The Draycott Murder Mystery: A Golden Age Mystery Read online

  The Coroner leaned forward.

  “I am sorry to have to touch on such a subject, but did your sister speak openly to you about her affairs? Supposing she had gone out with the intention of meeting some one, would she be likely to mention it to you?”

  Miss Allen hesitated for a moment.

  “I was not in my sister’s confidence,” she said at last. “We have seen little of each other in the last few years and, though she was very frank as a rule about her affairs, I do not think she would have chosen me for her confidante in the case of any intimate business.”

  “So that she might quite well have left your house to keep an appointment without consulting you?”

  “It is more than likely.”

  “You know of no message or letter which might have had some bearing on a possible appointment?”

  “No. As soon as I became alarmed at her absence I questioned the servants as to whether any message had come for her, and found there had been nothing of the sort. I have since looked through her letters, but can find nothing. She had only arrived the day before and had received no letters through the post.”

  Miss Allen returned to her seat with the same quiet dignity she had shown all through the examination. Fayre, watching her closely, was astonished at the perfection of her poise; but now that she was off her guard for a moment it was easy to see that only the most iron self-control had enabled her to go through the ordeal. She was no longer young and her sister’s death had evidently shocked her deeply, but he doubted, having known Mrs. Draycott, whether there could have been any real affection between the two women. Mrs. Draycott, shallow, yet astute enough in her small way, a born huntress of men, but only of those men she considered worth while, could have had nothing in common with Miss Allen, who, after all, had been almost disconcertingly frank in her description of her relations with her sister. She had stated plainly that she had never been in her confidence and he suspected that she had probably actually disliked her and was generous enough to feel repentant now of her attitude towards her.

  Dr. Gregg was called next. He gave his evidence clearly and straightforwardly, but with an awkwardness of manner that amounted almost to surliness. Fayre had the impression that he was either shy or bad-tempered, possibly both. He expressed his opinion that the deceased had been dead for about four hours at the time of his examination. Asked whether the wound might have been self-inflicted, he said that such a thing would be practically impossible, even in the case of a left-handed person, as the shot had been fired at arm’s-length, a feat so difficult as to be almost out of the question. In answer to a question by the Coroner, he stated that death would have been instantaneous and that, in the case of suicide, the weapon would undoubtedly have fallen either on the table or on the floor close to the chair. He gave his answers grudgingly, as though he resented having been drawn into the affair at all. His evidence was corroborated by the police surgeon who had been summoned from Carlisle.

  There was a little stir in the court as John Leslie stepped forward. Kean had drilled him well in the few minutes he had had at his disposal and he gave his evidence in a clear, audible voice, confining himself to the bare facts of the case. He described his return to the farm and the finding of the body and stated emphatically that he had never met Mrs. Draycott and had no idea of her identity until Gunnet recognized her. Asked to account for his movements, he said that he had left the farm at about four o’clock and that from five until just before eight he had been walking.

  “That leaves a certain period of time unaccounted for. Where did you go when you left the farm?” asked the Coroner.

  “I walked to the edge of the Galston copse. I had an appointment there at four-thirty.”

  “Did you keep that appointment?”

  “I did, leaving there at five and walking straight across the fields in the direction of Besley. When I was almost in sight of the village I turned off and made a wide detour and arrived back at the farm from the Whitbury side.”

  “You did not stop at any inn or speak to any one in the course of your walk?”

  “No. I was in the fields practically all the time. I hardly saw a soul. It was dark before seven and pitch-black by the time I got home.”

  “Then I understand that you spoke to no one except the person with whom you had the appointment?”

  “No one.”

  “Who was that person, Mr. Leslie?”

  “Lady Cynthia Bell.”

  Leslie spoke with obvious reluctance and there was a rustle as the crowd turned, sheep-like, to stare at Cynthia.

  “And you parted at five o’clock?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Why didn’t you return to the farm after leaving the Galston copse?”

