Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic (13 page)

With a final snort the doctor left us, and Shelley stood silent for a moment, gazing down at the recumbent body.

“Do you know, Jimmy,” he said at length, “I've just thought of something a little odd.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“We've been concerned with Mr. Margerison for about an hour now; but we haven't even seen his face. It is, after all, possible that he is someone who is known to the police in some way. I might even know the man myself—you never can tell.”

“That's so,” I agreed, though I did not think it at all likely that there would be any truth in Shelley's suggestions. It was, to my mind, only too obvious that this man Margerison was one of Tilsley's gang; and Shelley himself had said that they were known to the police only as people of ill repute—not as people who had been found guilty of anything.

Still, I knew that if Shelley had an idea in his head nothing would get it out. So I helped him to turn the body over, so that we could get a view of the face.

“Inspector!” I gasped, when we had succeeded in doing this.

“What is it, Jimmy?” He could see that I had received a real shock.

“I believe you knew!”

“I knew what?”

I pointed at the face of the dead man. “That Henry Margerison,” I said slowly, “was the man whom I had met as Cyrus Watford!”

Chapter XV

In Which Surprises Follow

This was a bit of a facer, I must admit. I had anticipated that I should meet Cyrus Watford some time again, but had never for a moment thought that he might turn out to be the second victim of the murderer. I had not, for that matter, even thought that there might be a second victim.

Shelley, I now realised, as soon as I had got over my initial surprise, was questioning Bender.

“Have you ever seen this man before, Bender?” he asked, indicating the body.

“Never, sir.”

“Sure of that?”

“Absolutely sure, sir. Never saw him in my life before.”

I for one was prepared to believe that the red-headed man was telling the truth. There was an air of earnestness about his denial which made it, at any rate for me, completely convincing. Shelley's impassive countenance gave no indication of whether he believed the man or not, but I was inclined to think that he did.

“Have you ever heard the names of Cyrus Watford or Henry Margerison?” Shelley next asked.

“No, sir.” The man shook his head in helpless fashion, and I could see that Shelley was getting more than a little impatient at the way in which the fellow was proving useless as a source of information. This, I thought, was a little unfair to Bender, as he could not well claim access to information which was not really in his possession.

“This is a pretty kettle of fish, Jimmy,” Shelley said rather mournfully.

“This took you by surprise, eh?” I said.

“Yes, I don't mind admitting that it did,” Shelley said. “Of course, in a murder case there is always the possibility that the criminal will think he cannot put himself in any more peril by committing a second murder; but somehow I didn't think that this was the sort of crime likely to lead to a second one. It seemed to me to be so obviously a crime committed for a specific purpose—even though as yet we don't know with any certainty what that purpose was.”

“Still, the second murder may stem directly from the first one,” I said.

“Almost certainly,” Shelley agreed. “Probably our friend Watford or Margerison, whatever his name is, knew a little too much about the first crime. And as a result he had to be bumped off. I've no doubt that will be the verdict when we know a bit more than we do now. But meanwhile we have to have a look at Margerison's home life. Coming, Jimmy?”

Naturally, I didn't need a second invitation. I really was amazingly lucky to have got so well in with Shelley. Rarely can a newspaper man have been so well connected in a murder case under investigation. I didn't, however, remember Margerison's address, though I had it in my notes at the digs. For once my memory let me down. Shelley, of course, remembered it.

“Where is Cecile Road?” the detective asked.

“Don't know,” I replied. “Do you, Bender?”

“One of the new residential roads, to the south of the town,” Bender said. “Out on the opposite side to the North Foreland Road.”

“Far away?” asked Shelley.

“No. You'd walk there in a quarter of an hour or so,” said the liftman.

“Good. We'll walk.” Leaving in charge of the lift a constable who had arrived unobtrusively, and giving him full instructions of what to do when the ambulance arrived, Shelley led the way.

“I've got your address, Bender, haven't I?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, there'll probably be further questions to ask of you later on,” Shelley remarked. I thought that Bender winced, as if he did not look forward with any eagerness to the new bout of questioning. Still he said nothing, but took his dismissal with comparative scepticism.

