The Judgement of Larose E-Book

Arthur Gask

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Dearest Mum and Dad,—I know you will have been anxious to hear from me and wondering why I haven't written at once, but, as you can well guess, things have been dreadfully upset here, and really, I don't seem to have had a moment to spare.
These last three days have been a perfect nightmare for everyone. The place has been full of policemen and detectives, and now, to cap all, we hear that the terrible Gilbert Larose is coming, and that always means, so Mr. Slim says, a hanging for someone. Mr. Slim—he is the butler here—calls Gilbert Larose the 'Angel of Death,' and says he is the greatest detective in all the world, and that once he is on the spot they will find the murderer at once.
Of course, you read in the newspapers that I was the first to find the body, and I shall never forget it.

Leseprobe

The Judgment of Larose

By

Arthur Gask

(1934)

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383835295

Contents

Chapter I.—A Policeman's Daughter.

Chapter II.—The Man Who Never Failed.

Chapter III.—The House of Death.

Chapter IV.—The Hangman at the Feast.

Chapter V.—The Suspicions of Larose.

Chapter VI.—More Suspicions.

Chapter VII.—Deep Waters.

Chapter VIII.—Larose Picks Up the Trail.

Chapter IX.—The Chamber of Death.

Chapter X.—The Secret of the Cottage.

Chapter XI.—Setting the Trap.

Chapter XII.—The Death of the Alsatian.

Chapter XIII.—The Craft of Slim.

Chapter XIV.—The Opiate Dream.

Chapter XV.—The Craft of Larose.

Chapter XVI.—The Tragedy of Life.

Chapter XVII.—“Greater Love Hath No Man.”

Chapter XVIII.—The Judgement of Larose.

Chapter I.—A Policeman's Daughter.

Dearest Mum and Dad,—I know you will have been anxious to hear from me and wondering why I haven't written at once, but, as you can well guess, things have been dreadfully upset here, and really, I don't seem to have had a moment to spare.

These last three days have been a perfect nightmare for everyone. The place has been full of policemen and detectives, and now, to cap all, we hear that the terrible Gilbert Larose is coming, and that always means, so Mr. Slim says, a hanging for someone. Mr. Slim—he is the butler here—calls Gilbert Larose the 'Angel of Death,' and says he is the greatest detective in all the world, and that once he is on the spot they will find the murderer at once.

Of course, you read in the newspapers that I was the first to find the body, and I shall never forget it.

When I drew the curtains and pulled up the blinds that morning and saw poor Captain Dane lying with the dreadful stain upon the carpet all round his head I went icy cold in horror, but I didn't faint and I didn't even scream and I am sure you would have been proud of me, for I was a true policeman's daughter.

I just held my breath for one moment and then ran out quickly to get help.

But I will tell you everything from the beginning, from when I came here exactly eight days ago—it seems eight years to me, so much has happened—and then you will realise how dreadful we all feel, for it has been clearly proved, so the police say, that the murder was done by somebody inside the house. No one broke in—they are sure of that.

But isn't it awful, Dad? Some one of us here, someone I have been seeing every day, is a murderer and perhaps, even, I have been waiting upon him and standing at dinner behind his chair. The whole thing is a terrible scandal for Sir James and his lady, and I am so sorry for them, for really they are such nice people. They have been married only a few months and my lady is very sweet and pretty.

Well, as you know, it was yesterday week that I came here, and I was certain at once that I should like the situation. Everything is made as comfortable as possible for us and the food is very good. There are five of us girls and Mr. Slim, the butler, and the cook, Mrs. Salter, who is also the housekeeper, and outside there is Mr. Binks, the chauffeur, who lives with his wife in the lodge by the entrance gates.

I was kept on the go from the moment I came, for they were expecting a big house party for the races at Goodwood, and the visitors began arriving on Saturday. Thirteen of them altogether, seven ladies and six gentlemen.

