Collected works of j s f.., p.764
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 764
The door of flat No. 12 stood wide open, and we crowded in. I say crowded, for the place was limited in space — probably the flats had been designed for single persons or for married couples without children. There was a little entrance lobby, a kitchen behind it, a bedroom and a sitting-room. And in the bedroom, on the bed, lay the dead woman. The detectives who were already there took us in to see her, after hearing from Doxford that Miss Hetherley would probably be able to identify the body. And Miss Hetherley was swift in what she did. One quick but searching look gave satisfaction.
‘That is the woman who came to see Mr. Hannington yesterday afternoon!’ she said. ‘I am certain of it! I have no doubt whatever!’
‘You can point to something, Miss Hetherley?’ asked Doxford.
‘Yes! I could not identify her by her face or features, because, as I’ve told you, she was heavily veiled,’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘But I recognize the ear-rings and the dress — and also that coat,’ she added, pointing to a garment thrown aside on the chair. ‘The ear-rings, you see, are of an unusually large and heavy pattern; the dress is, well, Parisian; the coat is foreign, too.’
‘You’ve no doubt?’ said Doxford.
‘None whatever!’ declared Miss Hetherley. ‘None! And — may I go now?’
But Chaney begged her to stay — awhile, anyway: there might be something he wanted to ask her about or to which he wished to draw her attention. We went into the sitting-room with her: the police-surgeon who had been fetched was there, with another medical man; they were telling the results of their examination to one of Doxford’s fellow inspectors. We listened.
‘This woman,’ one of the doctors was saying, ‘was killed by blows on the head inflicted by some heavy blunt instrument. Death — —’
‘Pardon me, sir,’ interrupted Chaney, ‘but have you formed any opinion as to what particular sort of blunt instrument?’
The doctor reflected a moment.
‘Well!’ he said, ‘I hadn’t thought too closely on that matter, but I can tell you what sort of instrument would have caused the injuries. An old-fashioned life-preserver! — probably covered at the thick end with wash-leather.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Chaney. ‘Exactly my own opinion. You were about to say —— ?’
‘I was about to say that death was instantaneous. And in my opinion, and that of my colleague here, it probably took place — this murder, I mean — about one o’clock this morning. Sometime, anyway, between midnight and one o’clock. It was about noon when we were fetched here, and we are of opinion that the woman had then been dead at least eleven hours, and perhaps a little longer. That opinion may be of use to you.’
We turned to the work of examining the flat. And here I may say at once that it needed no more than one comprehensive glance to suggest the murderer’s real object — search! — search — and the discovery of ... something. Whether the search had been successful; whether the something had been found, who could tell? But there was the fact — the tiny place had been turned upside down, ransacked from top to bottom; anything in the shape of cupboard, receptacle of any sort had been searched, perhaps rapidly, but without doubt, thoroughly. It seemed to us — the detectives, Chaney, and myself — that the woman had been struck down and silenced for ever, immediately after her assailant’s entrance, and that he had then set to work, swiftly and methodically, to search for what he wanted: he had even gone so far as to turn up carpets and hearthrugs and look behind every cushion in the place.
‘The woman’s personal belongings?’ suggested somebody. ‘Her luggage?’
What she had of this sort was in the little bedroom, where her dead body still lay. There were three articles; a medium-sized, square trunk, of foreign manufacture; a small suit-case; a hand-bag (not of the vanity-bag variety, but a substantial, useful article); these two last-named articles were also of foreign origin. The trunk contained clothing; gowns, linen and the like — it was obvious that its contents, probably neatly packed when the murderer began to search, had been taken out, examined, rammed in again any way: the same remark applied to the suit-case. The hand-bag contained various small feminine matters, toilet articles, a French novel or two; a Paris newspaper the date of which was some fourteen days previously. But it also contained something else: an old-fashioned capacious purse. In this purse we found a sum of about thirty thousand francs, in notes of various value (the franc was at that time in a very feeble stage of its post-war history) and some £25 in English notes: in one compartment, folded in tissue paper, were five English sovereigns — Chaney at once pointed out their dates, and the fact that each bore the image and superscription of Queen Victoria; evidently they had been hoarded. And as if to prove that the murderer had had no wish to acquire ready money by the death of his victim, there lay, on the mantelpiece of the bedroom, another, a more modern purse, in which we found two £5 Bank of England notes, seventeen pounds in twenty-shilling and ten-shilling Treasury notes, and nine shillings and sixpence in silver. Also, by the side of this second purse lay a very pretty gold watch and a couple of solid gold bracelets; we had already noticed that the dead woman’s rings, good, valuable rings, were still on her fingers.
At the end of this — a merely preliminary examination of surroundings, Chaney turned to Miss Hetherley who, unwillingly enough, and being impressed by the horror of the thing, had remained with us.
‘Run your eye over that, Miss Hetherley,’ he whispered, pointing to the clothing in the trunk. ‘You know all about women’s stuff. Is that foreign — taking it altogether?’
We stood by, watching, while Miss Hetherley examined the various articles. She gave us her reply in one word.
‘All!’
Chaney turned to Doxford.
