The Boathouse Riddle Page 8

  “You looked in here, Inspector?”

  “Yes, sir. No screwdriver there, nor anything else except needles.”

  “It’s what isn’t here that worries me,” Sir Clinton said, leaving the lid of the instrument up. “Did you happen to notice that there’s no nickel point in the middle of the turntable?”

  Severn stepped over and examined the instrument. His face fell as he did so. The turntable axle was missing.

  “No, sir. I didn’t spot that. I was looking for something apart from the gramophone, and I expect I saw the turntable in position and missed the other thing; didn’t think of examining it carefully enough, evidently.”

  Sir Clinton made no reply. He examined the heads of the nickelled screws which held the board below the turntable in position; tried his fountain pen vertically on one of those nearest the hinges of the lid, as though measuring the free space above the screw; and finally, closing the lid, he lifted the whole instrument off the table and put it down again.

  “So that was it?” he said musingly. “You’re not likely to see your screwdriver again, I should think,” he added, turning to Wendover. “Better buy a new one.”

  He opened the doors in front of the gramophone and peered inside for a moment.

  “You’ll need to buy a new motor and a new horn too, if you ever want this thing to work again. Both of them are gone. But perhaps you authorised somebody to take them?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Wendover declared. “If they’re gone, then it’s been done in the last day or two, for I remember hearing the gramophone two days ago when the Keith-Westertons were up here in the afternoon. They played one record, for I heard it over the water when I was out in a boat.”

  Then the grotesqueness of the situation seemed to strike him.

  “What the devil would any one want to steal the motor of a gramophone for?” he demanded. “You can’t murder a man with a thing of that sort; and besides, Horncastle wasn’t killed by any fantastic method of that kind. That was just plain shooting. I don’t see what the gramophone’s got to do with it at all. What do you make of it, Clinton? Do you really suppose a murderer went about burdened with a heavy bit of machinery like that? What could he do with it?”

  “It’s a bit early yet to say,” Sir Clinton answered in a colourless voice. “Still, I shouldn’t be surprised if we come across your motor before we’re done with this case. It opens up a lot of interesting speculations. I shouldn’t wonder . . . if Horncastle turns out to be a mere pawn in the game. However, there’s nothing to be gained by standing here chattering. Suppose we have a look at the balcony now, and then go downstairs and see what’s to be seen there.”

  The balcony yielded nothing of the slightest interest; and Sir Clinton led the way to the stairhead. The lowest turn of the iron spiral brought them out on a sloping platform which occupied half the length of the boathouse and which ended in a sort of dock walled in on both sides and closed, on the water front, by a large door through which the boats could pass.

  “A bit gloomy in here, with the door shut,” Sir Clinton remarked. “I don’t want to switch on the electric light. You’ll have to test all the switches for finger prints, Inspector, so we mustn’t leave our own on top. We’ll open the door instead.”

  The door was controlled by a running-chain arrangement from the platform; and Sir Clinton, taking precautions not to obliterate any finger marks, swung the leaves apart and admitted the full flood of the morning daylight.

  “No chance of any one making his way in here by water,” the Chief Constable pointed out to Severn. “The door, you see, goes right down below water level; and if any one tried to dive under it, he’d come across a few strands of barbed wire.”

  The tiny dock was obviously safe from intrusion. Walled in on both sides, roofed over by the upper storey of the boathouse and protected by its door, it could be entered only by way of the spiral stair if the water-gate was closed. Four boats were moored at the edge of the landing stage, very spick-and-span with gay cushions in the stern seats. At the back of the platform were oar racks; and in one corner lay a small outboard motor, suitable for clamping to a rowing-boat’s stern.

  “Oars all present and correct,” Sir Clinton said, running his eye along the racks. “Now we’ll have a look at the boats.”

  As they walked down the platform, Wendover’s glance caught something which gave him a rather unpleasant shock. On the cushions in the stern of one boat lay a lady’s vanity bag which he felt sure he recognised. The Inspector’s eye lighted on it almost at the same instant.

