The Draycott Murder Mystery: A Golden Age Mystery Read online

  Leslie gave a high-pitched laugh that ended in a crow. It was evident that he was keeping himself in hand with difficulty.

  “Needed, man!” He pulled himself up once more. “I’m sorry, Gunnet, but I’m afraid I shall have to haul you away from your supper. I won’t keep him longer than I can help, Mrs. Gunnet,” he went on as his eye fell on the meal she had been just about to dish up.

  Gunnet heaved himself reluctantly into his tunic and buttoned it, his eyes on the troubled face of his visitor.

  “Look here, sir,” he said weightily. “I’d better know what it’s all about. You can talk in front of the missus, here. She knows when to keep a still tongue in her head.”

  Leslie gripped the back of the chair behind which he was standing. His throat seemed to have grown suddenly dry.

  “There’s a woman up at the farm, in my sitting-room,” he said, his voice unnaturally quiet. “And she’s dead.”

  Gunnet stared at him for a moment in silence, then, with an assumption of officialdom that contrasted almost comically with his usual bluff good-humour, pulled out his notebook.

  “A woman? Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. Never seen her before, to my knowledge. I found her when I got back this evening.”

  Gunnet unhooked his great-coat and got slowly into it.

  “Better keep the rest till we get there. And don’t you get talking, Mother,” he added gruffly as he went out.

  “There ain’t nobody to talk to except the cat,” retorted Mrs. Gunnet, “and she don’t answer.”

  She had no cause, however, to complain of the village of Keys that night. Even in Glasgow she had never spent an evening more replete with variety. Gunnet’s return, and almost immediate departure, an hour later, was followed by the arrival of the Sergeant and a Constable from Whitbury, the market-town to which Gunnet had telephoned. To Mrs. Gunnet was left the important task of directing them to John Leslie’s farm and she would have given a great deal to have gone with them.

  Gunnet opened the door to them when they arrived at the farm. John Leslie was standing just behind him and did not miss the sharp, appraising glance bestowed on himself by the Sergeant as he came in.

  “Have you got the doctor?” was his first question.

  “Couldn’t get him, sir,” Gunnet answered. “He was out when I telephoned, but I left word for him to come up the instant he returned to inspect the deceased.”

  Overshadowed as his spirits were by the whole unpleasant affair, Leslie could not resist an internal chuckle at this new aspect of Gunnet. The easy-going, rather garrulous villager had already draped himself in the majesty of the Law and was expressing himself accordingly.

  Gunnet led the way into the sitting-room. Leslie had placed the lamp on the mantelpiece before making his hasty expedition to the police station and it still burned there, lighting up the writing-table with its tragic burden.

  The Sergeant bent down and felt the cold cheek of the woman who lay across it. Then he lifted her eyelid and looked under the soft, bobbed hair that fell round her face.

  “Dead, all right,” he said. “She’s just as you found her?”

  Leslie stepped forward into the ring of light.

  “I didn’t touch her, except to feel her face, just as you did. I knew then that she was dead.”

  He could hear the scratching of the Constable’s pencil as he made his notes.

  “You’re sure she was dead then?”

  “I don’t think there was the faintest doubt. If I’d had the smallest suspicion she was alive I should have tried to do something for her, but I was so sure she was dead that I went straight for Gunnet. The blood on the blotter was almost dry then.”

  “What time was this, Mr. Leslie?”

  “Just about eight. The clock in the kitchen struck while I was in here.”

  The Sergeant, a tall, lean man with a shrewd, typical North-country face, scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “You live here alone, I think?” he asked.

  Leslie nodded.

  “Mrs. Grey, the carter’s wife, does for me. She comes in the morning and leaves about two.”

  “So that when you are out the house is deserted?”

  “Absolutely, unless Grey is about in the yard. He was up at the station fetching some stuff this evening and didn’t get back till about nine. Gunnet was here then.”

  “Could any one get in easily?”