‘Let’s go down to the basement,’ he said. ‘The next person to see is the caretaker.’
II
AT THAT POINT, Miss Hetherley went away, declaring that she had had her fill of horrors and could do no good by staying longer. Four of us, Chaney, myself, Doxford and one of the Scotland Yard men whom we had found in the flat on our arrival, went down to the basement. Outside the flat occupied by the dead woman, the Scotland Yard man pointed to its neighbour.
‘That’s empty,’ he said. ‘Consequently there was nobody in there to overhear anything. And the people in these two flats immediately underneath,’ he continued, as we went down the stone staircase, ‘they never heard anything, either. Nobody in the whole place heard anything. Nor, for the matter of that, saw anything. Whoever the man was, he must have come in and got out absolutely unobserved.’
‘If it was a man,’ remarked Chaney.
The Scotland Yard man looked his surprise.
‘Doesn’t look like a woman’s work, I think,’ he said. ‘A woman! Come!’
‘There are women and women,’ retorted Chaney. ‘It’s a woman we want to see now. Caretaker — in the basement.’
We pursued our way to the basement. That was arranged pretty much like the flats above. A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. And in the sitting-room we found the caretaker, refreshing herself, in company with an awe-struck and inquisitive neighbour, by means of a teapot. The Scotland Yard man had already possessed himself of her name. He addressed her.
‘Mrs. Goodge?’
Mrs. Goodge stood up. She was a slightly-built, middle-aged woman, who looked as if she was perpetually fighting the battle of life without much hope of coming out on top; there was a certain patient acquiescence about her which suggested that whatever came she would see things out.
‘That’s me, sir,’ she answered quietly.
‘We’re police-officers, Mrs. Goodge,’ said the Scotland Yard man. He glanced at the neighbour. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘Next door neighbour, sir, Mrs. Marrable. Which Mrs. Marrable is caretaker of the next house, sir.’
‘Does Mrs. Marrable know anything of this affair?’ asked the Scotland Yard man.
‘Not me, sir!’ replied Mrs. Marrable, promptly. ‘No more than the child unborn, ‘cept what Mrs. Goodge here — —’
‘Then you can go, Mrs. Marrable,’ interrupted our spokesman. ‘We want to talk to Mrs. Goodge.’
Mrs. Marrable went — obviously more inquisitive than before. The Scotland Yard man shut the door after her and whispered to Doxford. And Doxford, motioning Mrs. Goodge to be seated, proceeded to question her.
‘Sit down and go on with your tea,’ he said. ‘We only want to ask you a few questions. What do you know about this affair in Number 12, Mrs. Goodge?’
‘Me, sir? Nothing, sir! No more than — —’
‘What do you know about the dead woman? Just tell us all you know.’
‘All I know, sir, is this. Two or three of these flats are furnished flats — let furnished, you understand. About a fortnight ago, or it might be between a fortnight and three weeks, Mr. Morty, the agent what lets these flats, brought this here poor lady here and showed her Number 12, which was unlet. He come downstairs with her after, and tells me she’d taken it. She said she’d come in that afternoon, and she come, with her luggage. Not much luggage she had — a trunk and a suit-case, mainly. And settled in there and then, sir, which is all I can tell you.’
‘You must know a lot more than that, Mrs. Goodge. What was her name, now?’
‘Mrs. Clayton, sir, was the name she give me. But I never see nothing of her, or as you might say, next to nothing, from the day she come in to yesterday. Kept herself to herself, she did.’
‘Did you do no cooking for her?’
‘I did not, sir. There’s a gas cooker in the kitchens in all these here flats, and what meals she had in she did herself. But I believe she always went out to her lunch and her dinner.’
‘Didn’t you clean up for her?’
‘Once a week, sir, she had me in to do her rooms out. Otherwise she did all for herself, which, of course, there was very little to do.’
‘Didn’t she talk to you?’
‘Not much, sir. Just a bit — when I cleaned up for her.’
‘Well, now, what was she — an Englishwoman, or a Frenchwoman?’
‘She talked English to me, sir, just like you and me might be talking. But it wasn’t London English.’
‘Not London English, eh? What sort of English, then? What do you mean, exactly?’
‘Well, sir, she talked like people do who come from the North of England — Yorkshire and Lancashire people, sir. I’ve heard a many of them talk in my time.’
‘A North-country woman, eh? She never told you where she came from?’
‘She never told me anything about herself, sir, nothing at all.’
‘You’ve no idea where she came from when she came here?’
‘Oh, well, I’ve an idea of my own, sir. I’ve got eyes, same as other people, and I noticed there was French labels on her trunk and her suit-case. So I came to the conclusion that she’s come from France, recent.’
‘You never heard her speak French?’
‘I did not, sir, because I never heard her speak to anybody but myself, and it would have been no use her speaking French to me ‘cause I don’t know one word of that language.’
‘Well, did she ever have any visitors?’
‘That I can’t say, sir. The people as lives in these flats could have visitors and callers by the dozen, sir, without me knowing of it. The front door’s always open, and people have nothing to do but walk in and go up the stairs to whichever number they want. I never knew of her having visitors, but she may have had several.’
‘What about letters? What’s the arrangement about that?’
