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« on: March 20, 2023, 06:35:31 am » |
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A GALE of rationalization, blowing strongly from Whitehall a few years previously, had swept away, with many other things, the Markhampton City Police Force. It was consequently a detective-inspector of the City Division of the Markshire County Constabulary who came in answer to the urgent message, which reached him just as he was about to leave his headquarters after his day’s duty. Inspector Trimble was a young man for his rank in a service in which promotion is normally slow. He was also energetic and ambitious. His predecessor in the City force had been none of these things, and had gratefully accepted the offer of an early retirement on pension extended to him when the County Police took over. That easygoing man had not gone altogether unregretted by his subordinates, who viewed the bustling “new bloke” with a certain suspicion. Trimble was well aware that he had yet to prove himself in their eyes, and he was on the whole pleased that on this occasion he should be accompanied by an elderly, skeptical sergeant of the old dispensation. He had been seeking an opportunity to impress Sergeant Tate with the virtues of the County organization in general, and of its detective-inspector in particular, and perhaps this case would provide it.
The inspector drove to the artists’ entrance of the City Hall. A white-faced porter opened the door to him. Inside, he found himself in a corridor packed to overflowing with men and women who fell abruptly silent as he entered. Their anxious faces turned to follow his progress as he pushed his way through.
There were doors opening out of the corridor on either side. Outside one of these, to his right as he entered, and in the direction of the concert hall, stood a police constable, red-faced and important, who drew himself up and saluted as Trimble approached.
“She’s in here, sir,” he said. “Dr. Cutbush is with the body. Nothing has been touched. I’ve----”
Trimble cut him short with a curt nod.
“I’ll take your report later,” he said. “Stay where you are until I send for you.”
Behind his back, Sergeant Tate favoured the constable with a sardonic grin as Trimble passed through the door, a slim, assured figure---possibly a shade too assured, ill-wishers might have thought.
The artist’s room was a small, square apartment. Its panelled walls were unbroken by windows, a skylight in the lofty ceiling taking their place. There was a second door opposite the one by which the inspector had entered. The furniture consisted of a table, two or three plain chairs and a deep armchair. On the table were several vases of flowers and a violin in its open case. Dr. Cutbush was sitting on one of the hard chairs. In the armchair was the huddled form of Lucy Carless.
Trimble looked quickly round the room before he approached the body. Then he walked across to the opposite door and opened it. He found himself looking into another corridor, roughly parallel to the one he had just left, but curving at either end to conform to the shape of the stage behind which it ran. After establishing the lay of the land he closed the door again and locked it from the inside.
“Has anybody been through this door since the body was found?” he asked.
“Well, I have, naturally, since I came from the body of the hall,” replied the doctor in a gentle, deprecating voice. “But so far as I am aware, no one else.”
“I see. Well, doctor, what have you to tell me?”
“Very little, I am afraid, further than that life was extinct when I arrived. The cause of death, as you can see”---here, he rose, walked to the armchair, and with wonderful tenderness pulled aside the mass of dark hair which shrouded the terribly distorted face---“the cause of death was evidently strangulation. What appears to be a silk stocking has been very tightly tied around the neck. But I have touched nothing. Your own medical officer will deal with that in due course, no doubt.” He let the hair fall back into place. “A sad loss, Inspector,” he said with a sigh. “She was a great artist.”
“How long would you say had elapsed between death and when you found her?”
Dr. Cutbush shook his head.
“I am afraid forensic medicine has never been a subject of mine,” he said. “It was certainly not long---half an hour perhaps, but little more than that. There again, I must leave you to the specialist.”
“I see. Well, Doctor, if you will give your name and address to Sergeant Tate here he will take a formal statement from you in due course. I needn’t keep you any longer now.”
“Thank you. And may I take my little girl with me?”
“Your little girl?” asked Trimble.
“She is one of the orchestra—a first violin. I am sure she will have been terribly upset, and I should like to get her away.”