  “Quite. There is nothing here to steal. It’s only occasionally, when there’s money in the house, that I lock the front door.”

  The Sergeant was about to speak again when Leslie interrupted him.

  “I’ve just remembered. I forgot it till just now. The door was wide open when I came in. I’ve never found it like that before.”

  “It was unlocked when you went out?”

  “Yes, but it was latched. I always shut it. It’s a good latch, too.”

  “Were you about the premises at all this afternoon, Mr. Leslie?”

  So far, except for the Constable and his busy pencil in the background, the interrogation had been more or less friendly and informal. Now there was an official ring in the Sergeant’s voice that made Leslie look carefully to his answer.

  “I went out about four this afternoon and did not get back till just before eight.”

  “You weren’t near enough at any time during the evening to have heard a shot? This is a shooting case, you know.”

  Leslie shook his head.

  “I went for a long tramp across country. Unless it was done just after four or just before eight I couldn’t have heard anything.”

  “An unusual time at which to take a walk, Mr. Leslie.”

  The Sergeant’s voice was noncommittal, but Leslie felt himself flush.

  “I was too busy to go before and I needed exercise,” he said shortly.

  “You can account for your time, I suppose? I must ask you to think carefully …”

  Leslie broke in on him. His nerves had already been badly jarred by the events of the evening and the man’s manner was beginning to annoy him.

  “Good Heavens, man, you’re not going to tell me that anything I may say may be used against me? You’re welcome to what I can tell you, but it isn’t much. I never saw this lady before in my life till I came in at eight and found her in my room. How she got here I’ve no idea. You surely don’t think I’ve murdered her!”

  But the Sergeant refused to be drawn.

  “All the same, we should like to know where you were during the evening and whether you spoke to any one who could identify you during that time.”

  “Who was I likely to speak to? I tell you I went on a long, cross-country tramp. I don’t suppose I met a soul, certainly not any one who could identify me.”

  “Four hours is a long time. You were walking all the time?”

  “Yes.”

  Leslie spoke curtly. He was tired and the whole thing was beginning to get on his nerves.

  “Then, if that’s all you can tell me, Mr. Leslie, I’ll take a look round here. If you’ll step into another room …”

  Leslie opened his mouth as though about to say something, and then, apparently, thought better of it.

  “You’ll find me in the kitchen if you want me,” he volunteered as he went out. “There’s some coffee on the stove for any one who would like it.”

  The Sergeant looked after him thoughtfully, then strolled to the door.

  “I should be obliged if you wouldn’t leave the house just at present,” he called after him.

  Leslie suddenly lost his temper.

  “My good fellow, I’m not going to run away!” he exploded.

  Once in the little kitchen he sank into a chair by the stove and ran his fingers through his hair. He was abominably tired, too tired to think properly, but it was beginning to strike him that he was in a tighter place than he had realized. He had been a fool to lose his temper like that. After all, the chap couldn’t be blamed for feeling a bit suspicious.

&n
bsp; With a long sigh, he dropped his head into his hands and tried to view the situation calmly. But the thoughts went chasing round in a futile circle in his tired brain, and at last, in despair, he gave it up and straightened himself. If only the police would hurry up and get through with the job!

  He reached for the coffee-pot and poured himself out a big cup of black coffee.

  “Damn!” he said with heartfelt emphasis. “Oh, damn!”

  Meanwhile the Sergeant was pursuing his investigations. With the help of Gunnet and the man he had brought with him he raised the body from the table and laid it on the floor. As the head fell back against his shoulder Gunnet gave vent to an exclamation.

  “It’s her from Miss Allen’s! Her sister, I think she is. I see her in the village this morning!”

  “Miss Allen of Greycross?”

  “That’s right. Been here a matter of five years now. I heard tell somewhere that she was expecting her sister, and this lady come yesterday. A Mrs. Something, I think she is. The wife’d know. She’s a rare one for picking up news, she is.”

  The Sergeant was examining the wound that was hidden under the thick, fair hair.

