing in the world.
“No. There doesn’t seem to have been any time to talk to anybody.”
“And of course if you had questioned him you would have known which he was?”
“Yes,” rejoined Lord Charles evenly, “of course.”
“Did any of the others talk to him, my lord?”
“I really don’t know. How could I? If I had heard that, I would—” He stopped short. “I really can’t tell you more than that.”
“I understand, my lord. I must thank you for your courtesy and apologize again for causing you so much pain. There are only one or two other points. Did you touch your brother?”
“No!” said Lord Charles violently. “No! No! They carried him out and took him to my room. That is all.”
“And you did not see him again until you came into his room while I was there?”
“I took Dr. Kantripp to the room and waited with him. The children’s old nurse was there. She helped the doctor until the trained nurse arrived.”
“I take it that Dr. Kantripp—” Fox paused for a moment — “the doctor did everything that was necessary? I mean, my lord, that the injury was unattended until he came?”
Lord Charles made an effort to speak, failed to do so, and nodded his head. At last he managed to say: “We thought it better not to — not to try to — we didn’t know whether it might prove fatal to—”
“To remove anything? Quite so.”
“Is that all?”
“I shan’t trouble you much further, my lord, but I should like to ask if you know whether his lordship had any enemies.”
“Enemies! That’s an extravagant sort of way to put it.”
“It’s the way we generally put it, my lord. I daresay it does sound rather exaggerated but you see the motive for this sort of crime is usually something a bit stronger than dislike.”
To this bland rejoinder Lord Charles found nothing to say.
“Of course,” Fox continued, “the term enemies is used rather broadly, my lord. I might put it another way and ask if you know of anyone who had good reason to wish for Lord Wutherwood’s death.”
Lord Charles answered this question instantly with a little spurt of words that sounded oddly mechanical.
“If you mean, do I know of anyone who would benefit by his death,” he said, “I suppose you may say that his heirs will do so. I am his heir.”
“Well, yes, my lord. I know Lord Wutherwood had no son.”
“Do you, by God!” said Lord Charles. The exclamation was completely out of key with the level courtesy of his earlier rejoinders but Fox took it in his stride.
“I have heard that is the case,” he said. “I understand that two of his lordship’s servants were here. It’s not very nice,” continued Fox with an air of one who apologizes for a slight error in taste, “to have to think of people in this light, but—”
“Murder,” said Lord Charles, “is not very nice either. You are quite right, Mr. Fox. My brother’s chauffeur and my sister-in-law’s maid were both there.”
“Might I trouble you for their names, my lord?”
“Tinkerton and Giggle.”
“Giggle, my lord?”
“Yes. That’s the chauffeur.”
“Quite an unusual name,” said Fox, placidly busy with his notes. “Have they been long with his lordship?”
“I believe that Tinkerton was with my sister-in-law before she married and that’s twenty-five years ago. Giggle began at Deepacres as an odd boy and under-chauffeur. His father was coachman to my father.”
“Family servants,” murmured Fox, placing them. “And of course your own servants would be in the flat?”
“Yes. There’s Baskett, the butler; and the cook and two maids. They may not all have been in. I’ll find out.”
He stretched his hand out to the bell.
“In a minute, thank you, my lord. These are all the servants you employ?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you spoke of a nurse, my lord.”
“Oh — you mean Nanny,” said Lord Charles who now seemed to have himself very well in hand. “Yes, of course there’s Nanny. We don’t think of her as one of the servants.”
“No, my lord?”
“No. She’s the real head of affairs, you see.”
“Oh, yes!” said Fox politely. “I would be much obliged if you would send for the butler now.”
Baskett came in with his usual ineffable butler’s walk, executed with the arms held straight down, the hands lightly closed and turned out with the palms downwards. It was the deliberate relaxed pose of a man whose deportment is an important factor in his profession. Baskett did it superbly.
