Unexpected Guest (4 page)

Laura nodded.

‘Good,' said Starkwedder. ‘All the rest you leave to me. Are you feeling all right now?'

‘Yes, I think so,' Laura whispered.

‘Then go along and do your stuff,' he ordered her.

Laura hesitated. ‘You–you oughtn't to do this,' she urged him again. ‘You oughtn't. You shouldn't get involved.'

‘Now, don't let's have any more of that,' Starkwedder insisted. ‘Everyone has their own form of–what did we call it just now?–fun and games. You had your fun and games shooting your husband. I'm having my fun and games now. Let's just say I've always had a secret longing to see how I could get on with a detective story in real life.' He gave her a quick, reassuring smile. ‘Now, can you do what I've told you?'

Laura nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘Right. Oh, I see you've got a watch. Good. What time do you make it?'

Laura showed him her wristwatch, and he set his accordingly. ‘Just after ten minutes to,' he observed. ‘I'll allow you three–no, four–minutes. Four minutes to go along to the kitchen, pop that paper in the boiler, go upstairs, get out of your things and into a dressing-gown, and along to Miss Bennett or whoever.
Do you think you can do that, Laura?' He smiled at her reassuringly.

Laura nodded.

‘Now then,' he continued, ‘at five minutes to midnight exactly, you'll hear the shot. Off you go.'

Moving to the door, she turned and looked at him, uncertain of herself. Starkwedder went across to open the door for her. ‘You're not going to let me down, are you?' he asked.

‘No,' replied Laura faintly.

‘Good.'

Laura was about to leave the room when Starkwedder noticed her jacket lying on the arm of the sofa. Calling her back, he gave it to her, smiling. She went out, and he closed the door behind her.

After closing the door behind Laura, Starkwedder paused, working out in his mind what was to be done. After a moment, he glanced at his watch, then took out a cigarette. He moved to the table by the armchair and was about to pick up the lighter when he noticed a photograph of Laura on one of the bookshelves. He picked it up, looked at it, smiled, replaced it, and lit a cigarette, leaving the lighter on the table. Taking out his handkerchief, he rubbed any fingerprints off the arms of the armchair and the photograph, and then pushed the chair back to its original position. He took Laura's cigarette from the ashtray, then went to the table by the wheelchair and took his own stub from the ashtray. Crossing to the desk, he next rubbed any fingerprints from it, replaced the scissors and notepad, and adjusted the blotter. He looked around him on the floor for any scrap of paper that might have been missed, found one
near the desk, screwed it up and put it in his trousers pocket. He rubbed fingerprints off the light switch by the door and off the desk chair, picked up his torch from the desk, went over to the french windows, drew the curtain back slightly, and shone the torch through the window onto the path outside.

‘Too hard for footprints,' he murmured to himself. He put the torch on the table by the wheelchair and picked up the gun. Making sure that it was sufficiently loaded, he polished it for fingerprints, then went to the stool and put the gun down on it. After glancing again at his watch, he went to the armchair in the recess and put on his hat, scarf and gloves. With his overcoat on his arm, he crossed to the door. He was about to switch off the lights when he remembered to remove the fingerprints from the door-plate and handle. He then switched off the lights, and came back to the stool, putting his coat on. He picked up the gun, and was about to fire it at the initials on the wall when he realized that they were hidden by the curtain.

‘Damn!' he muttered. Quickly taking the desk chair, he used it to hold the curtain back. He returned to his position by the stool, fired the gun, and then quickly went back to the wall to examine the result. ‘Not bad!' he congratulated himself.

As he replaced the desk chair in its proper position, Starkwedder could hear voices in the hall. He rushed
off through the french windows, taking the gun with him. A moment later he reappeared, snatched up the torch, and dashed out again.

From various parts of the house, four people hurried towards the study. Richard Warwick's mother, a tall, commanding old lady, was in her dressing-gown. She looked pallid and walked with the aid of a stick. ‘What is it, Jan?' she asked the teenage boy in pyjamas with the strange, rather innocent, faun-like face, who was close behind her on the landing. ‘Why is everybody wandering about in the middle of the night?' she exclaimed as they were joined by a grey-haired, middle-aged woman, wearing a sensible flannel dressing-gown. ‘Benny,' she ordered the woman, ‘tell me what's going on.'

