A Blunt Instrument

Chapter Fourteen

The following morning was considerably advanced when Sergeant Hemingway was at last free to journey down on the Underground Railway to Marley. His two interviews had not been very successful. Miss Jenkins, vacillating between instinctive fear of the police and a delightful feeling of importance, screwed the corner of her apron into a knot, giggled, patted her frizzy curls, and didn't know what. to say, she was sure. She hoped no one thought she had had anything to do with the murder, because you could have knocked her down with a feather when she read about it in the paper, and realised why she had been questioned. Under the Sergeant's expert handling she gradually abandoned her ejaculatory and evasive method of conversation, and reiterated her conviction that the gentleman in evening dress had passed only a minute or two before the policeman, and had certainly been wearing an opera hat, ever so smart.

From what he had seen of the erratic young man, Sergeant could not believe that this rider could be applied with any degree of appositeness to Neville Fletcher. He left Miss Jenkins, and went in search of Mr. Brown.

This quest led him to Balham, where Brown lived, and was peacefully sleeping after his night's work, His wife, alarmed, like Miss Jenkins, by the sight of the Sergeant's official card, volunteered to go and waken him at once, and in due course Mr. Brown came downstairs, blearyeyed and morose. He looked the Sergeant over with acute dislike, and demanded to know why a man was never allowed to have his sleep out in peace. The Sergeant, who felt a certain amount of sympathy for him, disregarded this question, and propounded a counter one. But Mr. Brown replied testily that if the police thought they could wake a working-man up just to ask him what he'd already told them they were wrong. What he had said he was prepared to stand by. Confronted with PC Mather's own statement, he stared, yawned, shrugged, and said: "All right: have it your own way. It's all the same to me."

"So you didn't see the Constable, eh?" said the Sergeant.

"No," retorted Mr. Brown. "The street's haunted. What I saw was a ghost."

"Don't try and get funny with me, my lad!" the Sergeant warned him. "What were you doing at 9.40?"

"Cutting sandwiches. What else would I be doing?"

"That's for you to say. Ever met a chap called Charlie Carpenter?"

Mr. Brown, recognising the name, turned a dark beetroot colour, and invited the Sergeant to get out before he was put out. Rebuked, he defied the whole of Scotland Yard to prove he had ever laid eyes on Carpenter, or had left his coffee-stall for as much as a minute the whole evening.

There was little more to be elicited from him. The Sergeant presently departed, and made his way down to Marley. Finding Glass awaiting his orders at the police station, he said somewhat snappishly that he wondered he could find nothing better to do than hang about looking like something out of a bad dream.

Glass replied stiffly: "He that uttereth slander is a fool. I have held myself in readiness to do the bidding of those set over me. Wherein I have erred?"

"Oh, all right, let it go!" said the exasperated Sergeant. "You haven't erred."

"I thank you. I see that your spirit is troubled and ill at ease. Are you no nearer the end of your labour on this case?"

"No, I'm not. It's a mess," said the Sergeant. "When I've had my lunch, I'm going up to make a few inquiries about Master Neville's doings. He's about the only candidate for the central role we've got left. I don't say it was easy when North was a hot favourite, but what I do say is that it's a lot worse now he's out of it. When I think of the way he and that silly wife of his have been playing us up, I'd as soon arrest him for the murders as not."

"They have told lies, and it is true that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but it is also written that love covereth all sins."

The Sergeant was quite surprised. "Whatever's come over you?" he demanded. "You'd better be careful: if you go on like that you'll find yourself growing into a human being."

"I, too, am troubled and sore-broken. But if you go to seek out that froward young man, Neville Fletcher, you will waste your time. He is a scorner, caring for nothing, neither persons nor worldly goods. Why, then, should he slay a man?"

"There's a lot in what you say," agreed the Sergeant. "But, all the same, his latest story will bear sifting. You go and get your dinner: I shan't be wanting you up at Greystones."

An hour later he presented himself at the back door of Greystones, and after an exchange of compliments with Mrs. Simmons, a plump lady who begged him to get along, do, retired with her somewhat disapproving husband into the butler's pantry.

"Tell me this, now!" he said. "How many hats has young Fletcher got?"

"I beg pardon?" said Simmons blankly.