  “I had been working all day and I needed exercise.”

  “Farm work is fairly heavy work, Mr. Leslie, even at this time of year. According to your account, you must have walked a good twelve miles between five o’clock and eight. Had you no other reason for making such a wide detour?”

  Leslie’s eyes flashed and for a moment it seemed as if Kean’s admonitions were to go for naught, then he controlled himself with an effort.

  “I was annoyed and wanted to walk it off.”

  “What had happened to upset you?”

  “I had had a difference of opinion with Lady Cynthia. We had been going for a walk together, but, owing to this, we parted, rather suddenly. I’d got the walk in my mind, I suppose, so when that happened I just went on by myself and tried to walk my temper off.”

  “You are engaged to Lady Cynthia Bell, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the difference of opinion you mentioned just now due to attentions you had been paying to another lady? Mrs. Draycott, for instance?”

  Leslie stared blankly at his interrogator, a dark flush slowly mounting to his forehead.

  “Good Lord, no!” he ejaculated.

  “You say that you tried to walk off your anger. Was that anger directed against anybody in particular?”

  “I was annoyed with Lady Cynthia at first, in the way one is annoyed with any one one has had an argument with. But after that I was angry, principally, with myself for being such an ass as to quarrel.”

  “There was no third person involved either in the quarrel or in your thoughts afterwards?”

  “Of course not. Who should there be?”

  “You are sure that you did not go back to the farm after leaving Lady Cynthia Bell for the purpose of keeping an appointment you had made with the deceased?”

  Fayre heard the sharp hiss of Kean’s breath between his teeth, followed by a whisper:

  “Then they have got something up their sleeves, after all.”

  Leslie, after the first blank stare of astonishment, flushed with anger as he realized the full force of the insinuation.

  “Of course not,” he said curtly. “I have told you that I didn’t know Mrs. Draycott.”

  “You are certain that you did not meet Mrs. Draycott at all that evening?”

  “I never saw Mrs. Draycott in my life until I found her body at the farm.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Leslie. Sergeant Brace!” Sergeant Brace took his stand, very erect and soldierly in his blue uniform.

  “On the day after the murder you visited Mr. Leslie’s farm, I believe.”

  “I went to the farm on Tuesday, the twenty-fourth, in company with Police-Constable Collins, and made a thorough search of the premises. In a drawer in Mr. Leslie’s bedroom I found a Webley Service revolver, one chamber of which had been discharged. The other chambers were loaded and the gun had not been cleaned since it had last been fired.”

  “You have the bullet which killed Mrs. Draycott?” Brace held out his hand and displayed a bullet lying in the palm.

  “Does it correspond with those used in the weapon you found at the farm?”

  “It does.”

  “You have the revolver in court?”

  Police-Constable Collins stepped forw
ard and handed a heavy Service revolver to the Coroner. “Thank you. Call Mr. Leslie.”

  Leslie’s expression was one of blank consternation.

  “Do you recognize this, Mr. Leslie?”

  Leslie examined the revolver.

  “It belongs to me,” he said simply. “I keep it in the drawer of the dressing-table in my bedroom. I suppose Sergeant Brace found it there.”

  “When did you last fire it?”

  “About a week ago. I found a poor beast of a cat in a trap in Smith’s field, just across the lane from me. It was past saving, so I went home and fetched this and shot it through the head.”

  “You have not used it since then?”

  “No. I haven’t had it out of the drawer since.”

  “Was any one present when you shot the cat?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  “Did you speak to anybody afterwards of what you had done?”

  “No. If I’d run across Smith I should probably have mentioned it to him, but I haven’t seen him.”

  “Was there any one who could have heard the shot?”

  “There might have been. Quite likely not. My man had gone home and Smith’s farm lies a good way back from the lane.”

  “Why did you hide the revolver at the back of the drawer?”

  Leslie coloured hotly.