Laura was close behind, and Mrs Warwick continued, ‘Have you all taken leave of your senses? Laura, what's happened? Jan–Jan–will someone tell me what is going on in this house?'

‘I'll bet it's Richard,' said the boy, who looked about nineteen, though his voice and manner were those of a younger child. ‘He's shooting at the fog again.' There was a note of petulance in his voice as he added, ‘Tell him he's not to shoot and wake us all up out of our beauty sleep. I was deep asleep, and so was Benny. Weren't you, Benny? Be careful, Laura, Richard's dangerous. He's dangerous, Benny, be careful.'

‘There's thick fog outside,' said Laura, looking through the landing window. ‘You can barely make out the path. I can't imagine what he can be shooting at in this mist. It's absurd. Besides, I thought I heard a cry.'

Miss Bennett–Benny–an alert, brisk woman who looked like the ex-hospital nurse that she was, spoke somewhat officiously. ‘I really can't see why you're so upset, Laura. It's just Richard amusing himself as usual. But I didn't hear any shooting. I'm sure there's nothing wrong. I think you're imagining things. But he's certainly very selfish and I shall tell him so. Richard,' she called as she entered the study, ‘really, Richard, it's too bad at this time of night. You frightened us–Richard!'

Laura, wearing her dressing-gown, followed Miss Bennett into the room. As she switched on the lights and moved to the sofa, the boy Jan followed her. He looked at Miss Bennett who stood staring at Richard Warwick in his wheelchair. ‘What is it, Benny?' asked Jan. ‘What's the matter?'

‘It's Richard,' said Miss Bennett, her voice strangely calm. ‘He's killed himself.'

‘Look,' cried young Jan excitedly, pointing at the table. ‘Richard's revolver's gone.'

A voice from outside in the garden called, ‘What's going on in there? Is anything wrong?' Looking through
the small window in the recess, Jan shouted, ‘Listen! There's someone outside!'

‘Outside?' said Miss Bennett. ‘Who?' She turned to the french windows and was about to draw back the curtain when Starkwedder suddenly appeared. Miss Bennett stepped back in alarm as Starkwedder came forward, asking urgently, ‘What's happened here? What's the matter?' His glance fell on Richard Warwick in the wheelchair. ‘This man's dead!' he exclaimed. ‘Shot.' He looked around the room suspiciously, taking them all in.

‘Who are you?' asked Miss Bennett. ‘Where do you come from?'

‘Just run my car into a ditch,' replied Starkwedder. ‘I've been lost for hours. Found some gates and came up to the house to try to get some help and telephone. Heard a shot, and someone came rushing out of the windows and collided with me.' Holding out the gun, Starkwedder added, ‘He dropped this.'

‘Where did this man go?' Miss Bennett asked him.

‘How the hell should I know in this fog?' Starkwedder replied.

Jan stood in front of Richard's body, staring excitedly at it. ‘Somebody's shot Richard,' he shouted.

‘Looks like it,' Starkwedder agreed. ‘You'd better get in touch with the police.' He placed the gun on the table by the wheelchair, picked up the decanter, and poured brandy into a glass. ‘Who is he?'

‘My husband,' said Laura, expressionlessly, as she went to sit on the sofa.

With what sounded a slightly forced concern, Starkwedder said to her, ‘Here–drink this.' Laura looked up at him. ‘You've had a shock,' he added emphatically. As she took the glass, with his back turned to the others Starkwedder gave her a conspiratorial grin, to call her attention to his solution of the fingerprint problem. Turning away, he threw his hat on the armchair, and then, suddenly noticing that Miss Bennett was about to bend over Richard Warwick's body, he swung quickly round. ‘No, don't touch anything, madam,' he implored her. ‘This looks like murder, and if it is then nothing must be touched.'

Straightening up, Miss Bennett backed away from the body in the chair, looking appalled. ‘Murder?' she exclaimed. ‘It can't be murder!'