‘Just the same as regards visitors, sir. The postman, he delivers the letters at each flat. And so does the telegraph boys, if there’s telegrams.’
‘Then it really comes to this, Mrs. Goodge — you practically know nothing of this dead woman, except what you’ve told us?’
‘That’s it, sir, I know nothing about her — nothing!’
Doxford looked at Chaney. And Chaney, who had been listening carefully to Mrs. Goodge, responded to the glance by taking a hand in the game.
‘Do you know anything about last night, Mrs. Goodge?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell us anything about last night? Not necessarily about the dead woman, you know. But do you know of anything that occurred last night that you regarded as a bit out of the ordinary? Anything! Any strange persons about, you know, or — eh?’
Mrs. Goodge turned a sharp eye on her new questioner. She looked Chaney fair and square in the face, and when she answered his question there was a new inflection in her voice and a change in her manner.
‘Well, there was something!’ she said.
‘To be sure!’ responded Chaney, cheerfully. ‘There was something! And what might it be, Mrs. Goodge?’
Mrs. Goodge regarded us comprehensively; her glance round had an element of coyness in it.
‘Well, you see, mister,’ she replied, fixing the wandering glance on Chaney. ‘Last night I had what you might call a night out! Which such a thing don’t happen too often to me, I can tell you. Still, as they say, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.’
‘Quite true, Mrs. Goodge, quite true!’ agreed Chaney. ‘A night out, eh? You weren’t here, then?’
‘Not till what you might call late last night or very early this morning I wasn’t,’ replied Mrs. Goodge. ‘You see, mister, my daughter, as is married very respectable and lives up Hampstead Road way, she asked me to go to the play with her, which it was a piece at the Marlborough Theatre what she was very desirous of seeing, her having a partiality for the stage though her husband is, of course, in the oil-and-colour line. And of course I went to tea with her before we went to the play and was out of this here house from five o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Yes — and till when, Mrs. Goodge?’ asked Chaney, patiently.
Mrs. Goodge considered matters.
‘Well, I can’t rightly say, mister, to the minute,’ she answered. ‘But it would be nearer two o’clock this morning than one, which is, of course, uncommon late hours for me but only occurring once in a while, and as I said before, it’s a poor heart — —’
‘Let’s say between one and two o’clock this morning,’ interrupted Chaney, ‘or getting towards two o’clock — —’
‘Which would be nearer the mark, mister,’ said Mrs. Goodge. ‘A quarter to two it would be at any rate. ‘Cause you see, after we come out of the theatre, my daughter she would have me go home and take a bit of supper with her, and of course there was a neighbour or two of hers there and one gets talking and such like, and it was after one o’clock when her husband he see me into a late ‘bus what comes this way — which this house is in Hamilton Street and not so far — —’
‘A quarter to two, then, Mrs. Goodge,’ said Chaney, ‘when you got in here, you know. And — it was then that something happened, eh?’
Mrs. Goodge gave her questioner a look which seemed to signify admiration for his penetrative powers.
‘Well, that’s just when it was, mister!’ she replied frankly. ‘You see, I was half-way down the stairs that leads to this basement — just round the corner from the first flight — when I hears somebody coming soft and quick down the stairs from the flats. So I just looked round the corner.’
‘Yes?’ said Chaney. ‘And you saw — —’
‘I saw a man!’ replied Mrs. Goodge. ‘Leastway I saw the back of a man! He was just passing out of the street door. And, of course, next instant he was gone.’
‘Dear, dear!’ exclaimed Chaney. ‘You only saw — just his back?’
‘Just his back, mister, and no more,’ assented Mrs. Goodge. ‘Not one bit more.’
‘Well — what sort of man was he?’ enquired Chaney, resignedly. ‘Tall, short, fat, thin — what?’
‘I should call him one of these here middle-sized ones,’ replied Mrs. Goodge. ‘Neither high nor low, stout nor starved — judging by his build. But I see more of his clothes than of him.’
‘His clothes, eh?’ said Chaney. ‘How was he dressed, then?’
‘Black!’ replied Mrs. Goodge, with emphasis. ‘He’d a black overcoat, and one o’ them black slouch hats what actors and musicians is partial to, and a big white muffler round his neck. And of course that was all I see of him. Back view!’
‘You’d never seen him about the flats before, Mrs. Goodge?’ asked Chaney.
‘No, I’ll take my solemn ‘davit I never had, mister!’ asserted Mrs. Goodge. ‘I can speak confident about that!’
Doxford intervened.
‘Weren’t you surprised to see a man leaving the place at that hour?’ he asked. ‘Nearly two o’clock in the morning!’
‘Which I was nothing of the sort, sir,’ replied Mrs. Goodge, promptly. ‘There’s twelve separate flats in this here house, though one of ’em, Number 11, is at this present unlet. Well, there’s all sorts in them eleven flats. There’s an artist gentleman in Number 5 — he ain’t particular what hours him and his friends keeps. Then there’s one or two young actress ladies — they ain’t early birds, and if, as often happens, they brings friends home with ’em, why, of course they turns night into day, as the saying is. Then there’s others as is — —’