The Sergeant repeated his question.

"I regret to say, Sergeant, that Mr. Neville possesses only one hat."

"Is that so? And not much of a hat either, from the look on your face."

"It is shabbier than one cares to see upon a gentleman's head," replied Simmons, but added rather hastily: "For man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart."

"Here!" said the Sergeant dangerously. "You can drop that right away! I hear quite enough of that sort of talk from your friend Glass. Let's stick to hats. I suppose your late master had any number of them?"

"Mr. Fletcher was always very well dressed."

"What's been done with his hats? Packed up, or given away, or something?"

"No," replied Simmons, staring. "They are in his dressing-room."

"Under lock and key?"

"No, indeed. There is no need to lock things up in this house, Sergeant!"

"All right," said the Sergeant. Just take me along to the billiard-room, will you?"

The butler looked a little mystified, but raised no objection, merely opening the pantry door for the Sergeant to pass through into the passage.

A writing-table set in one of the windows in the billiard-room bore upon it a leather blotter, a cut-glass inkstand, and a bronze paper-weight, surmounted by the nude figure of a woman. The Sergeant had seen the paper-weight before, but he picked it up now, and inspected it with more interest than he had displayed when Neville Fletcher had first handed it to him.

The butler coughed. "Mr. Neville will have his joke, Sergeant."

"Oh, so you heard about that joke, did you?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Very remiss of Mr. Neville. He is a light-hearted gentleman, I am afraid."

The Sergeant grunted, and began to coax the paperweight into his pocket. He was interrupted in his somewhat difficult task by a soft, slurred voice from the window, which said: "But you mustn't play with that, you know. Now they'll find nothing but your fingerprints on it, and that might turn out to be very awkward for you."

The Sergeant jumped, and turned to find Neville Fletcher lounging outside one of the open windows, and regarding him with the smile he so much disliked.

"Oh!" said the Sergeant. "So it's you, is it, sir?"

Neville stepped over the low window-sill into the room. "Oh, didn't you want it to be? Are you looking for incriminating evidence?"

"The Sergeant, sir," said Simmons woodenly, "wishes to know whether the master's hats are kept under lock and key."

"What funny things policemen are interested in," remarked Neville. "Are they, Simmons?"

"No, sir - as I informed the Sergeant."

"I don't immediately see why, but I daresay you have put a rope round my neck," said Neville. "Do go away, Simmons! I'll take care of the Sergeant. I like him."

The Sergeant felt quite uncomfortable. He did not demur at being left with his persecutor, but said defensively: "Soft soap's no good to me, sir."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare! Malachi told me what happens to flatterers. I do wish you had been here yesterday. I found such a good bit in Isaiah, all about Malachi."

"What was that?" asked the Sergeant, diverted in spite of himself.

"Overflowing scourge. I do think the Superintendent ought to have told you."

The Sergeant thought so too, but remarked repressively that the Superintendent had something better to think about.

"Not something better. His mind was preoccupied with my possible but improbable guilt. I think yours is too, which upsets me rather, because I thought we were practically blood-brothers. On account of Malachi. Why hats?" His sleepy eyes scanned the Sergeant's face. "Tell me when I'm getting warm. My ill-fated journey to London. Black felt. And Ernie's collection. Oh, did I borrow one of Ernie's hats?"

The Sergeant thought it best to meet frankness with frankness. "Well, did you, sir?"

Neville gave a joyous gurgle, and took the Sergeant by the hand. "Come with me. Do policemen lead drab lives? I will lighten yours, at least."

"Here, sir, what's all this about?" protested the Sergeant, dragged irresistibly to the door.

"Establishing my innocence. You may not want me to, but you oughtn't to let that appear."

"It's a great mistake to get any silly idea into your head that the police want to arrest an innocent man," said the Sergeant severely. He found himself being conducted up the shallow stairs, and protested: "I don't know what you're playing at, but you might remember I've got work to do, sir."

Neville opened the door into an apartment furnished in heavy mahogany. "My uncle's dressing-room. Not, so far, haunted, so don't be frightened."

"To my way of thinking," said the Sergeant, "the things you say aren't decent."