Mrs Warwick, the mother of the dead man, had stopped just inside the door of the study. She came forward now, asking, ‘What has happened?'

‘Richard's been shot! Richard's been shot!' Jan told her. He sounded more excited than concerned.

‘Quiet, Jan,' ordered Miss Bennett.

‘What did I hear you say?' asked Mrs Warwick, quietly.

‘
He
said–murder,' Benny told her, indicating Starkwedder.

‘Richard,' Mrs Warwick whispered, as Jan leaned over the body, calling, ‘Look–look–there's something on his chest–a paper–with writing on it.' His hand went out to it, but he was stopped by Starkwedder's command: ‘Don't touch–whatever you do, don't touch.' Then he read aloud, slowly, ‘“May–fifteen–paid in full”.'

‘Good Lord! MacGregor,' Miss Bennett exclaimed, moving behind the sofa.

Laura rose. Mrs Warwick frowned. ‘You mean,' she said, ‘–that man–the father–the child that was run over–?'

‘Of course, MacGregor,' Laura murmured to herself as she sat in the armchair.

Jan went up to the body. ‘Look–it's all newspaper–cut up,' he said in excitement. Starkwedder again restrained him. ‘No, don't touch it,' he ordered. ‘It's got to be left for the police.' He stepped towards the telephone. ‘Shall I–?'

‘No,' said Mrs Warwick firmly. ‘I will.' Taking charge of the situation, and summoning her courage, she went to the desk and started to dial. Jan moved excitedly to the stool and knelt upon it. ‘The man that ran away,' he asked Miss Bennett. ‘Do you think he–?'

‘Ssh, Jan,' Miss Bennett said to him firmly, while Mrs Warwick spoke quietly but in a clear, authoritative voice on the telephone. ‘Is that the police station? This
is Llangelert House. Mr Richard Warwick's house. Mr Warwick has just been found–shot dead.'

She went on speaking into the phone. Her voice remained low, but the others in the room listened intently. ‘No, he was found by a stranger,' they heard her say. ‘A man whose car had broken down near the house, I believe…Yes, I'll tell him. I'll phone the inn. Will one of your cars be able to take him there when you've finished here?…Very well.'

Turning to face the company, Mrs Warwick announced, ‘The police will be here as soon as they can in this fog. They'll have two cars, one of which will return right away to take this gentleman'–she gestured at Starkwedder–‘to the inn in the village. They want him to stay overnight and be available to talk to them tomorrow.'

‘Well, since I can't leave with my car still in the ditch, that's fine with me,' Starkwedder exclaimed. As he spoke, the door to the corridor opened, and a dark-haired man of medium height in his mid-forties entered the room, tying the cord of his dressing-gown. He suddenly stopped short just inside the door. ‘Is something the matter, madam?' he asked, addressing Mrs Warwick. Then, glancing past her, he saw the body of Richard Warwick. ‘Oh, my God,' he exclaimed.

‘I'm afraid there's been a terrible tragedy, Angell,' Mrs Warwick replied. ‘Mr Richard has been shot,
and the police are on their way here.' Turning to Starkwedder, she said, ‘This is Angell. He's–he was Richard's valet.'

The valet acknowledged Starkwedder's presence wth a slight, absent-minded bow. ‘Oh, my God,' he repeated, as he continued to stare at the body of his late employer.

At eleven the following morning, Richard Warwick's study looked somewhat more inviting than it had on the previous foggy evening. For one thing, the sun was shining on a cold, clear, bright day, and the french windows were wide open. The body had been removed overnight, and the wheelchair had been pushed into the recess, its former central place in the room now occupied by the armchair. The small table had been cleared of everything except decanter and ashtray. A good-looking young man in his twenties with short dark hair, dressed in a tweed sports jacket and navy-blue trousers, was sitting in the wheelchair, reading a book of poems. After a few moments, he got up. ‘Beautiful,' he said to himself. ‘Apposite and beautiful.' His voice was soft and musical, with a pronounced Welsh accent.

