The Judgement of Larose

Chapter II.—The Man Who Never Failed.-3

“And do none of them feel horror for the tragedy that has taken place?” asked Larose.

The inspector smiled. “Well, if they do,” he said drily, “they're too well bred to show it. They are accustomed to hide their feelings, I tell you, and going about among them as I have been, you'd never dream a ghastly murder had occurred in the very house.” He shrugged his shoulders. “At any rate, that is the attitude they adopt when I am up there—annoyance and resentment only that they are being detained. Sir James and his lady alone show any real signs of stress, and I suppose that is simply because what has happened has taken place under their roof.”

He turned to his papers again. “And now for the women—and, whilst I hold to my opinion that any one among them may have done the murder, I am willing to agree that the money motive may perhaps have to be modified here. Jealousy and revenge may now turn out to be the urge, and I'll take one of the most likely parties first.

“Lady Sylvia Drews, widow of Sir Chester Drews, the shipowner. No children, and lives in Park Street, Mayfair, and reported to be very well-to-do. Very handsome woman, but can't tell her age, for she's fighting the years. Might be thirty-five, might be fifty. Was known to be very interested in the deceased; probably, therefore, angling for another husband, and perhaps the captain having encouraged her and then given her cause for jealousy, she may have struck him down in a moment of passion, just taking the notes afterwards to put us on a wrong scent. She's undoubtedly a passionate woman, and one who looks capable of anything.” He shook his head. “She doesn't suggest innocence in any direction to me.”

“Did you make any search by the by for those notes?” Asked Larose, suppressing a smile.

The inspector made a grimace. “In the servants' quarters of course,” he replied, “for we police are always expected to go for the servants.” He threw out his hands. “But what was the good of attempting to search a large building like the Court? We weren't likely to find the money if we had pulled down the whole house, and even if we had it would certainly have been planted somewhere which would have given us no idea as to who had committed the murder. Remember—whoever took it had had all night to arrange a hiding-place.”

He looked down again upon his papers. “But now for woman number two—the wife of the Honourable Culloden, and like almost everybody else up there she's descended from somebody wonderful. A McCocken of the McCockens, whoever they may be, and her blood is as blue as blazes. But she seems a peculiar party to me and she may easily have been in an asylum some time, by the look of her. She's got big, prominent eyes, very fixed and staring, and the servants have been gossiping a lot about her. Her talk is all about Fate and Destiny and she interprets dreams and picks winners by the number of tea-leaves in her cup. Yes, she's a queer woman and I wouldn't put it past her that she's not always been quite right.” His face broke suddenly into a pleasant smile. “You see, Mr. Larose, I'm telling you all these things exactly as they strike me, for any moment the most trivial observation may direct you upon some trail that may turn out to be a highly profitable one to follow.”

“Quite so,” agreed Larose readily. “I am very interested. Go on.”

“Well, then, next we come to Miss Felicia Brand,” said the inspector, “and she's a Society journalist and as bold as brass.” He frowned angrily. “She had the darned cheek to be taking notes yesterday when I was questioning some of the others and then she started to cross-examine me and ask me how long I'd been in the Force, and if I were married and things like that.” He looked thoughtful. “She's not bad-looking and may be anything between thirty and thirty five. She's a hefty wench, too, with big, strong arms, and if she'd made an assignation with the captain in the billiard-room that night and he'd got a bit fresh, she may easily have swung that poker too hard in teaching him manners.”

“But they would hardly have arranged to meet in the billiard-room, would they,” asked Larose gently, “with the chance of someone coming down, as you mentioned, for a drink?”

“No, perhaps not,” agreed the inspector after a moment, “but then you never know. The night was chilly and the billiard-room was the only place where there was a fire, and women nowadays are a daring lot.”

“Go on,” said Larose smilingly. “There are only four left now. Who's next?”

“Alice Heybridge,” replied the inspector promptly, “the lawn-tennis star. Twenty-eight—I saw her age in the newspapers the other day. A fine, well-built girl, and she, too, could have hit as hard as any man with that poker.” He nodded. “Now she's a possibility, certainly. She was unusually interested in us all the time, and we caught her watching everything through the window when we were taking these photographs of the dead man. Yes, we can't leave her out, for I don't think somehow that it's her nature to be curious about things in an ordinary way and yet—she was very, very curious about what we were doing that morning, most suspiciously so.”

He smoothed the wrinkles out of his forehead and went on:

“And now we have three pretty girls, society butterflies to all appearances, and yet one of them may easily turn out to be a wasp. Ethel Winchester, with a bishop for her father, Rosemary Wainwright, daughter of Sir Julius Wainwright, the ironmaster, and Lucy Bartholomew, the orphan heiress of Bartholomew's Pale Ales. They are all under twenty-five and everything about them is expensive and attractive.” He leant back in his chair. “Now, Mr. Larose, I have no particular reason to suspect any of these three young girls and yet in the peculiar circumstances all the experience of life compels me to suspend judgment about them until we have definitely located the guilty party elsewhere.”

“You are casting your net pretty wide, aren't you?” asked Larose doubtfully.

“I am a policeman,” replied the inspector sternly, “and that is what I'm here for. I suspect everyone, and with this class of idle and over-fed people with nothing to do but consider their own pleasures, I tell you the raw, elemental passions of life lie only just beneath the surface.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If this crime were one of jealousy, then any of these women or girls may have done it.”

The detective made no comment, and gathering his papers together the Inspector went on:

“Well, Mr. Larose, that's all, and I have given you a hard problem to solve. A savage, ruthless crime among surroundings of great luxury; twenty one persons with a murderer or murderess among them; no tracks or trails to follow”—he smiled grimly—“and about forty-eight hours to do the trick, for we can't expect to keep them much longer than that.”

“And the billiard-room——” began Larose.

“Exactly as we found it,” replied the inspector, “except, of course, that the body is not there. And also the captain's bedroom,” he added. “Both sealed and locked and I have the keys.”

“And the finger-prints,” asked Larose, “you found plenty in the billiard-room, of course?”

“Nearly everyone's,” nodded the inspector, “in some place or other.”

“Well,” said Larose, “I think we'd better go up then at once.” He thought for a moment. “But I should like to see the police-sergeant first. I suppose he did the post-mortem?”

“Yes,” the inspector said, “and he's a very good man.” He took out his watch. “And we may catch him straight away if we're quick, for he's generally at home at this time.”

“One moment,” said Larose. “Any likelihood, do you think, that this was going to be another of those burglaries?”

“No likelihood at all,” replied the inspector quickly, “and there was nothing in any way to suggest an attempted burglary. Besides, there were no points in common with the crime here and the other troubles. There—we always saw how they had effected an entry, and the entries had always been forcible.” He shook his head emphatically. “No, unless one of the servants at the Court was acting in collusion with a third party outside, which, as I have told you, I think highly improbable—then we needn't look farther than from among those guests for the murderer. I am sure of it.”

There was a knock upon the door and a constable entered.

“A letter for Mr. Larose,” he said, regarding the detective with respectful interest; “just come by service car, from the city.”

With a puzzled frown the detective took the letter from him. It was addressed: “Mr. Gilbert Larose, Police Station, Eastbourne,” and marked “Urgent” in the corner.

“Excuse me for a minute,” said the inspector; “I've a little matter to attend to, and then I'll drive you up in my car.” And with a nod to the detective he followed the retreating constable from the room.

Hesitating just a moment, Larose opened the envelope, to find a short letter with an enclosure accompanying it and, glancing down quickly, he perceived the letter was signed, “Thomas Yates, P.C., Dalton.”

His face broke into a smile.