“The orchestra?” Trimble stroked his chin uncertainly. “Sergeant, do you know the layout of this building?”
“Yes, sir, very well. I’ve sung ‘The Messiah’ in it many a time.”
“How do the orchestra get on to the platform?”
“By that corridor you were looking at just now. Either end of it leads on to the stage---right or left side, according. With steps to take you up to the back rows.”
“That was what I thought. Then anyone going on to the stage might pass this door on the way?”
“That’s right. And conversely, anyone coming out of this room might go on to the stage just as if he hadn’t. There are two or three other doors leading into that corridor, you see.”
Slightly nettled at his sergeant’s emphasizing the obvious, Trimble turned to Dr. Cutbush.
“I am afraid I shall have to keep the orchestra here for the time being,” he said. “But I hope it won’t be for long. Meanwhile you can join your daughter, if you wish.”
The doctor having departed, Trimble carried out a brief but intensive search of the room. He was conscious as he did so that the sergeant, while apparently assisting him, was at the same time subjecting him to a wordless but lively criticism. It was all the more annoying, therefore, that the search proved entirely fruitless. Nothing whatever in the room was out of order. Everything was perfectly normal---except for the still, silent figure in the armchair. Finally he sent for the constable at the door and ordered Sergeant Tate to take his place until another uniformed man from headquarters could arrive to relieve him. The constable was evidently bursting with information. He took a deep breath and began:
“I was on duty outside the main entrance, sir, when I became aware of a certain commotion inside.”
“What sort of commotion?”
“There were some screams and hysterics in the audience, sir, and a St. John’s Ambulance man reported that a lady had fainted. I went into the hall, and ascertained that a doctor had been sent for to the artist’s room. I accordingly made my way round to the back and came in through the stage door. I found Dr. Cutbush here with Mr. Evans, the conductor. Also Mr. Sefton.”
“Mr. Sefton?”
“I gathered that he was the husband of the deceased, sir. He was in a somewhat excited condition. I had some difficulty in persuading him to leave the room. He was making a number of wild accusations against a variety of individuals, including Mr. Evans.”
“Very well. And what action did you take?”
“Having ascertained from the doctor that life was extinct, sir, and that there was adequate reason to suspect that a felony had been committed, I deemed it my duty to take charge.”
“My question,” said Trimble icily, “was---what action did you take?”
“I requested a member of the City Hall staff who had accompanied me from the main entrance to notify headquarters by telephone, sir---not liking to leave the scene of the occurrence unguarded. Meanwhile, while awaiting assistance, I suggested to Mr. Evans that he should announce that the concert was abandoned and cause the audience to disperse, which I understand they have done, to a large extent.”
“Yes?”
“I then posted myself outside the door in the position in which you found me, sir, in order to prevent any interference. The matter was a little complicated by reason of the fact that the members of the orchestra had by this time come off the platform and were milling around, if I may so put it, sir, many of them carrying musical instruments of various shapes and sizes.”
“Are all these people outside members of the orchestra, then? There seem to be a great many of them.”
“No, sir. Not all of them. That was an additional complication. During the course of the events which I have endeavoured to describe, and before even I had arrived upon the spot, a certain amount of infiltration had taken place.”
“To put it shortly, a lot of people had got in who had no business to be there?”
“To put it shortly---yes, sir. You will appreciate, sir, that the great majority of the orchestra are local ladies and gentlemen, and they all had husbands and wives and so forth in the hall who naturally came round to see what was up and how---” the constable’s prose style recovered itself with a visible effort---“how their respective relatives were faring.”
“I see.”
“As soon as I was at liberty to do so, sir, I stationed a porter on the door to prevent the ingress of unauthorized persons.”
“The what?”
“The ingress, sir. Of unauthorized----”
“Yes, yes, I see. But until then there was no checking----”
“No checking their ingress, sir.”