The young man closed the book he had been reading, and replaced it on the bookshelves in the recess.
Then, after surveying the room for a minute or two, he walked across to the open french windows, and went out onto the terrace. Almost immediately, a middle-aged, thick-set, somewhat poker-faced man carrying a briefcase entered the room from the hallway. Going to the armchair which faced out onto the terrace, he put his briefcase on it, and looked out of the windows. ‘Sergeant Cadwallader!' he called sharply.

The younger man turned back into the room. ‘Good morning, Inspector Thomas,' he said, and then continued, with a lilt in his voice, ‘“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom friend of the maturing sun”.'

The inspector, who had begun to unbutton his overcoat, stopped and looked intently at the young sergeant. ‘I beg your pardon?' he asked, with a distinct note of sarcasm in his voice.

‘That's Keats,' the sergeant informed him, sounding quite pleased with himself. The inspector responded with a baleful look at him, then shrugged, took off his coat, placed it on the wheelchair in the recess, and came back for his briefcase.

‘You'd hardly credit the fine day it is,' Sergeant Cadwallader went on. ‘When you think of the terrible time we had getting here last night. The worst fog I've known in years. “The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes”. That's T.S. Eliot.' He waited for
a reaction to his quotation from the inspector, but got none, so continued, ‘It's no wonder the accidents piled up the way they did on the Cardiff road.'

‘Might have been worse,' was his inspector's uninterested comment.

‘I don't know about that,' said the sergeant, warming to his subject. ‘At Porthcawl, that was a nasty smash. One killed and two children badly injured. And the mother crying her heart out there on the road. “The pretty wretch left crying”–'

The inspector interrupted him. ‘Have the fingerprint boys finished their job yet?' he asked.

Suddenly realizing that he had better get back to the business in hand, Sergeant Cadwallader replied, ‘Yes, sir. I've got them all ready here for you.' He picked up a folder from the desk and opened it. The inspector sat in the desk chair and started to examine the first sheet of fingerprints in the folder. ‘No trouble from the household about taking their prints?' he asked the sergeant casually.

‘No trouble whatever,' the sergeant told him. ‘Most obliging they were–anxious to help, as you might say. And that is only to be expected.'

‘I don't know about that,' the inspector observed. ‘I've usually found most people kick up no end of a fuss. Seem to think their prints are going to be filed in the Rogues' Gallery.' He took a deep breath, stretching his
arms, and continued to study the prints. ‘Now, let's see. Mr Warwick–that's the deceased. Mrs Laura Warwick, his wife. Mrs Warwick senior, that's his mother. Young Jan Warwick, Miss Bennett and–who's this? Angle? Oh, Angell. Ah yes, that's his nurse-attendant, isn't it? And two other sets of prints. Let's see now–Hm. On outside of window, on decanter, on brandy glass overlaying prints of Richard Warwick and Angell and Mrs Laura Warwick, on cigarette lighter–and on the revolver. That will be that chap Michael Starkwedder. He gave Mrs Warwick brandy, and of course it was he who carried the gun in from the garden.'

Sergeant Cadwallader nodded slowly. ‘Mr Starkwedder,' he growled, in a voice of deep suspicion.

The inspector, sounding amused, asked, ‘You don't like him?'

‘What's he doing here? That's what I'd like to know,' the sergeant replied. ‘Running his car into a ditch and coming up to a house where there's been a murder done?'

The inspector turned in his chair to face his young colleague. ‘You nearly ran
our
car into the ditch last night, coming up to a house where there'd been a murder done. And as to what he's doing here, he's been here–in this vicinity–for the last week, looking around for a small house or cottage.'

The sergeant looked unconvinced, and the inspector
turned back to the desk, adding wryly, ‘It seems he had a Welsh grandmother and he used to come here for holidays when he was a boy.'

Mollified, the sergeant conceded, ‘Ah, well now, if he had a Welsh grandmother, that's a different matter, isn't it?' He raised his right arm and declaimed, ‘“One road leads to London, One road leads to Wales. My road leads me seawards, To the white dipping sails.” He was a fine poet, John Masefield. Very underrated.'

