“Then there was that ruffian Carter—a drunkard and a man of evil tongue. He came here and abused me. What happened to him? A week later he was dead—drowned in the mud. There had been a servant girl, too. She lifted her voice and called me names. Her punishment soon came. She drank poison by mistake! I could tell you heaps more. Humbleby dared to oppose me over the Water scheme. He died of blood poisoning. Oh, it’s been going on for years—Mrs. Horton, for instance, was abominably rude to me and it wasn’t long before she passed away.”
He paused and leaning forward passed the port decanter round to Luke.
“Yes,” he said. “They all died. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Luke stared at him. A monstrous, an incredible suspicion leapt into his mind! With new eyes, he stared at the small fat man who sat at the head of the table, who was gently nodding his head and whose light protuberant eyes met Luke’s with a smiling insouciance.
A rush of disconnected memories flashed rapidly through Luke’s brain. Major Horton saying “Lord Whitfield was very kind. Sent down grapes and peaches from his hothouse.” It was Lord Whitfield who so graciously allowed Tommy Pierce to be employed on window cleaning at the library. Lord Whitfield holding forth on his visit to the Wellerman Kreutz Institute with its serums and germ cultures just a short time before Dr. Humbleby’s death. Everything pointing plainly in one direction and he, fool that he had been, never even suspecting….
Lord Whitfield was still smiling. A quiet happy smile. He nodded his head gently at Luke.
“They all die,” said Lord Whitfield.
Eighteen
CONFERENCE IN LONDON
Sir William Ossington, known to the cronies of earlier days as Billy Bones, stared incredulously at his friend.
“Didn’t you have enough crime out in Mayang?” he asked plaintively. “Have you got to come home and do our work for us here?”
“Crime in Mayang isn’t on a wholesale basis,” said Luke. “What I’m up against now is a man who’s done a round half-dozen murders at least—and got away with it without a breath of suspicion!”
Sir William sighed.
“It does happen. What’s his speciality—wives?”
“No, he’s not that kind. He doesn’t actually think he’s God yet—but he soon will.”
“Mad?”
“Oh, unquestionably, I should say.”
“Ah! but he probably isn’t legally mad. There’s a difference, you know.”
“I should say he knows the nature and consequence of his acts,” said Luke.
“Exactly,” said Billy Bones.
“Well, don’t let’s quibble about legal technicalities. We’re not nearly at that stage yet. Perhaps we never shall be. What I want from you, old boy, is a few facts. There was a street accident took place on Derby Day between five and six o’clock in the afternoon. Old lady run over in Whitehall and the car didn’t stop. Her name was Lavinia Pinkerton. I want you to dig up all facts you can about that.”
Sir William sighed. “I can soon get hold of that for you. Twenty minutes ought to do it.”
He was as good as his word. In less than that time Luke was talking to the police officer in charge of the matter.
“Yes, sir, I remember the details. I’ve got most of them written down here.” He indicated the sheet that Luke was studying. “An inquest was held—Mr. Satcherverell was the Coroner. Censure of the driver of the car.”
“Did you ever get him?”
“No, sir.”
“What make of car was it?”
“It seems pretty certain it was a Rolls—big car driven by a chauffeur. All witnesses unanimous on that point. Most people know a Rolls by sight.”
“You didn’t get the number?”
“No, unfortunately, nobody thought to look at it. There was a note of a number FZX 4498—but it was the wrong number, a woman spotted it and mentioned it to another woman who gave it to me. I don’t know whether the second woman got it wrong but anyway it was no good.”
Luke asked sharply: “How did you know it was no good?”
The young officer smiled.
“FZX 4498 is the number of Lord Whitfield’s car. That car was standing outside Boomington House at the time in question and the chauffeur was having tea. He had a perfect alibi—no question of his being concerned and the car never left the building till 6:30 when his lordship came out.”
“I see,” said Luke.
“It’s always the way, sir,” the man sighed, “half the witnesses have disappeared before a constable can get there and take down particulars.”
Sir William nodded.
“We assumed it was probably a number not unlike that FZX 4498—a number beginning probably with two fours. We did our best, but could not trace any car. We investigated several likely numbers but they could all give satisfactory accounts of themselves.”
Sir William looked at Luke questioningly.
Luke shook his head. Sir William said:
“Thanks, Bonner, that will do.”
When the man had gone out, Billy Bones looked inquiringly at his friend.
“What’s it all about, Fitz?”