“Damn their ingress!” said the inspector, losing his temper. “It’s egress that I’m interested in. No checking whether anyone went out?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Which may prove rather more important to this inquiry than who came in afterwards.”
“That is so, sir, now you mention it.”
“Never mind,” said Trimble, repenting of his momentary loss of control. “I have no doubt you did the best you could in the circumstances, and I shall so inform the Superintendent.”
“I am very much obliged, sir.”
“I think I should see Mr. Evans next, and this Mr. Sefton you mentioned. Where are they, do you know?”
“I think you will find them in a room adjacent to this one, sir. The rehearsal room, it is called, on account of there being a piano in it. I suggested that they should await you there, so as to be free from interruption. There are one or two others with them, I fancy.”
There was a knock on the door, and Sergeant Tate’s head appeared.
“The Divisional Surgeon is here, sir,” he said. “And the fingerprint and photography squad.”
“Send them in,” said Trimble.
The little room became suddenly full of busy, purposeful specialists. Trimble gave instructions as to his requirements and then departed, leaving Sergeant Tate in charge. But he did not leave soon enough to prevent his hearing the sergeant remark to the fingerprint expert, “It’s no use your trying your blower on that door handle, Bert. It’s got the inspector’s finger marks all over it!”
“That man wants a lesson,” was Trimble’s unspoken comment. Oddly enough, it was precisely what Sergeant Tate was thinking at the same moment.
The inspector went at once to the room which had been indicated to him as the rehearsal room. It was in all respects similar to the one he had just left, except for an upright piano against one wall, and two or three music stands in one corner. Three men and a woman were standing uneasily by the table, and a fourth man was sitting hunched up in the armchair.
“I am Detective-inspector Trimble of the Markshire County Constabulary,” he began. “Which of you is Mr. Evans?”
Before Evans could answer, the man in the armchair rose to his feet and came staggering across the room.
“My wife!” he muttered hoarsely. “Where is my wife? I must see her! I want to explain---to tell her----”
Trimble caught him by the arm in time to prevent his collapsing completely.
“Mr. Sefton,” he said kindly, “I think the best thing you can do is to go back to your hotel and try to get some rest. You shall see your wife in due course, but just now it is not---not convenient. There is a police car at the door to take you, and this officer will accompany you. Now go along, there’s a good fellow.”
With surprising meekness Sefton allowed himself to be shepherded out of the room. There was a brief silence before Evans spoke.
“My name is Evans,” he said. “This is Mrs. Basset, the chairman of our committee. Mr. Dixon, the secretary. Mr. Pettigrew, the treasurer.”
Trimble bowed stiffly. An unimpressionable man in the ordinary way, he found it impossible not to be impressed by Clayton Evans.
“I understand that it was you who discovered the body of the deceased,” he began, a trifle daunted by the smoldering eyes that stared down at him through the thick lenses of the spectacles.
“Yes. I did. You will of course require a statement from me as to that. I am entirely at your service. But first, if you don’t mind, I am a little anxious about my orchestra. They have all had a very trying experience, and the professionals will have trains to catch. It is quite out of the question that any of them could have anything to do with this terrible affair. Wouldn’t it be possible to let them go?”
Trimble considered the suggestion for a moment.
“I am in rather a difficulty about the orchestra,” he said. “I quite appreciate what you say, but from what I have been able to gather so far, one thing seems clear to me. Whoever was responsible for this crime must have had access to the part of the building lying on this side of the stage. There may have been many people in that position, authorized or unauthorized---I shall have to look into it---but obviously the members of the orchestra were among them. I am afraid I shall have to take statements from each of them, simply as a matter of routine.”
“Won’t it be sufficient for this evening if you take their names and addresses and let them go?” Pettigrew suggested. He had had some experience of police investigations, and saw the prospect of Eleanor being kept long past midnight while a policeman painstakingly wrote down a series of quite useless narratives. “You can interview them at leisure later on,” he added.