The inspector opened his mouth to complain, but then thought better of it and grinned instead. ‘We ought to get the report on Starkwedder from Abadan any moment now,' he told the young sergeant. ‘Have you got his prints for comparison?'

‘I sent Jones round to the inn where he stayed last night,' Cadwallader informed his superior, ‘but he'd gone out to the garage to see about getting his car salvaged. Jones rang the garage and spoke to him while he was there. He's been told to report at the station as soon as possible.'

‘Right. Now, about this second set of unidentified prints. The print of a man's hand flat on the table by the body, and blurred impressions on both the outside and the inside of the french windows.'

‘I'll bet that's MacGregor,' the sergeant exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

‘Ye-es. Could be,' the inspector admitted reluctantly.
‘But they weren't on the revolver. And you would think any man using a revolver to kill someone would have the sense enough to wear gloves, surely.'

‘I don't know,' the sergeant observed. ‘An unbalanced fellow like this MacGregor, deranged after the death of his child, he wouldn't think of that.'

‘Well, we ought to get a description of MacGregor through from Norwich soon,' the inspector said.

The sergeant settled himself on the footstool. ‘It's a sad story, whichever way you look at it,' he suggested. ‘A man, his wife but lately dead, and his only child killed by furious driving.'

‘If there'd been what you call furious driving,' the inspector corrected him impatiently, ‘Richard Warwick would have got a sentence for manslaughter, or at any rate for the driving offence. In point of fact, his licence wasn't even endorsed.' He reached down to his briefcase, and took out the murder weapon.

‘There is some fearful lying goes on sometimes,' Sergeant Cadwallader muttered darkly. ‘“Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying.” That's Shakespeare.'

His superior officer merely rose from the desk and looked at him. After a moment, the sergeant pulled himself together and rose to his feet. ‘A man's hand flat on the table,' murmured the inspector as he went across to the table, taking the gun with him, and looking down at the table-top. ‘I wonder.'

‘Perhaps that could have been a guest in the house,' Sergeant Cadwallader suggested helpfully.

‘Perhaps,' the inspector agreed. ‘But I understand from Mrs Warwick that there were no visitors to the house yesterday. That manservant–Angell–might be able to tell us more. Go and fetch him, would you?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Cadwallader as he went out. Left alone, the inspector spread out his own left hand on the table, and bent over the chair as if looking down at an invisible occupant. Then he went to the window and stepped outside, glancing both to left and right. He examined the lock of the french windows, and was turning back into the room when the sergeant returned, bringing with him Richard Warwick's valet-attendant, Angell, who was wearing a grey alpaca jacket, white shirt, dark tie and striped trousers.

‘You're Henry Angell?' the inspector asked him.

‘Yes, sir,' Angell replied.

‘Sit down there, will you?' said the inspector.

Angell moved to sit on the sofa. ‘Now then,' the inspector continued, ‘you've been nurse-attendant and valet to Mr Richard Warwick–for how long?'

‘For three and a half years, sir,' replied Angell. His manner was correct, but there was a shifty look in his eyes.

‘Did you like the job?'

‘I found it quite satisfactory, sir,' was Angell's reply.

‘What was Mr Warwick like to work for?' the inspector asked him.

‘Well, he was difficult.'

‘But there were advantages, were there?'

‘Yes, sir,' Angell admitted. ‘I was extremely well paid.'

‘And that made up for the other disadvantages, did it?' the inspector persisted.

‘Yes, sir. I am trying to accumulate a little nest-egg.'

The inspector seated himself in the armchair, placing the gun on the table beside him. ‘What were you doing before you came to Mr Warwick?' he asked Angell.

‘The same sort of job, sir. I can show you my references,' the valet replied. ‘I've always given satisfaction, I hope. I've had some rather difficult employers–or patients, really. Sir James Walliston, for example. He is now a voluntary patient in a mental home. A
very
difficult person, sir.' He lowered his voice slightly before adding, ‘Drugs!'

‘Quite,' said the inspector. ‘There was no question of drugs with Mr Warwick, I suppose?'

‘No, sir. Brandy was what Mr Warwick liked to resort to.'