I always remember that walk out to Cecile Road as one of the few pleasant interludes in what was becoming almost a nightmare adventure. The sun was mounting in the sky; the sea stretched below us, blue and clear; the white-flecked waves shimmered in the sun. Out on the horizon a steamship moved lazily along, its smoke trailing behind it.

But this was only an interlude. Soon my mind was to be recalled to the matter on hand. Cecile Road was a long and straggling thorough-fare, lined on either side with sizable houses of the modern villa type. It was clearly a place which had grown up after the First World War. The houses were pleasant enough places, and I could envisage their inhabitants as living somewhat self-centred lives, their whole interests concentrated on their gardens and their golf. Yet somehow tragedy had struck incongruously in this pleasant street. There is, I always think, something a trifle odd when a murder occurs among ordinary people. We are accustomed to murder in high places. When a Mussolini or a Gandhi dies it seems to be such a mighty tragedy that it appears almost ordinary—or, at any rate, something which might be anticipated. It is when tragedy appears in the lives of people more or less ordinary in their everyday attitude that it seems queer and incongruous.

Still, there was number 77 Cecile Road. It was a house just like the others in the road. Its front garden looked attractive enough. There was a small lawn, surrounded with a border in which white carnations rioted. Tall lupins stood at the back, and various other flowers—purple, blue and red—which I did not know were interspersed between those which I recognised.

Shelley did not seem to be noticing these horticultural details. He was, however, studying the house. Then he came towards me: “Remember, Jimmy, you have no official standing. So keep quiet and just listen. Let me do all the talking here,” he said in what was not much more than a whisper.

I nodded. I was too conscious of my luck in being here at all to want to butt in on what I knew was Shelley's job of cross-examination of whoever might be found in the house.

The detective strode up the concrete path that led from the little wooden gate to the front door. On the doorstep he hesitated for a moment, and then pressed firmly the bell-push in the middle of the door.

There was a breathless pause. Again I was conscious of the underlying drama of the case. Then the door opened, and a rather nervous looking little maid, her hair unkempt and her apron awry, peered out at us.

“Good morning,” said Shelley politely. I was interested to study his technique in this situation—one in which I had never previously observed him in.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, with an odd little bob of a bow.

“Is Mr. Margerison in?” Shelley asked.

“Will you please wait a moment? I'll find out,” the maid said, and disappeared into the interior of the house.

Then we had another wait. I thought that the life of a detective was not unlike that of a soldier in wartime—sudden spurts of activity, interspersed with long periods of comparative boredom. Still, soon the maid came back.

“Will you come in, sir?” she said. “Mr. Montrose will see you.”

We had no time to ask ourselves who on earth Mr. Montrose might be. We were ushered into a pleasant little sitting-room, where we were left by the maid.

“Mr. Montrose will be with you very soon, sir, if you'll kindly wait here,” she said.

She went out, shutting the door quietly behind her. Shelley and I looked at each other with a mutual grin. This was, somehow, a completely unexpected reception. We had anticipated a weeping widow or even a cheerful son; but to meet with a maid and a man whose name, even, we had never previously heard was so completely against all our anticipations that I think we were absolutely taken by surprise.

In a few moments, however, before we had time to overcome our first surprise, the door opened again. There entered a tall, distinguished-looking man, with glasses and a moustache in what used to be called the military style. He held out his hand.

“I'm afraid I don't know you gentlemen,” he said. “But we must introduce ourselves. My name is Montrose, and my friend Margerison, for whom you are asking, lives here with me. He is, however, out at the moment, and I thought that perhaps I could do something to help, since we have been involved in various business deals together, and I presume that it is some business matter that you have come here about.”

This was all said in a friendly tone, and Shelley took the outstretched hand.

“My name is Shelley,” the detective said, “and this is my friend Mr. London.”

Montrose solemnly shook us both by the hand. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” he said. “And now, perhaps, you will be so kind as to let me know what I can do for you.”

“Can you tell us when you last saw Mr. Margerison?” Shelley asked, and I could see that the detective was aware that this was rather a ticklish situation, which had to be handled with some care.