  “I’ve never hidden it. The drawer’s full of mufflers and silk handkerchiefs and things and I keep it at the back for fear Mrs. Grey, who does my room, should get monkeying with it. She puts my handkerchiefs back when she brings them from the wash and I didn’t want to run any risk with the revolver.”

  “You persist in your statement that you did not return to the farm till eight o’clock?”

  “I went for a long walk, as I have said, and did not get back till close on eight. Hang it all, if I’d killed Mrs. Draycott do you suppose I’d have left my revolver in a drawer where any one could find it? Without cleaning it or reloading it either?”

  Leslie’s quick temper had got the better of him at last.

  “That is for the Jury to decide, Mr. Leslie,” said the Coroner. There was a sharp note of reproof in his voice and Fayre realized that, in a moment of irritation, Leslie had gone a long way towards effacing the good impression he had made in the beginning.

  “You have no explanation as to why Mrs. Draycott went to the farm?”

  “As I’ve already said, I didn’t know Mrs. Draycott. Why she should have gone there is a mystery to me.”

  Leslie went back to his seat to the accompaniment of a low murmur of voices, as the crowds composed mostly of his own friends and neighbours, exchanged their whispered comments on the unexpected turn the inquiry had taken. He was popular in the district and Fayre noticed that, in spite of the damning evidence the police had brought forward, there was little hostility, so far, in the faces that were turned so eagerly in Leslie’s direction. His heart sank when Cynthia was called. He had hoped that she might escape this ordeal.

  “Will you tell us in your own words exactly what happened on the evening of March 23rd?” said the Coroner.

  Cynthia’s colour was a little deeper, her eyes a trifle brighter, than usual; otherwise she showed no embarrassment at the position in which she found herself.

  “I met Mr. Leslie, as we had arranged, on the edge of the Galston copse …” she began.

  “What time was that?” interrupted the Coroner.

  “About a quarter past four. We talked for about three-quarters of an hour and then I went back to Galston and Mr. Leslie walked away through the copse in the direction of Besley.”

  “Good girl,” murmured Kean in Fayre’s ear. “She’s got her wits about her.”

  “You are sure you noticed the direction in which Mr. Leslie went?”

  “Quite sure. After I had gone a few yards I turned round, meaning to say something to him, but he was walking so quickly that I gave up the idea. He was going in the opposite direction to the farm then.”

  The Coroner leaned forward.

  “You were not on friendly terms with Mr. Leslie when you parted, I understand?”

  “I was furious with him at the moment and I expect he loathed me. I got over it almost at once. That’s why I turned round, meaning to call to him.”

  “You considered that he had treated you badly?”

  “It wasn’t that, exactly. I was angry because he would go on trying to treat me too well, or at least what he thought was well. I didn’t agree with him and lost my temper. He’d got into his head that because he’d no prospects and couldn’t marry for a long time he was putting me in a false position and that he ought to break off the engagement.”

  “Was this the first time he had made the suggestion to break off the engagement?”

  “O dear, no. He began worrying about it ten minutes after we first became engaged.”

  A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the court and the Jury, who had pricked up their ears at the Coroner’s question, relapsed into somewhat amused languor.

  “Was it an old argument between you?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s why I was annoyed. We’d had it out so often that I was tired of the subject.”

  “So that, when Mr. Leslie wished to break off the engagement, you refused and held him to it?”

  The colour flooded Cynthia’s cheeks, but she was too wise to take offense at the suggestion. She looked at the Coroner with disarming frankness.

  “He didn’t wish to break off the engagement. That was why the whole argument was so silly. He went on suggesting it simply from a sense of duty. I shouldn’t have held him to his word if I’d thought he wanted to go.”

  “Was he more insistent than usual on this occasion?”

  “No. He didn’t have time. I lost my temper almost at once.”

  “Are you sure that the presence of Mrs. Draycott in the neighbourhood was not one of the causes of this quarrel?”