Such swell-looking people! Real aristocrats every one of them, I think, however, we girls at once liked poor Captain Dane best of them all, for although he was not tall and big, he was so handsome and dashing and so pleasant to everyone. He always gave me a smile whenever I did anything for him and he had such winning ways with him.

Well, on the Tuesday, the day before the murder, they all went to Goodwood, and we heard in the evening in the servants' hall that Captain Dane had won a tremendous lot of money at the races. He backed Gallant Boy at fifty to one and from the talk in the billiard-room Mr. Slim learnt that he had won over two thousand pounds from the bookmakers, and had got it all in banknotes.

They drank to his health that night at dinner, and it was a truly wonderful scene; just like one you see on the pictures. I can shut my eyes now, and it all comes to me again. The great long table, with the candle lights, the shining silver, and the glasses and the flowers, and the magnificent dresses, and the diamonds, and the pearls. And they were all so bright and happy, too, and in such high spirits. Her ladyship was perhaps a little quiet, but then she was busy all the time, looking after everybody, and so anxious that nothing should go wrong. Mr. Slim says that this is her first big house party, and he didn't wonder she was anxious, for she was only a poor clergyman's daughter before she married, and she has had to learn everything since.

Well, after dinner they danced in the ballroom until nearly 12 o'clock, and I went up to bed dead sleepy, so it was a little later than usual the next morning—about five and twenty minutes to seven—when I went into the billiard-room and found the dead body.

As I have told you, I didn't make any fuss, but I ran instantly to fetch Mr. Slim, and he, after one quick look at the poor captain, tore upstairs for the master. Sir James came down in his dressing-gown, looking very white and shocked, and then, directly he had seen the body, he had the billiard-room door locked and telephoned for the police.

Then the house became a prison, and it has been like one ever since. The police swarmed over the place, and no one was allowed to leave. Everyone was questioned by the detectives, and, one by one, we were taken into the library and examined, and all our lives gone through. They took all our finger-prints, and even I was glared at as if they had suspicions about me, and what poor Mr. Slim went through—heaven only knows.

You see, they are so certain that the captain was killed by some one inside the house, because not only had none of the doors or windows on the ground floor been unbolted, and none of the burglar alarms disturbed, but also, the lodge gates had been locked as usual all night, and Noah and Esau, the two big Alsatian dogs, had been roaming loose in the grounds.

Well, as I say, for the first two days the police absolutely refused to allow any one to leave, and now, as they have still not found out anything. Sir James has made the guests agree all on their own accord to remain on as long as the police require.

Some at them don't like it at all, but Mr. Slim says the master was very stern, and insisted that for the sake of every one they ought all to help the law as much as they possibly could. They were all under a cloud, he said, and it was not fair that any one should go away before everything was found out.

So here we are—the gay house-party, with all the gayness gone out of it, and all of us speaking in hushed voices, and going about like ghosts.

Her ladyship looks downright ill, and it is wonderful how she manages to bear up and continues to look after the comfort of all the others.

Well, I have told you some things you will not have read in the newspapers, and now I'll reckon up three of the people who I think may have done the murder, because, as your daughter, I am sure I have some of the policeman instinct in me, and can put two and two together in a way other people can't.

Now, one person I am suspicious of is a Colonel Mead here, for, although he is as well dressed and swanky as any one, we know he is hard up and being pressed for money. Yes, Dad, he is going to have summonses sent to him.

Elsie found this out—she is one of the housemaids—from two letters she read in his room. They had fallen out of the pockets of one of his coats, and she happened to glance over them, she says, before putting them back. One was from a cigar shop in Piccadilly, where he owes over sixty pounds, and the other from a tailor in Regent street, who wants nearly a hundred pounds, and they both threaten him with the courts if he doesn't pay up at once. Now, what do you think of that?

Remember—whoever killed the captain robbed him of all those bank notes, and what is more likely than that this Colonel Mead did it to pay his debts?

Then there is another of the visitors I am doubtful about—a woman this time—the beautiful Lady Sylvia Drews.