  “It’s a bullet-wound, all right, and fired at fairly close range. Any sign of a weapon anywhere?”

  But there was no trace of the weapon by which the unfortunate woman had met her death. The little room seemed unnaturally tidy and normal for the scene of so grim a tragedy; an ordinary man’s room, giving no sign of any struggle; the only feminine note in it being the still figure on the ground and a brocade bag which, with the ominous, suggestive stain on the blotter, supplied the only touch of colour on the dark wood of the writing-table. The Sergeant opened the bag. A small powder-puff, a cigarette-case and holder, a stick of lip-salve, a tiny gold purse with a few shillings in it, and a lace handkerchief, were all it contained. The handkerchief bore an embroidered monogram in the corner. “R. D.” or “D. R.” were the letters, but, as Gunnet was unable to remember the name of Miss Allen’s guest, this was of little use for purposes of identification.

  The contents of the bag were costly and the woman’s clothes in keeping with them. She was expensively dressed in a long fur coat which fell open as they moved her and revealed a fawn-coloured georgette dress, heavily trimmed with sequins, underneath. As well as the rings on her fingers she wore a long chain of rhinestones and a gold watch-bracelet set with diamonds. Fine silk stockings and brown glace beaded shoes with very high heels covered her feet. To the soles of the shoes dried earth was clinging and a dead leaf was adhering to one of the heels.

  “Doesn’t look much like robbery,” remarked Gunnet.

  “She came here of her own accord, too, I should say. There is no sign of any struggle. Her clothes are as tidy as when she left home.” The Sergeant stood looking down at the calm face upturned to his. “She was a beauty, poor thing, and no mistake,” he added gently. “It must have been sudden, the end. She never knew what was coming to her. Look at her face.”

  It was true. Except for the smear of dried blood down one side of the cheek, and its ghastly pallor, there was nothing to suggest that she was not quietly sleeping. The still lips even held a faint smile and it was evident that death had come swiftly and mercifully.

  “It looks as if the murderer must have been some one known to her, some one she would have no cause to fear,” went on the Sergeant. “Either that or she thought she was alone in the house and he came on her unawares from behind. That young chap in there,” he continued, indicating the direction of the passage with a jerk of his head. “He knows Miss Allen, doesn’t he? I seem to remember him and her at the Point to Point together.”

  “Very good friends, they are,” assented Gunnet. “But this lady only came yesterday, I’m thinking, and I don’t remember ever to have seen her here before. Likely he doesn’t know her.”

  He stood stolidly by the table while the Sergeant proceeded with his examination of the room; once, only, he volunteered a statement.

  “He seemed proper upset when he came down to the station,” he remarked thoughtfully.

  The Sergeant looked round sharply.

  “In what way, upset?”

  Gunnet’s ruddy face took on an even deeper hue in his efforts to express himself clearly.

  “Startled like, as any one would be that had found a thing like this in his room. More excited than guilty, if you understand me. By the time we got back here he was acting quite natural. Lit the fire and made coffee and all while we was waiting for you. I shouldn’t say he acted suspicious.”

  If the Sergeant held any opinion on the subject, he kept it to himself. He finished his examination of the room and moved to the door.

  “Nothing here,” he said. “Give me your lantern and I’ll have a look outside. You stay and keep an eye on things here. Come on, Collins.”

  He went out, followed by the man he had brought from Whitbury, a young Constable, fresh to his job and awed into silence by the magnitude of his first case.

  Meanwhile John Leslie sat huddled over the stove in the kitchen, half asleep. It seemed to him as if this pleasant country life to which he had retired so thankfully after four hideous years of warfare had suddenly merged itself into a nightmare which would never end. His one longing was for bed and sleep and yet even that seemed out of the question so long as the farm housed that tragic figure. Meanwhile there seemed nothing for it but to hang about until all this sordid official procedure was over.

  He was roused by the entry of Collins.

  “Sergeant Brace says would you come outside for a minute, sir,” he announced.