“Yes, I could do that. But there is a further little complication. From what I have been told, there was an appreciable time between the discovery of Miss Carless’s body and the arrival of the police. It would have been quite possible for anyone to slip out in the general confusion. How can I be certain that all the orchestra are still here?”
Evans for the first time looked rather helpless.
“I don’t know,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I don’t even know them all by sight. They were all here when we played the Mozart. I should have heard the difference if anyone had been missing.” He turned to Mrs. Basset. “You know them all, of course.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Basset. “I can identify everyone to the inspector. Oh---but I was forgetting---there are the professionals. I don’t know them.”
“You needn’t worry about them,” Dixon put in. “I’ve got the list here. I had to arrange about getting ’em here and back to London again,” he explained. He produced a neatly typed list from his pocket, and handed it to Trimble.
“Very good,” said the inspector. “Now I think I shall be able to help you, Mr. Evans. Get all your orchestra into one room together, and we will deal with them straightaway.”
In a surprisingly short time the combined efforts of Evans and Mrs. Basset had succeeded in separating the players from the interlopers who had mingled with them, and segregating them at one end of the corridor. Pettigrew, rather guiltily, remained in the rehearsal room with Dixon. He had been one of the first to come round to the artists’ entrance when he realized that a disaster had occurred, and his intention had been the laudable one of looking after his wife; but he had a horror of crowds, and when he had failed to find her at once he had gladly yielded to Mrs. Basset’s appeal to lend support to Evans at an informal and rather grisly sort of committee meeting. Twice before in his life he had found himself involuntarily dragged into the investigation of a murder, and this time he intended to stay out---even if Eleanor were to reproach him later on for his desertion.
Through the half-opened door he could hear the disposal of the orchestra proceeding expeditiously enough.
“First violins!” cried Mrs. Basset. “Miss Porteous!”
“Your name and address, please, miss, and may I see your identity card?” from a constable just outside the door, and Miss Porteous passed on, as the next name was called out. The process reminded Pettigrew of a sheep-dipping he had once attended---and, for the matter of that, some of the violins behaved very much like sheep when it came to such a simple matter as identifying themselves.
When Eleanor’s turn came he slipped out and collected her, thereby earning such credit for appearing when least expected that he escaped the scolding he richly deserved for not having joined her before.
“I’ll wait until the end, if you don’t mind staying,” he said. “From what I’ve seen of this inspector, he’ll only make trouble if he finds I’ve slipped away without leave.”
Fresh police reinforcements had arrived meanwhile, and there were now two officers taking names outside, so that it was not very long before Trimble, Evans and Mrs. Basset returned. Pettigrew noticed that the inspector looked rather worried.
“Well, that’s finished,” he said. “Only two people missing, which is rather better than I had feared. One of them is Miss Hilliard—a viola player. From what the others said, I think there is no doubt her mother got round early and took her home, but we shall have to check up on that. The other may be more troublesome, as it’s one of the professionals, and nobody seems to know anything about him.” He extended the list to Dixon. “I can’t make this name out,” he said. “You’ve penciled it in above the name originally typed.”
Dixon looked at it and bit his lip.
“Good Lord!” he said. “Jenkinson!”
“Where does he come from?”
“Whitsea. I’ve got his address somewhere.” He began to search through his pockets.
“You can always get him through Potter and Fullbright,” Pettigrew could not resist murmuring.
At that moment there was an interruption. The sound of an altercation was heard outside, and then an apologetic constable put his head into the room.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “But there’s a gentleman outside who insists on coming in. I told him your orders were that nobody was to be admitted but----”
The door suddenly opened wide and a high-pitched voice from without said, “Is this place a concert hall or a lunatic asylum, I should like to know? I tell you, I am going to get in!”
And get in he did, in spite of all the officer could do to prevent him.
“Ah!” said Trimble coolly. “And who may you be?”
“My name,” said the newcomer, “is Jenkinson. And perhaps you’ll tell me what the devil’s been going on here?”
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