  “Hullo! What’s this?” he exclaimed jubilantly, as he hurried forward to secure it.

  “Don’t handle it carelessly,” Sir Clinton cautioned him. “We may need to look for fingerprints.”

  Severn stepped into the boat, lifted his prey, and came back on to the platform again. Gingerly he opened the bag and glanced inside.

  “Here’s a handkerchief,” he reported, drawing it out as he spoke. “Initials in the corner, ‘D. K. W.’”

  “You needn’t guess,” Sir Clinton remarked, studying Wendover’s face as he spoke. “It’s Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s bag. I’ve seen it in her hand once or twice lately.”

  Wendover hastened to remove any false impressions which, he feared, Severn might have received.

  “Mrs. Keith-Westerton was out on the lake yesterday afternoon,” he explained, as though dismissing an irrelevant matter. “She must have left her bag in the boat by an oversight.”

  “Obviously,” Sir Clinton agreed, in a dry tone. “She left it behind, or it wouldn’t be here now.”

  Wendover had an uncomfortable feeling that Sir Clinton had repeated the truism without lending any support to the implication in the original version; and a glance at Severn’s face showed him that the Inspector had noted his superior’s reservation.

  “Just try these anchor chains, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Give ’em a good tug and see if they’re firm.”

  Each boat had a tiny anchor in the bow, lying on some fathoms of light mooring chain. Severn tried each in turn.

  “They’re all right, sir,” he reported. “The rings let into the wood are as solid as you could wish. I couldn’t stir ’em if I put my whole weight into it.”

  Wendover could make nothing of this and he was not sorry to see that Severn was no wiser, as his face showed.

  “Now, I think we’ll have the floor boards up in that boat,” Sir Clinton continued, without pausing to explain his ideas about the anchor chains. “Careful, Inspector, when you’re lifting them. We don’t want to lose anything overboard.”

  Severn obediently lifted the floor boards of the boat in which he had found the vanity bag; then, getting down on his knees, he began a careful examination of the inner side of the skiff’s hull. Suddenly he picked up something and turned round with an air in which triumph and surprise were mingled.

  “It’s another of these pearls, sir—and there’s another one still, down there. . . . I’ve got it. That’s two more of them.”

  He bent again to his task and finally fished out one more pearl.

  “All three of them in the after part of the boat, I think?” Sir Clinton asked, as Severn stepped back on to the platform

  “Yes, sir, between the stroke’s seat and the stern seat, roughly,” the Inspector confirmed. “They might have dropped from the pocket of some one sitting on either seat, well enough.”

  “Ladies don’t have pockets nowadays,” Wendover commented acidly.

  “Nor do men usually wear pearl necklaces nowadays,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Curious, these vagaries of fashion.”

  He knew perfectly well how Wendover was feeling. The Squire always had a soft spot for a pretty girl; he wouldn’t like to see her dragged into a business of this sort, even indirectly. And, besides, Wendover had more than a little of class consciousness. Mrs. Keith-Westerton—or at least her husband—belonged to Wendover’s own caste; and so in this case the personal was reinforced by the social
appeal. The Chief Constable’s own business, however, was to get to the bottom of the affair, no matter who might be mixed up in it. He could hardly refrain from probing the business merely because of Wendover’s predilections in favour of his friends. He began to wish that the Inspector had left him alone. Things were growing awkward, evidently.

  “I want you to think for a moment,” he said, turning to Wendover, and speaking in a serious tone. “Can you think of anything missing here: spare chain, wireless accumulators, an anchor, anything of that sort?”

  Wendover thought hard for a few moments, then shook his head.

  “No, there’s nothing been stolen, if that’s what you mean. That screwdriver’s the only thing I miss.”

  “Well, it isn’t here,” Sir Clinton said. “I’ve kept my eyes open down here; and you keep the place so tidy that I’d no difficulty there. Just take the floor boards up in the other boats, Inspector, please. We may as well be thorough.”

