The Judgement of Larose

Chapter II.—The Man Who Never Failed.-2

Larose rubbed his hands together. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “and it will be a great pleasure for me to meet them then.”

“They know you're coming,” said the inspector. “Sir James has friends in the Home Office, and he told me yesterday he had heard about you.”

Larose looked disconcerted and frowned. “But it doesn't matter,” he said after a moment, “and indeed perhaps it is all the better. I can move quite openly among them then and they won't be challenging my right to be inquisitive.” He spoke sharply. “I understand they are all remaining up there still?”

“And will continue to remain,” nodded the inspector decisively, “for a reasonable period of time. With some persuasion I induced Sir James to make them all agree to stay on until we have had longer to follow up our inquiries.” He smiled grimly. “I practically forced them to that, for I had let them know pretty plainly that I was sure one among them was the guilty party, and I hinted, too, that if we didn't find out straight away who he or she was—then even if they all dispersed away to their homes, they would still be under police suspicion during all their lives, for some one would be always keeping an eye upon them, and they would never be quite unwatched people again.”

“And they believed you?” smiled Larose.

“Perhaps not exactly,” replied the inspector, and he smiled back, “but you may depend on it that that class have nearly all got plenty to hide in their lives and so probably they didn't altogether relish the idea that there was even a chance that I was speaking the truth.”

“And did you find out anything about this captain,” asked Larose; “anything I mean, that is not generally known?”

“Nothing much,” replied the inspector. “He was invalided out of the army early in 1915 with an injury to his left arm, and it appears that he never regained the full use of it. He could not raise it above a certain height, and when playing cards, for instance, had always to get some one to deal for him. He was a bachelor, well-to-do and very good-looking. A great one with the women and a gay man about town, I understand.”

“Any of the maids up there good-looking?” asked Larose.

The inspector smiled. “None of them bad, but they're all quite out of the picture, I am sure, and you will realise that at once when I take you up. No probability of collusion either with anyone outside, as you suggest, for four of the girls have been up at the Court for more than six years, and only the fifth one is not an old servant. This latter is that Betty Yates, who found the body and she has been in service there for only just over a week.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Larose quickly, “just over a week!”

“But unimpeachable references,” grinned the inspector, “and her father's a policeman in Dalston.”

Larose pretended to look solemn. “Suspicious,” he said, “and we shall have to look into it.”

“She's 22,” went on the inspector, “and a spit fire who answers back. Then there's the cook-housekeeper. She's middle-aged and grim, and she's served the Marleys for 20 years. Nothing doing there. Then—the butler, and I can't imagine him killing anyone. He's inclined to be secretive, certainly, and he pretends to be more stupid than he really is, but he's been in the family nearly as long as the cook, and I fancy he's taking his cue from his master and not saying too much. His name's Slim and he looks sly.”

“And the chauffeur,” asked Larose, “although he wasn't sleeping in the house?”

“Twenty-six and recently married,” replied the inspector. “Four years with Sir James and nothing suspicious there to me.” He shook his head emphatically. “No, although I certainly did not like that butler, you can take it from me, we can leave the servants out and concentrate upon those guests.”

“But does it seem probable to you,” asked Larose thoughtfully, “that any of them would commit a murder for money? Surely two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds would not be much to people in their positions?”

“Mr. Larose,” said the inspector impressively, “you've a great reputation, I know; but I am a much older man than you, and I've seen much more of life—especially society life—over here.” He leant forward and touched the detective on the arm. “For five and twenty years I was stationed in the West End of London, and in my time I've handled hundreds of society swells such as these. Forgers, black-mailers, all manner of thieves among them, and even those proved guilty on the capital charge. And all my experience tells me that wealth and position are no safeguards from the sudden criminal urge.” He spoke very solemnly. “None of them up there at the Court may have been absolutely in need of money, but, nevertheless, with the opportunity before them, on the spur of the moment, they may have let themselves go and plunged headlong into murder. Unexpectedly perhaps, one of them returning to the billiard-room that night found the captain in a doze—they knew he had the money on him—sudden temptation seized them—they tried to rob him and he woke up. That poker was handy and”—he shrugged his shoulders—“the rest was so easy.”

“Well,” asked Larose slowly, “and did you pick out any one of them in particular, who from his appearance or demeanour seems likely to you to have done it?”