“Oh, Baskett,” said Lord Charles, “Inspector Fox would like to ask you about the people who were in the servants’ quarters this evening. Were all the maids in?”
“Ethel was out, my lord. Mrs. James and Blackmore were in.” He glanced at Fox. “That is the cook and the parlourmaid, sir,” he explained.
“Any visitors in your quarters?” asked Fox.
“Yes, sir. Lord Wutherwood’s chauffeur and Lady Wutherwood’s maid. The chauffeur was in the staff sitting-room, sir, for some time, and then went into No. 26 to help Master Michael with his trains. Miss Tinkerton was with Mrs. Burnaby in her room.”
“Mrs. Burnaby?”
“That’s Nanny,” explained Lord Charles.
“Thank you, my lord. And that is the entire household at the time of the occurrence?”
“I think so,” said Lord Charles. “Was there anyone else in your part of the world, Baskett?”
Baskett looked anxiously at his employer and hesitated.
“You will of course tell us,” said Lord Charles, “if you know of anyone else in the flat.”
“Very good, my lord. There was another person, sir, in the kitchen.”
Fox paused, pencil in hand. “Who was that?”
“Good God!” ejaculated Lord Charles. “I’d entirely forgotten him.”
“Forgotten whom, my lord?”
“What’s the miserable creature’s name, Baskett?”
“Grumball, my lord.”
Fox said sharply: “You mean Giggle. I’ve got him.”
“No, sir. This person’s name is Grumball.”
Fox looked scandalized. “Who is he, then?” he asked.
Baskett was silent.
“He’s the man in possession,” said Lord Charles.
“A bailiff, my lord?”
“A bum-baliff, Mr. Fox.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Fox tranquilly. “I’ll see the rest of the staff, now, if it’s agreeable.”
III
“Would it be one of these society affairs, sir?” asked Detective-Sergeant Bailey, staring with lack-lustre eyes through the police-car window.
“What society affairs, Bailey?” murmured Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.
“Well, you know, sir. Cocktails, bottle parties, flats and so forth.”
“One of the messy sort,” said Detective-Sergeant Thompson, moving his photographic impedimenta a little farrther under the seat.
“That’s right,” agreed Bailey.
“I’ve no idea,” said Alleyn, “in what sort of country we shall find ourselves.”
“The flat belongs to deceased’s brother, doesn’t it, sir?”
“Yes. Lord Charles Lamprey.”
The police-surgeon spoke for the first time. “I fancy I’ve heard something about Lamprey,” he said. “Can’t remember what it was.”
“Wasn’t he mixed up in that Stein suicide?” said Bailey.
Alleyn glanced at him. “He was, yes. Stein left him with the baby.”
“The baby, sir?”
“Figuratively, Bailey. Lord Charles appeared to have developed an amazing flair for signing himself into every conceivable sort of responsibility. He turned out to be Stein’s partner, you remember.”
“Did he go bust?” asked the doctor.
“I don’t think so, Curtis. Must have felt the draught a bit, one would imagine.”
“Was the deceased a wealthy man, sir?” asked Bailey. “This Lord Wutherwood, I mean.”
“Oh, pretty well, you know,” said Alleyn vaguely. “There’s a monstrous place in Kent, I think. Not that that tells one anything. May have been hanging on by the skin of his teeth.”
“It sounds an unpleasant business,” said Dr. Curtis. “Through the eye, didn’t you say?”
“Yes. Beastly, isn’t it? Fox was very guarded when he rang up. I recognized his suspect-listening manner.”
“Large family of Lampreys?” asked Dr. Curtis.
“Masses of young, I fancy. Damn! We’re in for a nasty run, no doubt. Why the devil do these people have to get themselves messed up in a case like this?”
“Another instance,” said Dr. Curtis drily, “of the aristocracy mixing with the commonalty. They’ve tried trade and they’ve tried big business. Why not a spot of homicide? Sorry!” he added uncomfortably. “Silly statement. Very unprofessional. The peer was probably pinked by a — what? A servant? A lunatic? Somebody with an axe to grind? Here we are in Sloane Street. Cadogan Gardens, isn’t it?”
