Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy (13 page)

Were those the considerations, French wondered, which had caused the dissatisfaction in the mind of the local superintendent, or were there still further circumstances throwing suspicion on Philpot? Whether or not, he felt the case against the doctor was strong enough to justify a visit to Kintilloch.

But one point—a vital one—he could settle before starting, or so he believed. Walking down the Embankment to Charing Cross, he went to the writing-room of the station hotel and wrote a letter on the hotel paper.

“5
th November
.    

“D
EAR
S
IR
,—I should be grateful if you would kindly inform me if a man named Henry Fuller ever worked for you as gardener, and if so, whether you found him satisfactory. He has applied to me for a job giving you as a reference.

“Apologising for troubling you,

“Yours faithfully,                          
“C
HARLES
M
USGRAVE
.”

French addressed his letter to “Herbert Philpot, Esq. M.D., Thirsby, Yorkshire, W.R.” and dropping it into the hotel letter-box, returned to the Yard.

Two days later he called for the reply, explaining to the porter that he had intended to stay in the hotel, but had had to change his plans. Dr. Philpot wrote briefly that there must be some mistake, as no one of the name mentioned had ever worked for him.

But French was not interested in the career of the hypothetical Henry Fuller. Instead he laid the letter down on his desk beside the confession and with a powerful lens fell to comparing the two.

He was soon satisfied. The confession was a forgery. The lens revealed a shakiness in the writing due to slow and careful formation of the letters which would not have been there had it been written at an ordinary speed. French had no doubt on the matter, but to make assurance doubly sure he sent the two documents to the Yard experts for a considered opinion. Before long he had their reply. His conclusion was correct; an enlarged photograph proved it conclusively.

But even if the confession were forged, French felt that the circumstances were so extraordinary that he could not drop the matter. The whole affair smacked of blackmail, and if blackmail had been going on he thought it might in some way have a bearing on the Starvel tragedy. At all events, even though a forgery, the confession might state the truth. It seemed necessary, therefore, to learn all he could about the affair and he went in and laid the whole matter before his Chief for that officer’s decision.

Chief Inspector Mitchell was surprised by the story.

“It’s certainly puzzling,” he admitted. “If the document were genuine one could understand it a bit. It’s possible, though it’s not easy, to imagine circumstances under which it might have been written. It might, for example, be that Roper had proof of the doctor’s guilt, which he held back on getting the confession to enable him to extort continuous blackmail. Even in this case, however, it’s difficult to see why he couldn’t have blackmailed on the proof he already held. But none of these theories can be the truth because the document is not genuine. A forged confession is useless. Why, then, should Roper value it sufficiently to store it in a safe deposit? I confess it gets me, French, and I agree that you should go into it further. I don’t see that it will help you in any way with the Starvel affair, but you never know. Something useful for that, too, may come out. Say nothing to Philpot in the meantime, but get away to this place in Scotland and make a few inquiries.”

That night French took the 11.40 sleeping-car express from King’s Cross. He changed at Edinburgh next morning and, having breakfasted, continued his journey into Fifeshire in a stopping train. Eleven o’clock saw him at Cupar, the headquarters of the Kintilloch district, and fifteen minutes later he was seated in the office of the superintendent, explaining to that astonished officer the surprising development which had taken place.

“They told me from Headquarters that you were not satisfied about the affair when it occurred,” French concluded. “I wondered if you would tell me why?”

