CHAPTER IX
WHAT KITTY CLEVEDON SAID
THE next witness was Miss Kitty Clevedon herself and I confess I awaited her coming with more than ordinary interest. Of one thing I was certain, that she would say exactly what she wanted to say and not a word more, and that no intrusive scruples would confine her too urgently to the truth, unless, indeed, the fact that she was on oath might have any influence with her, which I doubted. I have always found that a woman’s conscience is in that respect far more elastic than a man’s. She took her seat in the witness’s chair and glanced round her with thoughtful calm, nor was her tranquillity in the least abated when she saw me watching her. There was certainly not the faintest suggestion in her manner that my presence disturbed her in the slightest, or, indeed that she had ever so much as seen me before. The coroner took up the hatpin.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
“Many times. It belongs to Lady Clevedon.”
“Have you ever borrowed it?”
“Often.”
“Did you wear it when you visited Mrs. Halfleet on the day—er—the day of Sir Philip Clevedon’s—er—decease?”
“Yes.”
“Will you kindly detail the circumstances of your visit to White Towers?”
“Lady Clevedon asked me to convey a message to Mrs. Halfleet regarding some parish business, the clothing club at the church of which Lady Clevedon is president and Mrs. Halfleet is secretary. On my way I was caught in the rain and my hat was soaked through. Mrs. Halfleet advised me to dry it at the fire in her room and I did so.”
“You say you were caught in the rain—did you walk to White Towers?”
“No, I went in my own motor, a little two-seater which I drive myself.”
“There was no one with you in the car?”
“No one.”
“You used this hatpin to secure your hat?”
“Yes.”
“And of course took it out when you removed—?”
“Of course.”
“What happened to the hatpin when you resumed your hat?”
“I do not recollect.”
“Could you wear that hat without a pin?”
“Oh, yes, I frequently did. Sometimes I use a hatpin and sometimes not. That particular hat fits very close and I pull it well down.”
“Now I want you to be very careful in answering the next few questions as they are exceptionally important. You are sure you had the hatpin when you visited Mrs. Halfleet?”
“No, I am not sure.”
“You said—”
“Yes, but that was because I don’t see how else it could get here. The use of a hatpin is more or less mechanical, you know, and sometimes I wear one and sometimes I don’t. I think I brought it here but I cannot remember either putting it in my hat or taking it out.”
“You would not swear then that you had it?”
“No, nor that I hadn’t. I cannot remember.”
“It is hopeless, then, to ask you where you laid it down?”
“Quite, I am afraid. If I had it with me I should take it out without thinking and lay it down anywhere.”
“Where were you standing when you took your hat off?”
“Before the fire.”
“You might possibly lay the hatpin on the mantelpiece?”
“I should think that a very likely place.”
“But you cannot recollect?”
“No, I cannot remember anything about it.”
“How long did you remain with Mrs. Halfleet?”
“Oh, about half an hour, I should say.”
“Where was the cap during that time?”
“It was in the fender drying.”
“Was it dry when you took it up?”
“Drier than it was, but still damp.”
“When you put it on again, can you remember whether you used the hatpin?”
“No, I cannot remember for certain, but apparently I did not.”
“Can you suggest any reason why you should want a hatpin when you left Hapforth House, but did without one when you were going from White Towers?”
“No, I cannot explain it.”
“When did you again remove the hat?”
“When I reached home.”
“Didn’t the absence of the hatpin strike you then?”
“No, I didn’t think of it. I could not even say for certain that it was absent.”
The coroner sat for a moment or two drawing figures on his blotting-paper, then turned suddenly towards her.
“Did you go out again that night?”
As Miss Kitty Clevedon looked casually round, our glances met and for a brief second her eyes held mine, hardly in questioning, certainly not in fear, but with some subtle suggestion I could not then interpret.
“No,” she said with inimitable composure, “I did not go out again.”
That might have been perfectly true since it was at least possible that she had not gone straight from White Towers to Hapforth House. Though it was hardly possible she could have been absent all the evening without some remark. If, on the other hand, she was lying, and I had good reason for knowing that she possessed all the qualities essential to success in that very difficult art, then her midnight expedition had been secret. It was a tangle that would have to be straightened out later, and so far, I hadn’t either end of the string in my fingers.
“Did you see Sir Philip Clevedon?”
“No, I went to his study, but he was not there and I did not wait.”
That is all the evidence it is necessary for me to detail here, nor need I reproduce the address of the coroner, who carefully examined in his summing-up the possibilities of suicide, and rather discounted them.
The jury retired into the study—the room in which Sir Philip’s dead body had been found—to consider their verdict. It was not quite such a simple matter as one might suppose. My fellow jurymen were deeply impressed with the heavy responsibility thrust upon them, quite unnecessarily so, since a coroner’s verdict does not matter a snap of the finger one way or the other.
“Now, gents all,” said Tim Dallott, our foreman, “the question is—suicide or murder? Why should he want to commit suicide? And if he did, where did he hide the bottle? You, Mester Hapton”—this to a big, heavy man with a vast head, a considerable farmer in the Dale—“what do you say?”
“Well,” said Mr. Hapton slowly, “there’s no knowing.”
“But you’ve got to know one way or the other,” Tim Dallott cried. “You’ll have an opinion.”
“No, I don’t know as I have,” was the deliberate reply.
“No, I’m not so sure—”
“Well, suicide?”
“Ah, but then, you see—”
“Well, if it wasn’t suicide, it was murder, and if it wasn’t murder it was suicide—”
“Aye, that’s right,” Mr. Hapton cried, brightening up a little.
