The Judgement of Larose

Chapter III.—The House of Death.-1

Chapter III.—The House of Death.About eleven-thirty that same morning a number of those people whose dispositions and temperaments the inspector of the Eastbourne police and Gilbert Larose had been so energetically discussing were gathered together upon one of the lawns of Southdown Court, and interestedly regarding the coming of a storm that was sweeping down towards the town from over Beachy Head.

The air about the Court was close and sultry, and not a breath of wind was stirring among the trees, but as far as the eye could see great black clouds were banking themselves up over the downs and, with every few seconds, the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled. The peals were getting louder.

“It will be over us in less than three minutes,” remarked an immaculately dressed man carelessly, “and then for a good downpour.”

“Well, anything for a breeze, Mr. Wardle,” yawned a handsome woman with deeply carmined lips. “I've had a wretched headache ever since I got up this morning. I feel a hundred to-day.”

“And you look tired, my dear Sylvia,” exclaimed another woman, tall and angular, and with big prominent blue eyes. “I thought so at breakfast directly I saw you.” She sighed and swept round a plaintive glance upon the others. “But then who wouldn't be tired with all we are going through?”

A tall, aristocratic-looking man, with a clear-cut profile, smiled wearily.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Culloden,” he said. “I assure you it was not included in the hospitality I was intending to offer you, but”—he shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little bitterly—“it is Fate, as you would say.”

“Oh, I know it isn't your fault, Sir James,” exclaimed Mrs. Culloden quickly, “and it's worse, of course, for you than any one; still”—and she sighed again—“it's very distressing, isn't it?”

“Very,” agreed Sir James Marley grimly, “for all of us.”

“And are you sure, Sir James,” asked a pretty girl with widely opened eyes, “that this dreadful Gilbert Larose will be coming to-day?”

“I am sure of nothing, Miss Bartholomew,” replied the baronet gravely. “I know no more about it than you do. All I was told was that he was going to be sent down.”

“Well, he'll not be much good, anyhow, if he does come,” scoffed Gentry Wardle. “He's much over-rated in my opinion, and he's been lucky in his cases, that's all. I heard him giving evidence once, and wasn't at all impressed. He's a most ordinary-looking fellow.”

“But he's psychic, Mr. Wardle,” protested Mrs. Culloden with great animation, “and that's of course why he's being sent here.” Her voice quavered. “That horrid policeman is so certain it was one of us who did it, and they must expect this Larose will find out something at once.” She lowered her voice mysteriously. “He's supposed to be elemental, you know, and in touch with strange forces that ordinary people don't understand.”

“Dear me!” ejaculated Gentry Wardle sarcastically, “but how useful he would have been then if we had only had him at Goodwood with us the other day.”

“They say,” went on Mrs. Culloden, as if she had not heard the interruption, “that when a murder has been committed, no matter how long afterwards, he can still see the shadow of the murderer upon the wall.”

“And you believe it?” asked a stout, red-faced man, scornfully.

“It is not impossible, Colonel Mead,” replied Mrs. Culloden with spirit, and she nodded her head vigorously. “A great many things happen in this world that you never hear of in the army.” Her face flushed in her enthusiasm. “Why, they call Gilbert Larose 'the man who never fails.' He's——”

“But if they had to send down somebody,” interrupted Lady Sylvia Drews rudely, “it ought to have been Naughton Jones. He's a freak to look at, and very rude, but he got back Bishop Rundle's sliver snuff-boxes when the regular police had failed hopelessly. Everyone says he saved his lordship from a severe nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, how black it's getting!” exclaimed Lucy Bartholomew. “It'll soon be dark as night. Here comes the storm.” And with the falling of big drops of rain everyone hurried into the house and stood in the big open doorway.

A blinding flash of lightning tore through the sky and then an awe-inspiring peal of thunder crashed overhead.

“We're right under it now,” drawled Gentry Wardle with a bored expression. He smiled dryly. “We're being specially favoured.”

“Then there's a reason for it,” called out Mrs. Culloden shrilly, raising her voice in order that it should be heard above the lashing of the rain which was now beginning to fall in torrents. “It's a day of judgment”—she looked round with suddenly startled eyes—“the hour of judgment, perhaps—upon someone in this house.”

The men looked either bored or contemptuous, but a visible shudder ran through some of the women and then a voice from the background called out angrily:

“Stop it, Flora, at once will you? Your confounded nonsense will upset the ladies. Have the door shut, will you, Marley, and then perhaps my wife will hold her tongue?”

But before Sir James had time to make any comment or give the order, a roar was heard in the direction of the lodge and three seconds later a car was seen avalanching round the bend of the drive. It was being driven furiously as if its driver were in great haste to gain whatever shelter were possible against the side of the house.

“It's the policeman's car” snapped Gentry Wardle grimly, “and that fellow Roberts is driving it.”

“And the man sitting with him,” added Mrs. Culloden excitedly, “is Gilbert Larose. I am sure of it.”

The car was braked sharply to a standstill in front of the house, and Inspector Roberts, followed closely by Larose, darted across to the doorway and stepped into the hall. Instinctively a lane was made for them to pass through, and Sir James Marley came forward.

