The Attic Murder by S. Fowler Wright (me reader .txt) 📖

“There is at present no charge against you, and I am under no necessity of warning you, but I tell you now that you are under no obligation to say anything if you prefer to remain silent. In that event, we must establish the truth in our own ways.

“But, if you are innocent of this murder, you may find the truth to be the simplest and wisest in your own interest.

“The fact that you were the first one to raise the alarm obviously is not in itself evidence cf any criminal responsibility. But there is one other matter which I must invite you to explain, if you are able to do so.

“You must have been penniless when you entered Mrs. Benson’s house. It appears that you made promises of payment to her which you did not keep. The young woman who has disappeared had also been frank in informing her landlady that she was out of work, and that her money was almost gone.

“Last evening, if Mrs. Benson’s testimony is to be believed, you retired to your room at a very early hour, possibly to avoid meeting the man who was to be murdered during the night; possibly because you were not in a position to make the payment to Mrs. Benson which you had promised earlier in the day.

“But Miss Jones subsequently gave an assurance on your behalf that you would be able to pay when you came down in the morning.

“At some time between 2 and 3 a.m., Mr. Rabone, who had a habit of carrying a considerable sum in his pocket-book, was murdered, and robbed.

“You were then arrested on the scene of the crime, and you had a sum of over twenty pounds in your pockets.”

Francis heard this statement of the case which he had to meet with an outward calmness, for he was conscious that the Inspector watched him keenly for any sign of confusion or admission of guilt. But his heart sank somewhat, for it was a line of attack which he had not expected to hear. In fact, the idea that William Rabone might have been robbed had not previously entered his mind.

But he recognized the fairness with which he was being treated. He was told what the position was, as against himself, and he could be silent or speak at his own choice.

He said: “I didn’t have the money from him.”

“From Miss Jones?”

“No. Not from her.”

“Then will you explain how it came to your hands?”

“I would rather not. I don’t really see why I should.”

“It is for you to decide. But I will be more frank with you than you are with us. Treasury notes cannot usually be traced. You may be relying on that. But there are exceptions.

“When notes are issued for the first time, there may be records of the numbers of the series which are paid out from the Bank of England, and which are distributed over the counter by the bank which receives them in bulk.

“There were notes of such a kind that Mr. Rabone drew to refill his pocket-book three days ago.”

Francis listened to this statement and was not greatly impressed. Actually, the two ten-shilling notes that he had received from William Rabone did not come to his mind.

“I should think,” he said, “that that should be very useful to you in discovering the thief”

Inspector Combridge looked his surprise, which he rarely would.

“And that,” he asked, “is all that you have to say?”

“Yes. About that. I think it is.”

“You still decline to give any explanation of how that money came into your hands during the night?”

“It wasn’t during the night.”

“Or the day before?”

“Yes. It was my own money. I don’t see why I should.”

The Inspector’s voice was colder than before as he asked: “Is there any statement that you wish to make concerning the events of the night?”

“Only that I was waked up by hearing a scream, and got some clothes on as quickly as I could, and went up, and found Mr. Rabone dead.”

“And Miss Jones? Did you see anything of her?”

“I haven’t seen her since I went upstairs about six o clock “

“You don’t know whether she was in her room when you went up?”

“I know, she wasn’t. Her door was open, and I looked in there first.”

“But you don’t know whether she was there at the time of the murder?”

“No How could I?”

“I asked you.”

Francis became silent. He remembered the steps he had heard after the scream. He could not say they were hers, though he had little doubt. For all he knew, an admission might be fatal to her. Equally possibly, a lie now might make it vain to help with the truth at a later time, if that

should be what her safety required.

He said: “I think I’ve told you about all I know. But if you’re not satisfied I think I ought to have legal advice before I say more.”

Inspector Combridge became silent. The request was one which could not be refused, nor did it occur to him to make any difficulty about it, though it was the technique of these enquiries to get suspected persons to talk, and if possible to sign statements which had been worded for them, before they could have the protection of legal caution.

But his doubt was on different grounds. He had a long experience of such crimes, and of the sometimes very unexpected people by whom they are committed, and he had an instinctive feeling that he must look elsewhere for the hand which had used the razor. He was aware of a number of minor evidences which were consistent with, if they did not actually support, the account which Francis gave of how he had discovered the murdered man.

He saw also that he had as yet no material from which a complete, conclusive case could be built up. In particular, the motive and manner of Miss Jones’s disappearance must be resolved.

On the other hand, here was a man with a criminal record, penniless, and in desperate need of the money which had been in the bank inspector’s pocket-book. There was motive, opportunity, and the absence of anyone else in the house upon whom suspicion would naturally fall, if he excepted Miss Jones, and Sir Lionel Tipshift was definite in his opinion that it had not been a woman’s work. He spoke of a rather tall man, which was slightly in Francis’s favour, for he was not of more than medium height. But it was, at least, far more probable that the blow had been struck by him than by a girl of Miss Jones’s description, as that had been given to him.

In addition to these arguments of motive and opportunity, and of the absence of any other whom it would be equally natural to suspect, there was the fact that a substantial sum of money had been found upon him, together with a cheque-book, concerning which there had not yet been time for enquiry to be made, but which would, in all probability, be found to have come from the possession of the murdered man.

He knew that two of the notes certainly had, and it would require a very good explanation to induce any jury to believe that their transit had been of an innocent kind, or that the remainder of the money had not been taken from the same source.

Now, an invitation for such explanation was met by refusal, followed by request for legal assistance. That, if there were no innocent explanation to give, was precisely what Inspector Combridge’s experience would expect to hear. He saw that it gave him reasonable ground for charging Harold Vaughan with complicity in the crime, which he might otherwise have delayed to do.

He said: “As you do not offer any explanation of how the money came into your possession, it becomes my duty to charge you with the murder of William Rabone, and I have to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

“I have nothing to say, except that I have told you the truth already, I had nothing to do with the murder, and don’t know who did it.”

“Very well. What solicitor would you like to have?”

Francis thought of the firm who had undertaken his defence previously, on Tony Welch’s instructions. In the result, he was landed here. That might not be their fault, but they were men whom he did not like. He had known, while they had been active and cunning in his defence, that they had assumed his guilt. No doubt, most of their clients were justly charged.

He thought of Mr. Jellipot, who had been his father’s solicitor, and to whom, in his own person, he would most naturally go. Well, he supposed, in any event, his identity must be revealed now. He had a vague idea that Mr. Jellipot was not a criminal lawyer, but he felt that to be an advantage rather than otherwise. The austere respectability of that conveyancing office seemed to thrust the ideas of confidency-trickery or brutal murder further away, as though it should be sufficient for Mr. Jellipot to appear in court saying: “There is some mistake: this is Mr. Hammerton, a client of mine,” and he would be released, with respectful apologies, from the dock.

After a moment’s hesitation he mentioned Mr. Jellipot’s name.