The inspector shook his head. “I never judge society people by appearances,” he replied sharply, “for with their habitual bowing and scraping to one another they're always play-acting among themselves, and you don't see the real men and women underneath.” He laughed disdainfully. “Why, in my time I've known men with the poise and saintliness of an archbishop who were card-sharpers and tricksters on the turf, and I've seen women with the faces of Madonnas who were notorious among the traffickers in white slaves.”

“And it is the opinion of this house-party then,” said Larose, “that none of their number committed the murder?”

The inspector smiled grimly. “They pretend it is,” he replied, “and when I am questioning them privately they mask their faces to stony expressions as if the whole thing were a bore; but when I am talking to them all together”—he lowered his voice significantly—“there is an anxious, furtive look about them as if they were afraid that any moment someone among them may make a slip and give himself away.”

“Well,” said Larose briskly, “now you've given me these general ideas, let me have some particulars about them, one by one.”

“Sir James Marley first, then,” said the inspector, “and he's a gentleman. An aristocrat, courteous, but very reserved. Is undoubtedly of opinion that his class should rule the common people and he scoffs at the idea that any of his guests could commit a crime. Would be more light-hearted, however, I should think, if he were not under this cloud. Seventh baronet of the line. Thirty-four years of age. Major, late First Light Hussars. Served in the Great War. Mentioned twice in despatches. Married Sonia, daughter of the Rev. John Cator, rector of Broome, near Ivybridge, Devonshire. Her ladyship”—he looked at the detective and the lines of his face softened—“a perfect little beauty. A really lovely girl and they've only been married six months. I'm dreadfully sorry she's mixed up in this.”

He sighed and then, pulling some papers towards him, picked up the top one.

“And now for this blessed house-party,” he said grimly, “this flock of sheep with the wolf among them somewhere. First, there's a big, brawny Scot, the Honourable Donald Culloden, of Taft Hall, somewhere up in Argyllshire, and outwardly—he's most respectable. He's stiff-necked and haughty, and a descendant of Scottish kings. He breeds prize oxen and stares at you like one of them himself. He's slow and heavy in his movements and very deliberate.”

“What age?” asked Larose laconically.

“Elderly, about 55, I should say. His expression is inscrutable and might conceal anything.”

“Go on,” said Larose, because the inspector paused.

“Next,” said the inspector frowning, “there is Gentry Wardle, K.C., one of them who's furious at being detained. He can be very insolent when he wants to, and he's got a long, hatchet face. He's generally sneering and making biting remarks. He speaks to me as if I'd done the murder and he were going to put on the black cap.” The inspector swore softly. “Now, I should like to bring the murder home to him more than any one, I think. He's a bachelor, about 40, or perhaps a little more, and looks capable of doing anything.”

“I've heard of him,” said Larose. “He practices in the matrimonial courts.”

“Well, he's nasty,” said the inspector, “and he doesn't mind showing it. Neither does the next man,” he added, “and he's Colonel Mead—Ransom Montgomery Mead. He's got a cousin, a lord, somewhere, and is very stuckup. Doesn't say much, but thinks a lot of himself. Great bridge player and owns racehorses. Has a place near Newmarket. Widower, about 50. Rather stout and looks as if he were an ardent whisky drinker. Keeps his eye on the women a lot.”

“That's no evidence of crime,” smiled Larose. “I'm interested in them myself.”

“So am I,” added the Inspector heartily, “and no one more so, but what I mean is, he follows the maids about with his eyes too much. I saw him watching that Betty Yates once, but I must say the minx didn't encourage him.”

“Go on,” said Larose; “who's next?”

“Dr. Merryweather,” said the inspector, “a quiet little man, who ignores me completely unless I am addressing him directly. He wears big tinted glasses generally, and if he's got them on you can't tell whether he's looking at you or not. He's a cool customer. Was a Harley Street specialist once, but made his pile quickly and retired. Has travelled all over the world and is an authority on the pedigree of horses. Talks a lot about wines, too, and said the other night at dinner that he'd hang any man who spoke while he was tasting vintage port.”

“And all this information,” asked Larose, smiling, “where did you get it from?”

“From the maids,” replied the inspector, looking for the first time as if he were well pleased with himself. “They were pools of water in an otherwise arid desert and I reckon I drank them dry.” He looked down at his notes. “Now for the last man, and I can't quite sum him up. Clark Rainey the actor, another one with lordly relations. A nephew of Lord Hunton, a darling with the women and dresses like a screen star. Changes his clothes half a dozen times a day. About thirty, and sometimes earns a thousand pounds a week, I'm told. Smiles sarcastically at me and looks all the time as if he were amused. A big bettor, I understand, and as daring as the devil.”