The Secret of Chimneys (Superintendent Battle 1)

“Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction.

“Why, there’s never been a murder here—not that I’ve ever heard of—except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.”

“And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,” said the inspector, deprecatingly.

“He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the real thing, is it, sir?”

“It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.”

“I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret.

It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot.

“His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We’ll get hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.”

Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.

“That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard doesn’t come butting in.”

The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to happen under the circumstances.

They stopped at Dr. Cartwright’s, and the doctor, who was a comparatively young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was almost exactly that of Johnson.

“Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t had a murder here since the time of Tom Pearse.”

All three of them got into the doctor’s little car, and started off briskly for Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, the Jolly Cricketers, the doctor noticed a man standing in the doorway.

“Stranger,” he remarked. “Rather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long he’s been here, and what he’s doing staying at the Cricketers? I haven’t seen him about at all. He must have arrived last night.”

“He didn’t come by train,” said Johnson.

Johnson’s brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was therefore always well up in arrivals and departures.

“Who was here for Chimneys yesterday?” asked the inspector.

“Lady Eileen, she come down by the 3:40, and two gentlemen with her, an American gent and a young Army chap—neither of them with valets. His lordship come down with a foreign gentleman, the one that’s been shot as likely as not, by the 5:40, and the foreign gentleman’s valet. Mr. Eversleigh come by the same train. Mrs. Revel came by the 7:25, and another foreign-looking gentleman came by it too, one with a bald head and a hook nose. Mrs. Revel’s maid came by the 8:56.”

Johnson paused, out of breath.

“And there was no one for the Cricketers?”

Johnson shook his head.

“He must have come by car then,” said the inspector. “Johnson, make a note to institute inquiries at the Cricketers on your way back. We want to know all about any strangers. He was very sunburnt, that gentleman. Likely as not, he’s come from foreign parts too.”

The inspector nodded his head with great sagacity, as though to imply that that was the sort of wide-awake man he was—not to be caught napping under any consideration.

The car passed in through the park gates of Chimneys. Descriptions of that historic place can be found in any guidebook. It is also No. 3 in Historic Homes of England, price 21s. On Thursday, coaches come over from Middlingham and view those portions of it which are open to the public. In view of all these facilities, to describe Chimneys would be superfluous.

They were received at the door by a white-headed butler whose demeanour was perfect.

“We are not accustomed,” it seemed to say, “to having murder committed within these walls. But these are evil days. Let us meet disaster with perfect calm, and pretend with our dying breath that nothing out of the usual has occurred.”

“His lordship,” said the butler, “is expecting you. This way, if you please.”

He led them to a small cosy room which was Lord Caterham’s refuge from the magnificence elsewhere, and announced them.

“The police, my lord, and Dr. Cartwright.”

Lord Caterham was pacing up and down in a visibly agitated state.

“Ha! Inspector, you’ve turned up at last. I’m thankful for that. How are you, Cartwright? This is the very devil of a business, you know. The very devil of a business.”

And Lord Caterham, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied fashion until it stood upright in little tufts, looked even less like a peer of the realm than usual.

“Where’s the body?” asked the doctor, in curt businesslike fashion.

Lord Caterham turned to him as though relieved at being asked a direct question.

“In the Council Chamber—just where it was found—I wouldn’t have it touched. I believed—er—that that was the correct thing to do.”

“Quite right, my lord,” said the inspector approvingly.

He produced a notebook and pencil.

“And who discovered the body? Did you?”

“Good Lord, no,” said Lord Caterham. “You don’t think I usually get up at this unearthly hour in the morning, do you? No, a housemaid found it. She screamed a good deal, I believe. I didn’t hear her myself. Then they came to me about it, and of course I got up and came down—and there it was, you know.”

“You recognized the body as that of one of your guests?”

“That’s right, Inspector.”

“By name?”

This per

fectly simple question seemed to upset Lord Caterham. He opened his mouth once or twice, and then shut it again. Finally he asked feebly:

“Do you mean—do you mean—what was his name?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well,” said Lord Caterham, looking slowly round the room, as though hoping to gain inspiration. “His name was—I should say it was—yes, decidedly so—Count Stanislaus.”

There was something so odd about Lord Caterham’s manner, that the inspector ceased using his pencil and stared at him instead. But at that moment a diversion occurred which seemed highly welcome to the embarrassed peer.

The door opened and a girl came into the room. She was tall, slim and dark, with an attractive boyish face, and a very determined manner. This was Lady Eileen Brent, commonly known as Bundle, Lord Caterham’s eldest daughter. She nodded to the others, and addressed her father directly.

“I’ve got him,” she announced.

For a moment the inspector was on the point of starting forward under the impression that the young lady had captured the murderer red-handed, but almost immediately he realized that her meaning was quite different.

Lord Caterham uttered a sigh of relief.

“That’s a good job. What did he say?”

“He’s coming over at once. We are to ‘use the utmost discretion.’ ”

Her father made a sound of annoyance.

“That’s just the sort of idiotic thing George Lomax would say. However, once he comes, I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”

He appeared to cheer up a little at the prospect.

“And the name of the murdered man was Count Stanislaus?” queried the doctor.

A lightning glance passed between father and daughter, and then the former said with some dignity:

“Certainly. I said so just now.”

“I asked because you didn’t seem quite sure about it before,” explained Cartwright.

There was a faint twinkle in his eye, and Lord Caterham looked at him reproachfully.

“I’ll take you to the Council Chamber,” he said more briskly.

They followed him, the inspector bringing up the rear, and darting sharp glances all around him as he went, much as though he expected to find a clue in a picture frame, or behind a door.