“Pleasaunce Court. Do you know the doctor, Curtis? His name’s Kantripp.”
“I do, as it happens. He was in my first year at Thomas’s. Nice fellow. Awkward business for him if, as one supposes, he’s the family doctor.”
“It may not be awkward. Let’s hope it’s a simple matter. Some nice homicidal maniac wandering about the top story of Pleasaunce Court Mansions and going all hay-wire at the sight of an elderly peer in a lift. Let’s hope there are no axes to grind. Here’s the turning. How anybody can get a kick out of homicide is to me one of the major puzzles of psychology.”
“Was there never a time,” asked Dr. Curtis, “when you read murder cases in your newspaper with avidity?”
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
“And do they always bore you, nowadays?”
Alleyn grinned. “No,” he said. “I’m not bored by my job. One gets desperately sick of routine at times but it would be an affectation to pretend one was bored. People interest me and homicide cases are so terrifically concerned with people. Each locked up inside his mental bomb-proof shelter and then, suddenly, the holocaust. Most murders are really very squalid affairs, of course, but there’s always the element that press-men call the human angle. All the same, Curtis, it’s a beastly sort of stimulus. One would have to be very case-hardened to feel nothing but technical interest. O Lord, here we go! There’s a gaggle of p.c.’s coming along in the car behind. Fox said we might need some spare parts.”
The car pulled up. With that unmistakable air of being about their business, the four men got out and walked up the steps. A knives-to-grind returning from a profitable day in Chelsea paused at Pleasaunce Court corner and addressed himself to a newsboy.
“Wot’s up in vere?” asked the knives-to-grind.
“Wot’s up in where?”
“In vere. In vem Mensions.”
The newsboy looked. “Coo! P’lice.”
“P’lice!” said the knives-to-grind contemptuously. “I believe you! ’Ere! Know ’oo that is? That’s ’Endsome Ell-een.”
“Cripey, you’re right, mate! Fency me missin’ ’im! I’ve doubled me sales on ’Endsome Ell-een many an evenin’. Coo, there’s ’is cemera-bloke. That’s a cemera orl right in that box. And t’uwer bloke’ll be ’is fingerprint expert.”
“It’s a cise for the Yawd,” said the knives-to-grind.
“Ar. Murder,” agreed the newsboy.
“Not necessairilly.”
“Garn! Wot’s the cemera for if it’s not murder? Taking photers of the liftman? Not necessairilly! ’Ere wite on! I’ll git orf a Stendard on the old bloke in the ’all.”
The newsboy ran up the steps crying in a respectful manner, “ Stendard, sir, Stendard?” The knives-to-grind thoughtfully salvaged a cigarette butt from the kerb and put it in his waistcoat pocket. A second car drew up and four constables got out and entered the flats.
The newsboy reappeared and with an unconvincing show of nonchalance returned to his post.
“Well,” asked his friend, “ ’ow abaht it?”
“Been an eccident.”
“What sorta eccident?”
“Old bloke ’ad is eye jabbed aht in the lift.”
“Garn!”
“Yeah,” said the newsboy, assuming a slightly hard-boiled transatlantic manner. “And it’s just too bad abaht im. ’E’s a gorner.”
“Dead?”
“Stiff.”
“Cor!”
“ Eccident!” said the newsboy with ineffable scorn.
“ Eccident! Oh yeah?”
“Wiv cops and cemeras floatin’ in by dozins,” agreed his friend. “Oh, yeah? Not ’alf. I don’t fink.”
And taking up the shafts of his grindstone he trundled down Pleasaunce Court, pausing at the corner to raise the mournful cry of his trade.
“Knives to grind? Knives to grind?”
His voice floated up in the evening air. Alleyn heard it as he rang the Lampreys’ doorbell.
“Any old knives to grind?”