Crow's Inn Tragedy (20 page)

Still his brow was puckered in a frown as he turned to his notebook.

“Now, Mr. Steadman, I have some one else for you to interview.” He sounded his bell sharply as he spoke. “Show Mr. Brunton in as soon as he comes,” he said to the policeman who appeared in answer.

“He is waiting, sir.”

“Oh, good! Let him come in. This Brunton, Mr. Steadman, is one of the late Mr. Bechcombe's younger clerks. I do not know whether you knew him.”

John Steadman shook his head.

“No, I have no recollection of any of the clerks but Thompson.”

“He is with Carrington and Cleaver, who are carrying on Mr. Bechcombe's clients until, if ever, some one takes on the practice,” pursued the inspector. “And I should like you to hear a story he brought to me this morning.”

Almost as the last word left his lips, the door opened again and a lanky, sandy-haired youth was shown in.

The inspector stepped forward.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brunton. Now I want you just to repeat to this gentleman, Mr. Steadman, what you told me this morning.”

Mr. Brunton coughed nervously.

“I thought I did right in coming to you.”

“Certainly you did,” the inspector reassured him. “Your evidence is most important. Now, from the beginning, please, Mr. Brunton.”

“Well, it was last night. I left the office early because I had an errand to do for Mr. Carrington,” the youth began. He kept his eyes fixed on the inspector—not once did he glance in Steadman's direction. His hands twisted themselves nervously together. “It took me some time longer than I expected and it was getting late when I started home. You will remember perhaps, inspector, that there was a bit of a fog here, but on the other side of the river where I had to go it was much worse, and the farther I went the denser it became. I got out of the bus at the
Elephant
, which is not far from my rooms, you know.” He paused.

“I know. Go on, please.”

“Well, I had to walk from there—there's no bus goes anywhere near. The fog was getting dangerous by then. You couldn't see your hand before your face, as the saying is. I know the way well enough in the daylight, but in a fog things look so different. It is a regular network of small streets behind there, you know, and one seemed just like the other. I lost my bearings and began to wonder how I was going to get home. There were no passers-by—I seemed to be the only living creature out—and I was just making up my mind to ring the bell at one of the houses and see if anyone could direct me or help me at all, when a strange thing happened; though I hadn't known there was anyone about, a voice spoke out of the fog close beside me as it seemed. ‘It is the only thing to be done—you can't make a mistake.' The rejoinder came in a woman's voice. ‘But I can't do it. It wouldn't be safe. They might follow me. You must shake them off if you have any affection for me.' The man's voice said again, ‘If you have any thought for the future you will get it for me. Would you like to see me in prison and worse? Would you like to be pointed at as—' That was all I heard, sir.” Mr. Brunton turned himself from Mr. Steadman to the inspector, then back again to Steadman. “I was listening for all I was worth, trying not to miss a word, when that horrid fog got down my throat and tickled me, and before I could help myself I had given a great sneeze. There was a sharp exclamation, and I thought I caught the sound of footsteps, deadened by the fog. That was all I could hear, sir—every word,” looking from one to the other.

“Very good, Mr. Brunton,” the inspector said as he stopped. “And now just you tell Mr. Steadman why you listened—why you were anxious to hear.”

The youth glanced at Steadman in a scared fashion. “I—I listened, sir, because I recognized the voices, one voice at least for certain—the man's. It was Mr. Amos Thompson's, the late Mr. Bechcombe's managing clerk.”

John Steadman raised his eyebrows. “You are sure?”

“Quite certain, as certain as I could be of anything,” asseverated Brunton. “I knew Mr. Thompson's voice too well to make any mistake, sir. I had good reason to, for he was for ever nagging at me when I was at Mr. Bechcombe's. There wouldn't be one of us clerks who wouldn't recognize Mr. Thompson's voice.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows again. “And the other voice—the woman's?”

Mr. Brunton fidgeted. “I wasn't so certain of that, sir. I hadn't had so many opportunities of hearing it, you see. But it sounded like Miss Hoyle's—Mr. Bechcombe's secretary. I heard it at the inquest.”

“I understand you saw absolutely nothing to show that you were right in either surmisal,” John Steadman said, his face showing none of the surprise he felt at hearing Cecily's name.