“I will surely,” the other returned, leaning forward confidentially, “but you’ll understand that we hadn’t what you’d call an actual suspicion. There was, first of all, the fact that it wasn’t a very common kind of accident. I’ve heard of an occasional person falling downstairs, but I’ve never heard of anyone being killed by it. Then there was nobody there when it happened except Philpot: there was no one to check his statement. What’s more, he knew the servant was going out. The girl’s statement was that Mrs. Philpot was with the doctor in the study when she asked permission to go. It all looked possible, you understand. But the thing that really started us wondering was that the Philpots were supposed to be on bad terms, and it was whispered that Philpot was seeing a good deal of one of the nurses up at the Institute. It’s only fair to say that we couldn’t prove either of these rumours. The only definite things we got hold of were that the Philpots never went anywhere together, Mrs. Philpot being socially inclined and he not, and that he and the nurse were seen one day lunching in a small hotel in Edinburgh. But of course there was nothing really suspicious in these things and the rest may have been just gossip. In any case he didn’t marry the nurse. The talk made us look into the affair, but we thought it was all right and we let it drop.”

French nodded. The superintendent’s statement was comprehensive and he did not at first see what more there was to be learned. But he sat on, turning the thing over in his mind, in his competent, unhurried way, until he had thought out and put in order a number of points upon which further information might be available.

“I suppose that other doctor—Ferguson, you called him—was quite satisfied by the accident theory?”

“Sergeant MacGregor asked him that, as a routine question. Yes, there was no doubt the blow on the temple killed her and in his opinion she might have received it by falling down the stairs.”

“And the servant girl had no suspicion?”

“Well, we didn’t exactly ask her that in so many words. But I’m satisfied she hadn’t. Besides, her story was all right. There was nothing to cause her suspicion—if she was telling the truth.”

“Is she still in the town?”

“I don’t know,” the superintendent returned. “I have an idea that she married shortly afterwards and left. But Sergeant MacGregor will know. Would you have time to go down to Kintilloch and see him? I could go with you to-morrow, but I’m sorry I’m engaged for the rest of the day.”

“Thank you, I’d like to see the sergeant, but I shouldn’t think of troubling you to come. I think indeed I shall have to see all concerned. It’s a matter of form really; I don’t expect to get anything more than your people did. But I’m afraid I shall have to see them to satisfy the Chief. You see, there may be some connection with this Starvel case that I’m on. You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I’ll give you a note to MacGregor. These country bumpkins become jealous easily.”

“Thank you. I think there’s only one other thing I should like to ask you, and that’s about Roper. Do you know anything of him?”

“I don’t, but he might have lived at Kintilloch all his life for all that. I don’t know the local people very well. The sergeant will help you there. He is a useful man for his job—a shrewd gossip. There’s not much happens in his district he doesn’t know about.”

A short run in a local train brought French to Kintilloch and he was not long in finding the local police station and introducing himself to Sergeant MacGregor. That worthy at first displayed a canny reserve, but on seeing his superintendent’s note became loquacious and informative. With the exception of two pieces of information, he had little to tell of which French was not already aware. Those two items, however, were important.

The first was that he had known John Roper well. Roper had been for six years an attendant at the Ransome Institute. He had been, the sergeant believed, directly under Dr. Philpot. At all events he and the doctor knew each other intimately. As to the man’s character; MacGregor knew nothing against him, but he had not liked him, nor indeed had many other people. Roper was an able man, clever and efficient, but he had a sneering, satirical manner and was unable to refrain from making caustic remarks which hurt people’s feelings and made him enemies. He left his job and the town some three or four years after Dr. Philpot as a result of trouble at the Institute, and so far as the sergeant could tell, no one was very sorry to see the last of him. The sergeant had supposed he had gone to Brazil, as he had applied for a passport for that country. He had informed the sergeant that he had a brother in Santos and was going out to him.

The second piece of news was that Flora Macfarlane, the Philpots’ maid, had been married a month or so after Mrs. Philpot’s death, and to no less a person than John Roper. The girl who had all but witnessed her mistress’s tragic death had herself five years later been a victim in that still more terrible tragedy at the old house in Starvel Hollow.