Montrose thought carefully. Then he said: “Well, I saw him at tea yesterday. I didn't see him at dinner, since I was dining out myself last night. I came home late, and went straight to bed, so I didn't see him then. Yes; teatime yesterday was the last time I saw him—say, five o'clock. But what is the meaning of this question? I trust that nothing untoward has happened to Margerison?” The rather precise, old-fashioned diction suited the general appearance and attitude of Montrose.

“I'm afraid I have rather a shock for you, Mr. Montrose,” Shelley said slowly.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, go on, man! I'm not a child; I have enough willpower, I hope, to be able to stand whatever it is that you have to say to me.”

“I'll ask one more question first, if I may,” said Shelley.

“Go on.”

“In your business deals with Margerison did you ever come across a man called Tilsley?”

“Yes.”

“You know that Tilsley was murdered yesterday?”

“I saw something about it in the paper this morning. Shocking business!” exclaimed Montrose with a mournful shake of the head. “But what has that to do with Margerison—or myself, for that matter?”

“I don't know that it has anything to do with you, sir,” Shelley said. “But it might have a good deal to do with Mr. Margerison. You see, Mr. Margerison is dead.”

I'd have sworn that the look that crossed Montrose's face was one of mingled amazement and consternation.

“Dead!” he almost shouted.

“Yes.”

“But I didn't even know that he was ill,” Montrose said.

“He was not. I am an officer from Scotland Yard,” Shelley explained, “and I have been given the job of investigating his death. I don't think that there is any doubt about it, Mr. Montrose—your friend Margerison was murdered, probably by the same hand as that which murdered Tilsley.”

“But this is terrible,” murmured Montrose. “I can't think what can be the explanation. I should have said that Margerison hadn't an enemy in the world, unless…” His voice faded away into a tone of indecision and doubt.

“Unless what, sir?” Shelley was now the sleuth, his nose well on the scent.

“Unless it had some connexion with what he told me about the death of John Tilsley.”

This was just the sort of thing that Shelley was after, I could see. Anyhow, it looked as if it might lead somewhere.

“What did he tell you?” Shelley asked.

“He told me that he had seen the lift, just after the body of Tilsley had been found. He said that this was going to be a terrific problem for the police to solve. And he added that he thought he had solved the problem.”

Shelley thought this over for a moment. Then he said: “You mean, he thought he understood how it was that a body could get in the lift, although the gates were still locked, and the locks had, to all appearances, not been in any way tampered with?”

“I presume that is what he meant,” Montrose said.

“He didn't go into any details?”

“No. I asked him, naturally, what he meant; but he said that it was only a sort of hypothesis, though he was sure that it was correct. He said, however, that he was going to see if he could do something to prove it. And, when he had got some proof, he was going to the police with it. But, until that proof was available, he thought that it was as well to say nothing at all about it.”

“I see.” This, once more, was something that took a little digesting, I could see. Naturally enough, it agreed with what we had decided were the facts of the two murders. It meant that Margerison had discovered something about the death of Tilsley, and that he had proposed to do something in the way of investigation on his own. It was then only necessary to assume that the murderer had obtained some knowledge of Margerison's suspicions, when it would obviously become necessary for Margerison to be eliminated. Such a reading of the course of events was what now became clear enough. But the trouble was, of course, that it gave us no sort of idea of the identity of the murderer. I suppose that it was too much to hope that such information might be forthcoming at this stage; I had, however, had an idea that there might have been a short cut at this point.

Not so, Shelley. With his long experience of crime investigation, the man from Scotland Yard had learned that there are very rarely short cuts in the work of a detective.

“There is one other matter, Mr. Montrose,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You said that you had known something about Tilsley in connection with your business deals with Margerison?”

“Quite so.”

“Could you give me any idea, in confidence, what those business deals were concerned with? I don't, at this stage, want anything in the way of detail. But it would be helpful to know just what sort of deals they were—I mean, if they were deals in any sort of raw materials, say.”

Montrose looked a trifle dubious at this request. It seemed that he did not know if it was altogether wise to reveal anything of what had been going on. Then he drew in a deep breath, and I realised that we were going to get a little more of the background of the mystery.

“I don't know that I should really reveal this,” he said, “since a good deal of it was really shared between Margerison and myself. But Margerison is dead, and there can be, I suppose, little harm now in telling you about it. I don't mind admitting, however, that I feel some doubt about telling it, even now.”