‘Drank a lot of it, did he?' the inspector asked.

‘Yes, sir,' Angell replied. ‘He was a heavy drinker,
but not an alcoholic, if you understand me. He never showed any ill-effects.'

The inspector paused before asking, ‘Now, what's all this about guns and revolvers and–shooting at animals?'

‘Well, it was his hobby, sir,' Angell told him. ‘What we call in the profession a compensation. He'd been a big-game hunter in his day, I understand. Quite a little arsenal he's got in his bedroom there.' He nodded over his shoulder to indicate a room elsewhere in the house. ‘Rifles, shotguns, air-guns, pistols and revolvers.'

‘I see,' said the inspector. ‘Well, now, just take a look at this gun here.'

Angell rose and stepped towards the table, then hesitated. ‘It's all right,' the inspector told him, ‘you needn't mind handling it.'

Angell picked up the gun, gingerly. ‘Do you recognize it?' the inspector asked him.

‘It's difficult to say, sir,' the valet replied. ‘It looks like one of Mr Warwick's, but I don't really know very much about firearms. I can't say for certain which gun he had on the table beside him last night.'

‘Didn't he have the same one every night?' asked the inspector.

‘Oh, no, he had his fancies, sir,' said Angell. ‘He kept using different ones.' The valet offered the gun back to the inspector, who took it.

‘What was the good of his having a gun last night with all that fog?' queried the inspector.

‘It was just a habit, sir,' Angell replied. ‘He was used to it, as you might say.'

‘All right, sit down again, would you?'

Angell sat again at one end of the sofa. The inspector examined the barrel of the gun before asking, ‘When did you see Mr Warwick last?'

‘About a quarter to ten last night, sir,' Angell told him. ‘He had a bottle of brandy and a glass by his side, and the pistol he'd chosen. I arranged his rug for him, and wished him good-night.'

‘Didn't he ever go to bed?' the inspector asked.

‘No, sir,' replied the valet. ‘At least, not in the usual sense of the term. He always slept in his chair. At six in the morning I would bring him tea, then I would wheel him into his bedroom, which had its own bathroom, where he'd bath and shave and so on, and then he'd usually sleep until lunch-time. I understand that he suffered from insomnia at night, and so he preferred to remain in his chair then. He was rather an eccentric gentleman.'

‘And the window was shut when you left him?'

‘Yes, sir,' Angell replied. ‘There was a lot of fog about last night, and he didn't want it seeping into the house.'

‘All right. The window was shut. Was it locked?'

‘No, sir. That window was never locked.'

‘So he could open it if he wanted to?'

‘Oh yes, sir. He had his wheelchair, you see. He could wheel himself over to the window and open it if the night should clear up.'

‘I see.' The inspector thought for a moment, and then asked, ‘You didn't hear a shot last night?'

‘No, sir,' Angell replied.

The inspector walked across to the sofa and looked down at Angell. ‘Isn't that rather remarkable?' he asked.

‘No, not really, sir,' was the reply. ‘You see, my room is some distance away. Along a passage and through a baize door on the other side of the house.'

‘Wasn't that rather awkward, in case your master wanted to summon you?'

‘Oh no, sir,' said Angell. ‘He had a bell that rang in my room.'

‘But he didn't press that bell last night at all?'

‘Oh no, sir,' Angell repeated. ‘If he had done so, I would have woken up at once. It is, if I may say so, a very loud bell, sir.'

Inspector Thomas leaned forward on the arm of the sofa to approach Angell in another way.

‘Did you–' he began in a voice of controlled impatience, only to be interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. He waited for Sergeant Cadwallader to answer it, but the sergeant appeared to be dreaming
with his eyes open and his lips moving soundlessly, perhaps immersed in some poetic reflection. After a moment, he realized that the inspector was staring at him, and that the phone was ringing. ‘Sorry, sir, but a poem is on the way,' he explained as he went to the desk to answer the phone. ‘Sergeant Cadwallader speaking,' he said. There was a pause, and then he added, ‘Ah yes, indeed.' After another pause, he turned to the inspector. ‘It's the police at Norwich, sir.'