As French shortly afterwards walked up the long curving drive of the Ransome Institute, he felt that he was progressing. He was getting connections which were binding the isolated incidents of this strange episode into a single whole, and if that whole was not yet completely intelligible, he hoped and believed it soon would be. There was first of all the confession. He had started with the confession as a single fact, connected incomprehensibly with Roper through the medium of possession, but not connected with Philpot at all. Now the connection between Roper and Philpot had been demonstrated. Roper had first-hand information about the doctor from their respective positions on the staff of the Institute, and he had as good as first-hand information about the doctor’s household from the girl he afterwards married. It all looked bad. Every further fact discovered increased the probability that Roper was blackmailing Philpot, and that the confession was a true statement of what had happened.

French’s interview with Dr. Ferguson was disappointing. He asked first about Roper and received very much the same information that Sergeant MacGregor had given him. Roper had been attendant to an invalid gentleman, a great traveller, with whom he had been over most of Europe and America. On the invalid’s death he had applied for a job at the Ransome. He was a fully qualified nurse, very intelligent and efficient, but he had not been personally liked. He seemed rather inhuman and did not mind whom he offended with his sharp tongue. He was, however, good with the patients, except for one thing. On two occasions he had been found giving troublesome patients unauthorised drugs to keep them quiet. The first case was not a bad one, and on promising amendment, he was let off with a caution. When the second case was discovered he was immediately dismissed. He had not asked for, nor been given, a discharge.

Anxious to see whether Roper’s handwriting contained any idiosyncrasies which had been reproduced in the forged documents, French with some difficulty obtained some old forms which he had filled up. These he put in his pocket for future study.

He then turned the conversation to Philpot. But he was here on difficult ground and had to be very wary and subtle in his questions. Between doctors, he knew, there is a considerable freemasonry, and he felt sure that if Ferguson imagined Philpot was suspected of murder, he would take steps to put him on his guard; not in any way to take the part of a murderer, but to see that a colleague in trouble had a fair chance. That Philpot should get any hint of his suspicions was the last thing French wanted, as he hoped the man’s surprise at an unexpected question would force him into an involuntary admission of guilt.

At all events Ferguson told him nothing about Philpot that he had not known before. He asked and obtained permission to interrogate a number of the staff who remembered the two men, but from none of these did he learn anything new about either. He could see nothing for it, therefore, but to interview Philpot forthwith, and returning to the station, he caught the last train to Edinburgh. There he stayed the night, and next day took a train which brought him through the Border country to Carlisle and thence in due course to Hellifield and Thirsby.

Doctor Philpot lived in a small detached house at the end of the High Street of the little town, close enough to the centre of things to be convenient for patients, and far enough away to have a strip of garden round his house and to avoid being overlooked by his neighbours.

The reply to the letter he had written from “Charles Musgrave” about the mythical gardener told French that the doctor’s consulting hours were from six to eight o’clock in the evening, and at two minutes to eight on the day he had returned from Edinburgh French rang the doctor’s bell. The door was opened by an elderly woman who led the way to the consulting room.

There seemed to French a vaguely unprosperous air about the place. The garden was untended, the railing wanted paint, and the house, while well enough furnished, looked neglected and dirty. French wondered if these were the outward and visible signs of the betting proclivities of their owner, of which the hotel landlord had taken so serious a view.

Dr. Philpot was seated at a writing table, but he rose on French’s entry. His appearance was not exactly unprepossessing, but it suggested a lack of force or personality. Physically he was frail, neither tall nor short, and washed out as to colouring. His tired, dreamy-looking eyes were of light blue, his fair hair, thinning on the top, was flecked with grey, and his complexion had an almost unhealthy pallor. He had well-formed, rather aristocratic features, but his expression was bored and dissatisfied. He struck French as a dreamer rather than a practical man of affairs. But his manner was polite enough as he wished his visitor good evening and pointed to a chair.

“I have called, Dr. Philpot, not as a patient, but to consult you on a small matter of business.”

Dr. Philpot glanced at the clock on the marble chimney piece.

“It is just eight,” he answered, “I shall not have any more patients to-night. I am quite at your service.”