She is a widow, very stylish and handsome, and getting on for forty, I should say. Every one could see that she had started at once to make up furiously to the captain, and the night before the races when he was laughing and talking to Lady Marley I particularly noticed how angry she looked. She was as jealous as a cat, I am sure, and she might easily have given that blow with the poker that killed him, for I have seen her swinging her golf clubs, and she is as strong as a man. I know she more than liked the captain, for you can trust one woman to see when another woman is in love.

Then there's another here that I am certain didn't like the captain—a barrister called Mr. Wardle, for I overheard him say once to Mr. Rainey, as I was serving tea, that he'd give short shrift anyhow to someone, and I'm sure they were talking about the captain, because they were looking at him, and I have an instinct that with all his cleverness this Mr. Wardle is a cruel, unscrupulous man.

You see, the poor captain would never have been a great favourite with men because he was so handsome, and no girl could help admiring him. And he knew it, too. Mr. Slim was always saying that he looked at us girls, even, as if we would drop on to his knees the moment he asked us to. Mr. Slim hated him.

Well, here we all are, waiting for something to happen, just like a lot of frightened prisoners huddled up together, with one of us condemned to die and the hangman coming tomorrow.

Thank goodness I'm not burly like you, Dad, and haven't got a strong muscular arm, for no one can really think I could have done the murder, because, Mr. Slim says, it was a tremendous smashing blow that caused the poor captain's death.

Well, good-bye; I'll write to you again soon after that wonderful Larose has been and found out everything.

Your loving daughter,

BETTY.

Chapter II.—The Man Who Never Failed.

“And I am certain, Mr. Larose,” frowned Inspector Roberts of the Eastbourne police, motioning his visitor to a chair, “that we have got that murderer now actually under our hands, as surely as if he were shut up here in the cells.” His lips curled disdainfully. “Among those scented and bejewelled women or among those men of birth and breeding, with their silk underwear and their dude clothes”—he shrugged his shoulders—“lurks a beast as stark and savage as in any of the lowest crime haunts of the world.” His voice trailed away to a deep sigh. “But the devil of it is we don't know which among them the wretch is.”

Gilbert Larose settled himself comfortably in his chair. He was a boyish-looking man in the late twenties, and of so ordinary an appearance that no one would have imagined for one moment that he was a tracker-down of crime of international reputation. He had a pleasant, happy face, with a humorous mouth and smiling eyes. His expression, however, was an alert one.

“Yes, sir,” went on the inspector with a smile, “and now we are depending upon you”—he looked very amused—“'the man who never falls.'”

Larose smiled back. “Well, we'll put our heads together, Inspector, and see if we can't find out something.” He nodded gravely. “They think a lot of you up at the Yard, and I was told this morning that I should find your reports as thorough and searching as I could wish.”

Inspector Roberts flushed. “I've been night and day on the job since Wednesday,” he replied earnestly, “and I don't think you'll find that I have left many stones unturned.” He pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. “Now, you are, of course, familiar with the main outlines of the case; you——”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Larose quickly, “but please give me your own version of everything just as if I'd heard nothing at all. Then I can put out of my mind a lot that I've read in the newspapers and start right off without any wrong ideas.”

“Good!” exclaimed the inspector. “Then I'll begin when they 'phoned us here.” And he at once commenced in a crisp and business-like tone:

“On Wednesday last at six-forty a.m. we received a telephone call from Sir James Marley of Southdown Court informing us that a guest staying there had met with a violent death during the night and asking us to come immediately. I happened to have come here very early upon another matter, and so within a quarter of an hour, along with two of my men, was up at the Court. The lodge gates had to be unlocked to let our car through. We were informed that, as was the usual custom, they had been closed throughout the night and—with the discovery of the murder—Sir James had instantly given orders that they would not be opened until we arrived, so we were the first to pass since just before midnight, when they had been shut; therefore——”

“One moment, please,” interrupted Larose curiously. “But why are these gates always kept locked at night? Surely it's not generally done in places like this.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the inspector grimly; “but I may tell you in passing that there have been quite a number of burglaries lately at good-class residences about here, and so far, unfortunately, we have not been able to lay their perpetrators by the heels. So Sir James Marley's chauffeur, who lives at the lodge, has orders to lock the gates the last thing, and also, by the by, to loose two big Alsatian dogs to run free in the grounds.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Larose, “that's interesting, but go on.”