Fortunately, I was the next to be interrogated, and I snapped out my answer even before our foreman had completed his question. “Murder, undoubtedly,” I said, not because I had really any such certainty, or had made up my mind on the matter, but in order to get the thing settled. My very unrural promptitude gave the cue to the rest, and “murder” went round with affecting unanimity.
“Now, Mester Hapton,” Tim Dallott added, “everybody but you’s said murder—you’ll not stand out.”
“I’m not one to be contrary-like,” Mr. Hapton said. “But murder—it’s an ugly business, that.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter very much,” I interposed. “We’re not going to hang anybody this afternoon.”
“Nor not to mention no names,” our foreman put in. “Persons or person unknown—that’s what it is.”
“Ah, well,” Mr. Hapton said, with a gloomy shake of the head, “if you’re all set on murder, murder let it be, but it’s an ugly word.”
And that was our verdict—“Murder by some person or persons unknown.” But, for my part, like Mr. Hapton, I wasn’t at all sure. And, curiously enough, the hatpin was not so much as mentioned.
It was the day following the inquest that I met Detective Pepster in the village.
“Ah, good morning, Mr. Holt,” Pepster cried, as I joined him. “How is Cartordale using you these times? Have you settled down amongst us?”
“More or less,” I replied. “This place rather improves on acquaintance. I think I would like to see a summer here.”
“Yes, it’s all right in the summer, if the summer is all right,” Pepster rejoined dryly. “But our summer isn’t much to rave over. It doesn’t last long enough.”
“No, that’s true. And how is the mystery getting on?”
“The mystery?” Pepster echoed. “Oh, you mean the murder. It isn’t getting on. I was just coming along to see you.”
“To see me!” I cried.
“Oh, I’m not going to arrest you,” he returned, with a soft chuckle. “No, not at all. But do you know Kelham, of Scotland Yard? I had a letter from him to-day. ‘Dennis Holt is living in your neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Ask him who murdered Clevedon.’ Now, what does he mean by that?”
“Kelham—yes, I know Kelham very well,” I replied. “He is a humorist.”
“Well, I wish he’d let me in on the joke, anyway,” Pepster said discontentedly. “Do you know who murdered Sir Philip Clevedon?”
“No,” I said, “not yet. For that matter, I don’t even know that he was murdered. But I shall find out, and then I’ll let you know.”
“Do you belong to the Force?”
“Not at all.”
“Then are you—?
“Sherlock Holmes disguised,” I said with a laugh. “Why not? Anyway, Kelham is no fool. Why not take his advice and let me come in? Not that you can keep me out, but it’s easier. I am not a detective, not at all, but merely a writer of books. Still, I have discovered a few little things that have been useful to the police and especially to Kelham.”
“Are you quite sure you will know who—?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “I am quite sure I shall know eventually. But whether the knowledge will be of any use to you is another matter. I only solve the mystery, but you have to prove the case.”
“Yes,” Pepster said thoughtfully, “and that is a different thing, isn’t it? I may have a good idea who did it, but where is my proof? But as to letting you in, it seems I can’t help myself. I showed Kelham’s letter to the Chief Constable this morning. ‘Dennis Holt?’ he said. ‘Is he at Cartordale? Did he come down especially for this?’ I told him, no, that you’d been living here and that you’d been on the jury. ‘Go and see him,’ he said. ‘Talk it over with him. Tell him everything.’ And there you are.”
“Just so,” I replied. “And I’ll make the same bargain with you I did with Kelham and his crowd. What I discover I will pass on, but I don’t appear in it publicly. Do we work together?”
“Why, yes, certainly,” Pepster said. “Since both Kelham and the Chief insist on it I should be a fool to stand out.”
We strode along in silence for a few minutes.
“Of course,” Pepster remarked, “there are a few matters that haven’t—come out.”
“There always are,” I replied, thinking of Kitty Clevedon’s midnight visit regarding which, at present, at all events, I intended to say nothing.
“For example, that valet, John Tulmin,” Pepster went on. “Why should Sir Philip Clevedon have given him a cheque for £500 the day before he was—before he died?”
“That certainly hasn’t come out. Did he? And did Tulmin cash it?”
“Oh, yes, there was no particular secret about it. The counterfoil of the cheque-book seemed quite plain, ‘John Tulmin, £500,’ and the money was paid out to Tulmin by the bank in Midlington at 11.30 on the morning of the day Sir Philip was—died. The bank knew Tulmin well. He had often transacted business for Sir Philip. Now, suppose that cheque was a forgery, or suppose it had been made out for £5 and Tulmin altered it to £500, or suppose the money was really for household expenses, and Tulmin stuck to it and Clevedon discovered it or Tulmin feared discovery, and so—”
“There would be your motive, certainly,” I agreed. “Has Tulmin explained the cheque?”
“Well, not in detail.”
“Has he been asked?”
“Yes.”
“That it was money owing him. ‘What about this cheque?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, the governor owed me that,’ he said. But when I wanted something a bit more definite be dried up.
“Any other cheques of that sort?”
“No, I don’t know. I might inquire.”
“Perhaps it was salary.”
“No, Tulmin’s salary was paid monthly—£20 a month. This is an extra.”
“And he declares it is money owing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, perhaps it was,” I said, as we drew up outside the little post office where I had to make a call. “Anyway, I don’t think I would arrest Tulmin just yet. Tell the Chief you have that from me.”
But what I wanted to know more than anything just then was why John Tulmin was blackmailing Sir Philip Clevedon.