  Leslie rose wearily to his feet and followed the man. Brace stood just outside the door leading into the garden.

  “We’ve found footsteps in the bed under the sitting-room window. Looks as if some one had stood there looking into the room. Perhaps you’d have a look at them.”

  He led the way to the flower-bed and turned the lantern on it. The footprints were distinctly to be seen in the soft earth. They were large and curiously undefined in outline.

  “That’s not a clear-cut mark like you or I would make,” commented the Sergeant. “I should say they were done by some one in an uncommonly old pair of boots. There’s more upper than sole to those! What sort of boots does your man wear?”

  “The usual heavy labourer’s boot with nails in it. Good solid sole. I’m not an adept at this sort of thing, but, if what you say is true, he did not make those marks. Neither did I, for the matter of that.”

  He held out his own foot for inspection.

  For the first time Brace permitted himself to smile.

  “I never suspected you of boots like the ones that made those prints, Mr. Leslie. But I wanted to make sure that they were not the carter’s. There’s been no rain for three days and those marks may have been there some time, provided the bed hasn’t been raked over lately.”

  “As for that, I raked it over myself yesterday morning; but that doesn’t tell you much, I suppose, as they might have been made any time afterwards.”

  In spite of his fatigue and distaste for the whole business, Leslie was beginning to grow interested.

  Brace flashed his lantern on the brick path that led across the front of the house.

  “Nothing there, unfortunately, but there’s something I’d like to show you over here.”

  Leslie followed him to the barn. Here the footsteps were distinctly discernible on the earthen floor, but less clearly defined and, in some cases, blurred in a manner that suggested that the walker had crossed his own tracks. But they led quite obviously to the foot of the ladder up to the loft.

  Brace went on ahead up the ladder.

  “Here’s something you might be able to help us with,” he said as they reached the top.

  He pointed to the straw in the corner.

  “That’s been slept on lately, and look at this.”

  He indicated a couple of dirty rags that looked as though they might have been used as bandages, except that
they were bare of any stain.

  “Probably some tramp. I’ve had them in here more than once in cold weather,” said Leslie.

  “It’s a tramp, right enough. Those are the rags they mostly bind their feet up with instead of socks. They stick to them, too, as a rule. Looks as if this chap must have been disturbed and left in a hurry. It’s probably his footsteps under the window. You don’t recall turning a tramp out of the barn any time lately?”

  Leslie shook his head.

  “I don’t think I ever have turned one off. I sometimes find their traces in the morning, but, even if I knew one of them was here, I should probably wink at it and let him stay. The fowls are all securely locked up and the tramps round here are a harmless lot, as a rule, so long as they don’t smoke in the straw and fire the old place. It wouldn’t be much loss if they did. It’s not even weather-tight.”

  “You haven’t seen one hanging round the last day or so?”

  “No. They don’t hang round much in the daytime, anyhow, because of the dog. They slip in at night after he’s chained up.”

  “He’s a sound sleeper, that dog!” commented Brace. “We’ve made noise enough and he hasn’t stirred.”

  “He’s not here. I had intended to go to London tonight, so I took him down to the Greys this morning.”

  “And then didn’t go, after all?”

  “I shouldn’t be here now if I had,” said Leslie wearily. “I had a wire saying I wasn’t wanted, after all.”

  “What was the appointment, if I may ask?”

  Leslie was tickled, in spite of himself. His irritation was beginning to wear off, no doubt due to the coffee which had begun to allay his fatigue.

  “The appointment was at the Law Courts,” he said dryly. “Not in the dock, however. Just a perfectly respectable witness for the prosecution. Case of a stolen car, to be exact. Unfortunately for me, I happened to be talking to the owner when we saw the chap actually making off with the car.”

  “Case of identifying the thief,” remarked Brace with professional interest.

  “That’s the idea. Wish to goodness I’d gone now, then I should have been out of all this, but the case was postponed. You’d have accepted that alibi all right, Sergeant?”