  But Severn’s search of the other skiffs revealed nothing of the slightest importance. While he was busy, Sir Clinton occupied himself with an inspection of the landing stage and the water in the dock. He found nothing, however, except a number of spent Swan vestas, some on the platform, others floating in the water.

  “Nothing much in that,” he decided aloud. “We’ve all been smoking here, and most likely we’ve pitched our spent matches about. I know I contributed one or two myself, yesterday, when I had a boat out.”

  Severn stepped out of the boat which he had been searching.

  “Is there anything more to do here, sir?” he inquired.

  “Not at this moment,” Sir Clinton decided. “We’ll close that water gate and then go upstairs.”

  When they reached the lounge, the Chief Constable turned to the Inspector.

  “I don’t expect to get much from fingerprints; but you’d better see what can be done. The electric switches, that water-gate affair, the oar handles, and possibly the chairs and the gramophone: try the lot. It’ll probably be time wasted, for I think we’re up against somebody who’ll have had the sense to wear gloves, if fingerprints were likely to incriminate him—or her, as the case may be.”

  “Then I suppose I’d better go down to Headquarters and get arrangements made, sir?”

  “No,” said Sir Clinton, to the obvious surprise of the Inspector. “You’re going to wait here on the premises until you’re relieved. No one is to get into the boathouse till further orders. That’s absolutely essential. Nobody of any sort, you understand, except myself and Mr. Wendover, if he comes with me. I’m going back to the Grange now. I’ll telephone for a man to take your place. And, Inspector, see that you put two men here to-night, with the same orders. One man alone might go to sleep; and I want no risks of that sort.”

  At Sir Clinton’s first sentence, Severn’s face fell. It was clear that he had been counting on breakfast as the next item on his programme, Wendover’s ready sympathy was aroused.

  “I’m hungry myself,” he said, with a smile. “All right, Inspector, I’ll send you something to eat as soon as we get back home. That’ll save time. You can stoke up while you’re waiting for your relief. Like tea in your Thermos? Or coffee? We can’t have you starving on the premises.”

  “And as soon as your relief turns up, come down to the Grange,” Sir Clinton added. “You’ve a busy morning before you yet.”

  Severn thanked Wendover for his thoughtfulness and accompanied them to the door. As they reached the threshold, the Inspector’s eye was caught by a tall figure, in the familiar uniform of the Salvation Army, coming up the rough woodland road which led to the boathouse from Talgarth village. The man caught sight of them at the same instant and quickened his steps.

  “Is Mr. Keith-Westerton here?” he demanded, as he came up to the group.

  “Severn shook his head.

  “Mrs. Keith-Westerton, then?” the Salvationist persisted.

  “No, she’s not here. What makes you think she would be?”

  The Salvationist paid no attention to the question.

  “Is there any one in that boathouse?” he persevered.

  “No. There’s nobody here except ourselves.”

  As a landowner, Wendover inclined to be easygoing. He put up no notices to trespassers and he allowed people to come and go upon his ground without restriction. At the same time, he expected them, as a matter of courtesy, to ask his permission if they happened to run across him personally; and subconsciously he resented the behaviour of the Salvationist. The fellow ought to have explained his presence, first of all, instead of catechising his betters. Besides, what had a Salvationist to do with the Keith-Westertons, people in Wendover’s own class?

  “What’s your business?” he demanded abruptly.

  For a moment the Salvationist seemed taken aback. Then a gleam of fanaticism kindled in his pale blue eyes.

  “I’m an insurance agent,” he explained.

  Sir Clinton suppressed a smile as he watched his host blunder into the trap.

  “Oh, indeed,” Wendover commented coldly. “I don’t think you’ll make a success of it if you thrust yourself on people before they’ve had breakfast. You’ll hardly find them in the best mood for business at this hour of the morning. Your employers would hardly thank you for your zeal, I should imagine. What company do you represent?”