“Well, arriving at the house,” continued the inspector, “we learnt that the murder had taken place in the billiard-room, and that the body had been discovered by one of the parlour maids, Betty Yates, when she went in to draw up the blinds about five and twenty minutes to seven. Sir James had then immediately had the door of the billiard-room locked, and so we arrived upon the scene of the crime with everything absolutely undisturbed. The dead man was Captain Hector Dane, and he was one of thirteen guests who were staying at the Court for the Goodwood week. Here are close-up pictures of him exactly as he lay.” And the inspector handed over four mounted photographs of a large size.

There was a long silence as Larose regarded the prints, and then the inspector went on:

“Killed by one sharp blow over the temple, bone completely crushed in. There was also a slight cut on the lobe of the left ear. Undoubtedly killed with the poker that we found thrown on to the fire. Undoubtedly again, from splashes of blood upon the carpet, upon the lower part of one leg of the trousers, and upon one of his shoes, he was struck when standing up and facing his murderer, and from the other marks of blood, he fell backwards on to that settee and then slipped down on to the floor. Then apparently he did not move again. No signs of a struggle anywhere, and nothing disarranged in the room. As I say—killed by that poker that was then thrown on to the fire. The evening had been chilly, and there had been a fire burning since about eight o'clock, and the assassin took a sure way of getting rid of any incriminating finger-marks. The body was not stiff when we found it, and the medical evidence is that deceased had been dead between five and six hours. In the warm room there the setting-in of rigor mortis had been retarded.”

Larose made no comment, and after waiting an appreciable time for his information to sink in the inspector went on:

“Well, we found very little to help us. Nothing had been disturbed anywhere in the house. No cries had been heard and no sounds of anyone moving about during the night. The only thing we know is that deceased was intending to be the last to go to bed, three of the other guests, Dr. Merryweather, Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Donald Culloden, having left him alone in the billiard-room when they went upstairs. He had told them he was feeling chilly, and should be sitting on for a few minutes before the fire.”

“And when those three went upstairs,” asked Larose, “were the lights out all over the house—on the ground floor, I mean—except, of course, in the billiard-room?”

“No,” replied the inspector; “there was one light, a small pilot light, in the hall. It is always left on all night, Sir James tells me, in case any of the guests should want to come down for anything, to get a book from the library, for instance, if they can't sleep”—he grinned—“or to obtain more alcoholic refreshment possibly, if they have not already had enough. There are always, brandy and whisky left handy on the buffet in the billiard-room.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Larose thoughtfully. “In the billiard-room. Well—go on.”

“Now, as to motive,” said the inspector, “and here at any rate we were at once of opinion that we were on pretty firm ground. It was known by everyone at the Court that the deceased had won £2250 in ready-money bets at Goodwood that day, and the money was not to be found. It was all in bank notes, and when at dinner we know he had actually got them upon his person in his hip pocket, for, in answer to a query from one of the women there, a Mrs. Donald Culloden, he told them all openly so, in front of the domestics, even, who were waiting at table.”

“Any one see the notes?” asked Larose. “Is it sure he had won all that money?”

“Sure,” replied the inspector. “He was exhibiting the notes in the lounge when they were having drinks before going up to change for dinner.”

“All right,” nodded Larose; “go on.”