  “Perfectly certain. I had never heard of Mrs. Draycott. Miss Allen told me her sister was coming and asked me to meet her at dinner that night, but I didn’t know then that that was her name.”

  “Had you never heard her name coupled with that of Mr. Leslie?”

  “Never.”

  Lady Cynthia was the last witness. She returned to her seat, her head held high and her cheeks flaming, but she had done better work than she knew, for her gallant bearing had won the sympathy, not only of the spectators, but of the Jury, two of whom were her father’s tenants and had known her since childhood.

  There was an expectant hush as the Coroner rose to address the Jury. Fayre summed him up as a man of mediocre intelligence, slow, but conscientious, and perhaps a little over-conscious of the importance of his own position.

  “Gentlemen of the Jury,” he began. “You have heard the evidence put before you and are now called upon to consider your verdict. If there is anything that you have not fully understood I am here to help you. As to the manner in which the deceased met her death, you will have seen from the doctor’s evidence how unlikely it is that she died by her own hand. You must not, however, entirely disregard the possibility of suicide. Unlikely as it may seem, it is not absolutely impossible that she herself fired the fatal shot. If, however, you decide that the deceased did not voluntarily cause her own death you must state whether she died at the hand of any person known to you or at the hand of some person unknown. I take it that you are ready to consider your verdict now, gentlemen.”

  The Jury filed out of the court and Fayre, after a word with Kean, crossed over to a chair by the side of Cynthia. He found her pale, but composed, talking quietly with Leslie. To his surprise they were discussing the farm and the steps to be taken should Leslie find himself unable to return there immediately, and his sympathy and admiration for these two increased as he realized the pluck with which they were facing an almost unbearable situation. Kean remained in his old place in the body of the court, deep in his own thoughts. He had little doubt as to what the verdict would be, in the face of the u
nexpected evidence brought forward by the police.

  Indeed, the Jury was not absent for more than twenty minutes. Fayre watched them, trying to judge from their faces what line they would take. The Coroner addressed them.

  “Well, gentlemen, have you considered your verdict?”

  And even before the foreman spoke, Fayre knew what was coming.

  They found that Mrs. Draycott had been murdered, and John Leslie left the court in the custody of the police.

  CHAPTER VII

  The drive back to Staveley was a silent one. Cynthia had been allowed to see Leslie for a few minutes before he was removed to the police station and had taken friendly and reassuring messages from both Kean and Fayre with her. She found him cheerful and, apparently, undismayed, but even her pluck had not been proof against the sordid atmosphere of the dingy little waiting-room and the menace of the two policemen who remained within earshot all through the interview, and she could no longer conceal her weariness and depression.

  Miss Allen, who had waited at the entrance to the Town Hall, begged for a lift to Greycross, thereby earning the gratitude of the two men, who were in dread of collapse now that the strain was over. But Cynthia had not the smallest intention of breaking down; her whole mind was centred on Leslie and the necessity for instant action. What form this was to take she had no idea, but inactivity had always irked her and now, in the face of Leslie’s danger, she found it almost unbearable. She sat huddled in a corner of the car, her mind working feverishly, barely hearing the low-voiced conversation of the two men and Miss Allen. With the wisdom of true sympathy they left her alone with her thoughts, knowing that even a chance word might undermine her control.

  They dropped Miss Allen at Greycross. As the car started again, Fayre glanced at Cynthia.

  “All right?” he asked kindly.

  She nodded.

  “Quite. Only thinking. There must be something we can do, Uncle Fayre!”

  Kean roused himself from his abstraction.

  “Want to get moving, eh?” he said in his incisive way. “I know how you feel, but it’s no good trying to rush things. You did more for Leslie than you realized at the inquest to-day. I’ve seldom heard a more satisfactory witness. I congratulate you.” Cynthia’s eyes shone with pleasure. As he had intended, his praise supplied just the tonic she needed.