  “Our concern’s the biggest thing in fire insurance, the very biggest thing that’s in the market to-day,” the Salvationist explained eagerly. “I give you my word for that. Put yourself on our books, and we can offer you safety, certainty, and an easy mind. We’re prepared to undertake any risk, the bigger the better. And we do what no other concern can do. Note that carefully. We’ve no graduated premiums; everybody insures with us at a flat rate premium that’s within the reach of the poorest man in the land. Just mark that and think over it well. And we’ve bonuses, too, bonuses that make all our competitors look silly. That’s a plain fact; there’s no disputing it. We’re beyond competition. We charge a premium that any one can pay; we’ve got a security that can’t be equalled; and our bonus payments are liberal beyond belief, almost. And here’s a copy of our prospectus. . . .”

  He produced a small volume from his pocket and held it out to Wendover, who was slightly offended on discovering that it was a Bible.

  “Every promise in it will stand examination,” the Salvationist went on. “It’s a sound business proposition. Look, now! You pay a premium every year to insure your furniture against the risk of a fire in your house; and you think that’s money well spent, don’t you? Of course you do. Well, then, why not pay our premium and insure something that’s worth a good deal more to you than a few chattels? Why not take advantage of our offer and insure your soul against the risk of eternal fire? We’re not trying to make money out of you. The only premium we ask is a repentant heart, down on the counter. Pay that over, and you’ve no need to fear hell fire. You’re covered by our guarantee. And we’ll throw in all the joys of heaven as a bonus. Think it over. It’s a sound proposition, none sounder. You can’t get as good terms anywhere else.”

  In religious affairs, Wendover was something of a Laodicean, but the Salvationist touched him on the raw by the calm assumption that the Squire was already to be reckoned as among the damned. What annoyed him still more was the bad taste of the harangue. Religion, by the Wendover standard, was something respectable and not a thing to be handled in the manner of a pushing commercial traveller. A reminiscence of the late Doctor Mahaffy came to his mind and saved him from an angry retort.

  “You’re wasting your time,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s not a matter I discuss with strangers; but since you treat me as an intimate friend, I don’t mind telling you that I’m saved—though it was a deuced narrow squeak.”

  “I’m used to scoffers,” the Salvationist retorted. “I was one myself, before I saw light. You’re an ignorant and self-righteous man, just as I was. I’ll pray for you.”

  Sir Clinton, seei
ng Wendover’s face redden under this, broke in swiftly.

  “May I ask your name, Mr.——?”

  “Sawtry,” the Salvationist supplied. “Save-your-soul Sawtry, they call me, usually. I’ve been the instrument in bringing many a soul to safety.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Sawtry. Would you mind telling me why you came here at this hour of the morning looking for Mr. Keith-Westerton? This isn’t his boathouse. Surely you’d find him at home instead of down here.”

  “He’s not at his house,” Sawtry answered, with a gleam of triumph. “That’s why I came here. They said he’d probably gone to the lake for a bathe before breakfast.”

  “He’s not here,” Sir Clinton assured him. “You must have wanted him very urgently, surely, if you couldn’t wait till he’d had his breakfast?”

  “I wanted to see him on private business,” Sawtry replied, with a sudden ebb in his flow of eloquence.

  “You asked for Mrs. Keith-Westerton also,” Sir Clinton reminded him.

  “I’ve got some private business with her too.”

  “This is Inspector Severn,” Sir Clinton informed him. “He may want to ask you a question or two.”

  “Then I sha’n’t answer,” Sawtry said bluntly. “I know a thing or two about the law; you can’t get over me with bluff. You’ve no power to question me about my private affairs. So you can stuff that in your pipe and smoke it to pass the time. That’s my answer to you, Mr. Inspector. Some of the smartest men in the C. I. D. have tried to get ahead of me in their time. They didn’t manage it, so it’s not likely that you’ll better their work. And now I’ll wish you good morning. You’ve no right to detain me.”

  He turned abruptly on his heel and walked off down the road by which he had come. Sir Clinton gazed after him thoughtfully.

  “What he says is true enough,” he commented, after a pause. “But I’d give something to know what’s behind all that. He’s been under suspicion, at one time. He must be a bit impulsive or he’d have kept his thumb on that, instead of blurting it out. What did you make of him, Inspector?”