“Nothing—nothing at all!” Mr. Brunton confirmed. “But, if I ever heard it on earth, it was Mr. Thompson's voice I heard then. And I don't think—I really don't think I was wrong in taking the other for Miss Hoyle's, as I say I heard it at the inquest, and I took particular notice of it.”

“Um!” John Steadman stroked his nose meditatively. “How long had you been in Mr. Bechcombe's office, Mr. Brunton?”

Mr. Brunton hesitated a moment.

“Five years, sir. I began as office boy to—to gain experience, you know. I was fourteen then and I am nineteen now.”

“No more?” said Mr. Steadman approvingly.

Mr. Brunton, who had looked distinctly depressed at the mention of his lowly beginning, began to perk up.

“And Mr. Thompson has been managing clerk all the time,” the barrister went on. “No, I don't think you could very well mistake his voice. But Miss Hoyle had only been a short time with Mr. Bechcombe, you say—you had not seen much of her? At the office, I mean, not the inquest.”

“Not much, sir. Because she never came into our office. She always went into her own by the door next Mr. Bechcombe's room. Most of the clerks really did not know her by sight at all, let alone recognize her voice. But it was part of my job to go into Mr. Bechcombe's room with the midday mail, and more often than not she would be there taking down Mr. Bechcombe's instructions in shorthand. Very often too he would make her repeat the last sentence he had given her before he broke off. It was in that way I got to know her voice a little, for I never spoke to her beyond passing the time of day if we met accidentally, for she was always one that kept herself to herself,” Mr. Brunton concluded, quite out of breath with his long speech.

John Steadman nodded.

“Yes, you would have a fair chance of becoming acquainted with her voice that way. Better, I think, than at the inquest. The words that you overheard, I take it you reported as accurately as possible.”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Mr. Brunton moved restlessly from one leg to the other. “You see, I recognized Mr. Thompson's voice with the first words and, knowing how important it was that the police should find him, I listened for all I was worth.”

“I take it from the words you have reported that Thompson had some hold over the girl?” Mr. Steadman pursued. “Had you previously had any idea of any connection between them?”

Mr. Brunton shook his head in emphatic negative.

“Not the least, sir. If you had asked me I shouldn't have thought Mr. Thompson would have known Miss Hoyle if he had met her.”

“And yet Miss Hoyle's portrait was found in Thompson's room,” Mr. Steadman said very deliberately. “One might say the only thing that was found there in fact.”

“Was it, indeed, sir?” Young Brunton looked dumbfounded. “Well, if they were friends, there was none of us in the office suspected it,” he finished.

“And that was rather remarkable among such a lot of young men as there were at Luke Bechcombe's, remarked John Steadman. “They generally have their eyes open to everything. Now as to where they were when you overheard them. You do not think you could recognize the place again?”

“I am afraid not, sir. You see, the fog alters everything so. I seemed to have been wandering about for hours when I heard Thompson's voice, and it appeared to me that I walked about for hours afterwards before the fog lifted. When it did I was quite near home, but I haven't the least idea whether it meant that I had been sort of walking round about in a circle, or whether I had been further afield.”

“Anyway we shall have all that neighbourhood combed out,” interposed Inspector Furnival. “If Mr. Thompson is in hiding anywhere there I think that we may take it his capture is only a matter of time. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Brunton. I will let you know in good time when your evidence is likely to be required.”

“Thank you, sir.” With an awkward circular bow intended to include both men Mr. Brunton took his departure.

The inspector shut the door behind him.

“What do you think of that?”

“I was surprised,” Steadman answered. “Surprised that they were not more careful,” he went on. “There is nothing more unsafe than talking of one's private affairs abroad in a fog. Buses and trains are child's play to a fog.”

The inspector smiled.

“Oh, well, don't criminals always overlook something? Which reminds me—this came an hour ago.”

He handed a piece of paper to Steadman. The latter regarded it doubtfully. It had evidently been torn out of a notebook, and looked as though it had passed through several hands, for it was dirty and thumb-marked and frayed at the edges as though it had been carried about in some one's pocket. Across one corner of it were scrawled some letters in pencil. He put up his pince-nez and looked at it more closely. The few words scrawled across it were very irregularly and illegibly written in printed characters. After scrutinizing it for some time through his glasses Steadman made them out to be: “Wednesday night, 21 Burlase Street, Limehouse. Chink-a-pin.”