“Mr. Gilbert Larose,” announced Inspector Roberts curtly, indicating his companion, and taking notice only of the baronet.

Sir James bowed coldly. “Come this way, will you?” he said, and he at once made for a small room leading out of the hall. He held the door open for them to enter, and then, following them in, closed it behind him.

“Sit down, please,” he went on, and then, with no further speech, he himself took a chair and proceeded silently to regard his visitors, as if he were in no way particularly interested as to what the nature of their mission was.

“Exactly,” was the mental note of Larose, “a gentleman, as the inspector said, but he's stiff and haughty and he's suffering a lot. Friend Roberts had not been too tactful, and he's put his back up, otherwise I should have had no difficulty in dealing with him. He's not a fool and he'll be quite straightforward.”

The inspector cleared his throat and spoke in a cold, official tone.

“We are not satisfied, as I have told you, Sir James,” he said, “and Mr. Larose has come to help us in the investigation. It is my firm conviction, as you are aware, that the crime was committed by some one in the house, and that our inquiries will end as they began—here.”

“Quite so, Mr. Roberts,” replied the baronet carelessly, “I understand.” He looked coldly at the detective. “And what do you propose to do, Mr. Larose? How are you going to begin?”

Larose smiled pleasantly. “Oh, I just want to look about a bit, sir, and then ask a few questions.” He put as much sympathy as he could into his voice. “I won't worry any of you more than I can help, for I realise, of course, what a dreadful time you must be going through.”

“Very dreadful,” commented the baronet, “and the memory of it will overshadow all our lives.” He spoke very quietly. “We shall probably never, any of us, be quite the same men and women again.”

“But you would wish, wouldn't you,” asked Larose gently, “that the culprit should be found out, whoever he or she may be?”

“Most certainly,” agreed Sir James looking Larose straight in the face, “as you say—whoever he or she may be.”

“And you have no suspicion of any one, of course?”

“None whatever,” was the instant reply, “and it is inconceivable to my mind that any of my guests could have done it.” The note of antagonism in his voice deepened. “I disagree entirely with Inspector Roberts there.” His lips curled scornfully. “None of my friends, that I know of, is short of two thousand pounds.”

“But it is quite clear that robbery was the motive?” asked Larose quietly.

Sir James elevated his eyebrows. “Is anything clear, Mr. Larose?” he replied. He shrugged his shoulders. “But as the money is missing, and no other motive is conceivable, surely we can surmise that?”

Larose started on a new tack. “And are you well acquainted with all your guests?” he asked. “Have you known them all for some time?”

Sir James hesitated. “The men, yes,” he replied slowly, “the young ladies, no. My wife became friendly with them only since our marriage—five months ago.”

“And Captain Dane,” asked Larose, “he was an old friend?”

The baronet inclined his head. “My superior officer in the war. I served under him in 1914-1915.”

“And was he known to all the other guests before he came here?”

Sir James spoke very deliberately. “No, on the contrary,” he replied, “only to Colonel Mead, but they had known each other for many years.”

“He was a stranger then to every one else when he arrived?” went on Larose.

“Exactly; even to my wife,” replied the baronet, and he added sarcastically, “so there was no likelihood of his having any desperate enemy here thirsting for his blood.” He stirred irritably in his chair. “As it happened it was quite by chance that he came to be our guest for the Goodwood week. I met him accidentally at Henley last month and gave him the invitation then.”

Larose thought for a moment. “And the servants,” he asked, “you are sure of them?”

Sir James's face cleared. “As far as I can be sure of anyone,” he replied. “My butler has served our family for many years, and the maids”—he half-smiled—“well, surely the murder was not a woman's work.”

“And your opinion then is,” said the detective, “that the murderer was a stranger who came from outside?”

“Most certainly,” replied Sir James. He looked coldly at the inspector. “There have been a number of burglaries in Eastbourne lately, as, of course, Mr. Roberts has informed you, and undoubtedly an entrance was effected here.”

“And if the murderer did come from outside,” asked the detective, whose eyes had never once left the baronet's face, “you have no suggestion to make as to how he got into the house?”

“There are many possibilities,” replied Sir James slowly, “and for one thing I am not satisfied he did not get in through one of the windows in the corridor upstairs. There are several places where an active man could have climbed up, and it is not impossible that in so doing he left no traces behind. Also I have stressed to Mr. Roberts the other possibility of someone having slipped into the house earlier in the evening before the doors were locked and the burglar alarms set.”

“But in either of those happenings,” suggested Larose diffidently, “having committed the murder, and being in possession of the banknotes, surely the murderer would have made away from the house in the easiest way possible. There was only that side-door in the billiard-room to open, and he would have been out in the grounds at once. And yet the door there, I understand, was found both bolted and locked.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And then what were the chances of any stranger escaping the attention of those Alsatian dogs?”

Sir James made no comment and the detective went on softly. “Then another thing—why should a burglar have gone into the billiard-room at all? Was there anything there of particular value, of a portable nature, that he could carry away?”