Luke sighed. “It all tallies. Lavinia Pinkerton was coming up to blow the gaff—to tell the clever people at Scotland Yard all about the wicked murderer. I don’t know whether you’d have listened to her—probably not—”
“We might,” said Sir William. “Things do come through to us that way. Just hearsay and gossip—we don’t neglect that sort of thing, I assure you.”
“That’s what the murderer thought. He wasn’t going to risk it. He eliminated Lavinia Pinkerton and although one woman was sharp enough to spot his number no one believed her.”
Billy Bones sprang upright in his chair.
“You don’t mean—”
“Yes, I do. I’ll bet you anything you like it was Whitfield who ran her down. I don’t know how he managed it. The chauffeur was away at tea. Somehow or other, I suppose, he sneaked away putting on a chauffeur’s coat and cap. But he did it, Billy!”
“Impossible!”
“Not at all. Lord Whitfield has committed at least seven murders to my certain knowledge and probably a lot more.”
“Impossible,” said Sir William again.
“My dear fellow, he practically boasted to me of it last night!”
“He’s mad, then?”
“He’s mad, all right, but he’s a cunning devil. You’ll have to go warily. Don’t let him know we suspect him.”
Billy Bones murmured: “Incredible….”
Luke said: “But true!”
He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Look here, Billy, old son, we must get right down to this. Here are the facts.”
The two men talked long and earnestly.
On the following day Luke returned to Wychwood. He drove down early in the morning. He could have returned the night before but he felt a marked distaste for sleeping under Lord Whitfield’s roof or accepting his hospitality under the circumstances.
On his way through Wychwood, he drew up his car at Miss Waynflete’s house. The maid who opened the door stared at him in astonishment but showed him into the little dining room where Miss Waynflete was sitting at breakfast.
She rose to receive him in some surprise.
He did not waste time. “I must apologize for breaking in on you at this hour.”
He looked round. The maid had left the room, shutting the door. “I’m going to ask you a question, Miss Waynflete. It’s rather a personal one, but I think you will forgive me for asking it.”
“Please ask me anything you like. I am quite sure your reason for doing so will be a good one.”
“Thank you.”
He paused.
“I want to know exactly why you broke off your engagement to Lord Whitfield all those years ago.”
She had not expected that. The colour rose in her cheeks and one hand went to her breast.
“Has he told you anything?”
Luke replied: “He told me there was something about a bird—a bird whose neck was wrung….”
“He said that?” Her voice was wondering. “He admitted it? That’s extraordinary!”
“Will you tell me, please.”
“Yes, I will tell you. But I beg that you will never speak of the matter to him—to Gordon. It is all past—all over and finished with—I don’t want it—raked up.”
She looked at him appealingly.
Luke nodded.
“It is only for my personal satisfaction,” he said. “I shall not repeat what you tell me.”
“Thank you.” She had recovered her composure. Her voice was quite steady as she went on. “It was like this. I had a little canary—I was very fond of it—and—perhaps—rather silly about it—girls were, then. They were rather—well—coy about their pets. It must have been irritating to a man—I do realize that.”
“Yes,” said Luke as she paused.
“Gordon was jealous of the bird. He said one day quite ill-temperedly, ‘I believe you prefer that bird to me.’ And I, in the rather silly way girls went on in those days, laughed and held it up on my finger saying something like: ‘Of course I love you, dicky bird, better than a great silly boy! Of course I do!’ Then—oh, it was frightening—Gordon snatched the bird from me and wrung its neck. It was such a shock—I shall never forget it!”
Her face had gone very pale.
“And so you broke off the engagement?” said Luke.
“Yes. I couldn’t feel the same afterwards. You see, Mr. Fitzwilliam—” she hesitated. “It wasn’t just the action—that might have been done in a fit of jealousy and temper—it was the awful feeling I had that he’d enjoyed doing it—it was that that frightened me!”
“Even long ago,” murmured Luke. “Even in these days….”
She laid a hand on his arm.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam—”
He met the frightened appeal in her eyes with a grave steady look.
“It is Lord Whitfield who committed all these murders!” he said. “You’ve known that all along, haven’t you?”
She shook her head with vigour.
“Not known it! If I had known it, then—then of course I would have spoken out—no, it was just a fear.”
“And yet you never gave me a hint?”
She clasped her hands in a sudden anguish.
“How could I? How could I? I was fond of him once….”
“Yes,” said Luke gently. “I see.”
She turned away, fumbled in her bag, and a small lace-edged handkerchief was pressed for a moment to her eyes. Then she turned back again, dry-eyed, dignified and composed.