“What is to take place at 21 Burlase Street on Wednesday night?” he questioned as he laid it down.

“A meeting of the Yellow Gang, and I hope the capture of the Yellow Dog,” the inspector answered pithily and optimistically.

“And this comes from—?” Steadman went on, tapping the paper with his eyeglasses.

“One of the Gang. It is pretty safe to assume that sooner or later there will be an informer.”

“You will be there?”

The inspector nodded. “But we are taking no risks. The informer may be false to both sides. The house will be surrounded. Whole squads of men are being drafted to the neighbourhood, a few at a time, to-day. I fancy we shall corner the Yellow Dog at last. With this password I shall certainly get into the house and arrest the Yellow Dog. Then at the sound of the whistle the house will be rushed.”

“I will come with you,” said John Steadman. “I fancy an interview with the Yellow Dog may be extraordinarily interesting.”

“I cannot live without you, Cecily. This bogy of yours shall not separate us. Surely my love is strong enough to help you to bear whatever the future can hold. Till the last hour of my life I shall be your devoted lover, Tony.”

A momentary sensation of warmth and light ran through Cecily's cold frame as she read the impassioned sentences. Very resolutely she had put Anthony Collyer's love from her. She had told herself that she was a moral leper set far apart from all thoughts of love or marriage. It was not in the nature of a mortal girl to read such words and remain unmoved.

She was sitting at her table in Madeleine Bechcombe's private sitting-room. As she finished reading her letter she made a movement as though to tuck it in the breast of her gown, then, changing her mind, she tossed it into the very centre of the bright fire on the hearth.

At this same moment Mrs. Bechcombe came into the room. She glanced curiously at the paper just bursting into momentary flame.

“I wish you would not burn papers here, Miss Hoyle,” she said fretfully. “It does litter up the hearth so and there is a waste-paper-basket over there.”

“I am very sorry, I quite forgot,” Cecily said penitently. “Mrs. Bechcombe, this is a letter from Lady Chard-Greene. She wants you to go to them for a week-end, the 3rd—or the 10th if that would suit you better.”

“They will neither of them suit me at all,” Mrs. Bechcombe said decisively. “You can tell her so. I wonder whether she would feel inclined to go about week-ending if her husband had been cruelly murdered?”

Cecily shivered as she took up the next letter.

“This is from Colonel Chalmers. He has just returned to England, and—”

“I don't care what he has done,” Mrs. Bechcombe interrupted. “I really only came in to tell you that I do not feel well enough to attend to letters or anything else this morning. So you need not stay—it will give you a little more time to yourself.”

“Thank you very much.” Cecily hesitated. “But can I not do anything for you, Mrs. Bechcombe? Perhaps if your head is bad again, you might let me read to you.”

“No, no! I could not stand it. It would drive me mad,” Mrs. Bechcombe responded, with the irritability that was becoming habitual with her. “No, when I feel like this, I must be alone. I mean it.”

Cecily was nothing loath to leave her work and go out into the air. It was a lovely day. The sky was blue as Londoners seldom see it, tiny fleecy clouds of white just floating across it emphasized the depth of colour. Spring seemed to be calling to the youth in her to come into the country and rejoice with the new life that was springing into being everywhere. And Cecily must go to Burford. She had intended to go when her day's work was over, but now she could start at once. Like a great black thundercloud over the brightness of the day the thought of Burford and of her errand there overhung everything. She made up her mind to take the first train down and get the thing over.

She made her way to the station at once, Trains to Burford ran fairly frequently and she had not long to wait. She occupied the time by getting a cup of tea and a bun in the refreshment room, but though she had had nothing but a piece of dry toast for her breakfast she could not eat. She only crumbled the bun, one of the station variety, while she drank the tea thirstily. She did not notice that a shabbily dressed small boy who had been loitering outside the house in Carlsford Square had dogged her steps to the station and now sat reading a dilapidated copy of “Tit-Bits” outside on the seat nearest the refreshment room.