“Well, of course our first line of enquiry,” said the inspector, “was to try and find out if the party who did the killing had come in from outside, and we soon saw that there was no evidence at all in that direction. There was no sign of forcible entry in any part of the house, and all the doors and windows on the ground floor had been found that morning exactly as they had been left the previous night. All locked and bolted, as is the invariable custom, with none of the electric burglar alarms disturbed. Sir James is most insistent about this locking-up, for he has some very valuable silver and art treasures, and the butler goes round everywhere over the house the last thing at night. Then every inch of the walls and high railings enclosing the grounds was scrutinised, and there was no sign of any one having climbed over anywhere. We were helped there because no rain had fallen for more than a week, and the dust everywhere was undisturbed. We should certainly have picked up some traces if any one had passed. Then again there are those two big Alsatians to be considered, and it is highly improbable that any stranger could have crossed to the house without attracting their attention. It was bright moonlight until nearly three, and we are told they are always wandering about.” He shook his head energetically. “No, no; the murderer came from inside, and we never had any doubt about: it.”

“And who searched the body?” asked Larose with his eyes intent upon the photographs.

“Our Detective Howard here,” replied the inspector, and he reached for a paper, “and these are what the pockets contained, I myself putting down each article as it was taken out. Trousers—right-hand pocket—two half-crowns, three shillings, and two pence. Left-hand—bunch of keys, handkerchief, and box of matches. Waistcoat—right-hand—gold pencil case; left-hand—gold cigarette case; Jacket—breast pocket, wallet with four five-pound notes, consecutive numbers; twelve one-pound Treasury notes, all clean and of consecutive numbers; eleven postage stamps; eight visiting cards 'Captain Hector Dane, Malmesbury Chambers, Half Moon Street,' and motor driving licence.” He looked up at the detective. “I may add that in the trunk in his bedroom we found afterwards, in a long envelope, with the inscription of the London and South-Western Bank on the flap, two hundred and thirty-five pounds in bank notes of varying denominations, all clean and uncirculated, and these notes in his wallet, from their numbering, we saw had been taken from that reserve.” He nodded his head. “I presume it was his habit to carry on him in his evening clothes sufficient if they happened to have any bridge. They are apparently all wealthy people up at the Court, and I understand they play pretty high.”

“Go on,” said Larose, for the inspector had stopped speaking.

“Well,” went on the latter briskly, “I determined straight away that the murder had been committed by some one inside the house, and that, therefore, our enquiries could be narrowed down to twenty-one people; the five maids, the cook-housekeeper, the butler, Sir James and Lady Marley, and the thirteen guests that made up the house-party.”

“And the chauffeur,” interrupted Larose; “what about him?”

“Oh, I am purposely leaving him out,” replied, the inspector, “because to bring him in would suppose collusion with some one inside the house, implying at once a premeditated crime, and if we are sure of one thing, Mr. Larose, it is that the murder was unpremeditated, for we know it was by chance only that the captain happened to be remaining alone in the billiard-room after the others had gone to bed that night.”

Larose shook his head. “Chance, sir,” he said, “may only come in that murder was committed in the billiard-room. The robbery may have been no chance at all and indeed, may have been definitely determined upon hours before. It was only the bad luck of the captain, perhaps, that murder had to precede robbery.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The murder in the billiard-room was probably, as you say, unpremeditated, but the robbery—no—that may have been a carefully-thought-out plan.”

The inspector was silent, and the detective went on:

“And you found out nothing about anyone—no suspicious happenings pointing in any way to any of the servants or the guests?”

The inspector shook his head. “From the very moment we arrived we were up against a blank wall. We could light on nothing to help us and more than that, Mr. Larose”—his voice hardened—“the people comprising that house-party are not willing to give any help, even if they can. They are resenting our enquiries and are furious at the scandal, and they would go to any lengths, I believe, rather than have one of their number marched out with the handcuffs on.” He laughed bitterly. “'That damned policeman' is how I heard one of them refer to me, and you should have seen their rage when, in common with the domestic staff, I made them all have their finger-prints taken.”

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.”

“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.

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.”