Neville opened a large wardrobe, disclosing a view of a shelf of hats, ranged neatly in a line. "Very often not," he agreed. "These are my uncle's hats. Theoretically, do you feel that private possession is all wrong? What sort of a hat was I wearing?"

"According to you, sir, you were wearing a black felt."

"Oh, don't let's be realistic! Realism has been the curse of art. That's what upset the Superintendent. He is very orthodox, and he felt my hat was an anachronism. Of course, I must have been wearing one of those that go pop. Irresistible to children, and other creatures of simple intellect, but too reminiscent of patent cigaretteboxes, and other vulgarities. Now tell me, Sergeant, do you think I borrowed my uncle's hat?"

The Sergeant, gazing at the spectacle of Mr. Neville Fletcher in an opera hat quite three sizes too small for him, fought with himself for a moment, and replied in choked accents: "No sir, I'm bound to say I do not. You'd - you'd have to have a nerve to go about in that!"

"Yes, that's what I thought," said Neville. "I like comedy, but not farce - I can see by your disgruntled expression that the hat lets me out. I hope it never again falls to my lot to be suspected of murder. Nerve-racking, and rather distasteful."

"I hope so too, sir," replied the Sergeant. "But if I were you I wouldn't jump to conclusions too hastily."

"You're bound to say that, of course," said Neville, returning his uncle's hat to its place on the shelf. "You can't imagine who the murderer can be if not me."

"Well, since you put it like that, who can it be?" demanded the Sergeant.

"I don't know, but as I don't care either, it doesn't worry me nearly as much as it worries you."

"Mr. Fletcher was your uncle, sir."

"He was, and if I'd been asked I should have voted against his death. But I wasn't, and if there's one occupation that seems more maudlin to me than any other it's crying over spilt milk. Besides, you can have too much of a good thing. I'd had enough of this mystery after the second day. Interest - but painful - revived when I stepped into the role of chief suspect. I must celebrate my reprieve from the gallows. How do you ask a girl if she'd like to marry you?"

"How do you do what?" repeated the Sergeant, faint but pursuing.

"Don't you know? I made sure you would."

"Are you - are you thinking of getting married, sir?" asked the Sergeant, amazed.

"Yes, but don't tell me I'm making a mistake, because I know that already. I expect it will ruin my entire life."

"Then what are you going to do it for?" said the Sergeant reasonably.

Neville made one of his vague gestures. "My changed circumstances. I shall be hunted for my money. Besides, I can't think of any other way to get rid of it."

"Well," said the Sergeant dryly, "you won't find any difficulty about that if you do get married, that's one thing."

"Oh, do you really think so? Then I'll go and propose at once, before I have time to think better of it. Goodbye!"

The Sergeant called after him: "Here, sir, don't you run away with the idea I said you were cleared of suspicion, because I didn't say any such thing!"

Neville waved an airy farewell, and disappeared down the stairs. Ten minutes later he entered the drawing-room of the Norths' house through the long window. Helen was writing a letter at her desk, and her sister was sitting on the floor, correcting four typescripts at once.

"Hullo!" she said, glancing up. "You still at large?"

"Oh, I'm practically cleared! I say, will you come to Bulgaria with me?"

Sally groped for her monocle, screwed it into her eye, and looked at him. Then she put down the typescript she was holding, and replied matter-of-factly: "Yes, rather. When?"

"Oh, as soon as possible, don't you think?"

Helen twisted round in her chair. "Sally, what on earth do you mean? You can't possibly go away with Neville like that!"

"Why not?" asked Neville interestedly.

"Don't be absurd! You know perfectly well it wouldn't be proper."

"Oh no, it probably won't. That's the charm of travel in the Balkans. But she's very broadminded, really."

"But -'

"Wake up, darling!" advised Sally. "You don't seem to realise that I've just received a proposal of marriage."

"A… ?" Helen sprang up. "You mean to tell me that was a proposal?"

"Oh, I do hate pure women: they have the filthiest minds!" said Neville.

"Sally, you're not going to marry a - a hopeless creature like Neville?"

"Yes, I am. Look at the wealth he's rolling in! I'd be a fool if I turned him down."

"Sally!"

"Besides, he's not bossy, which is more than can be said for most men."

"You don't love him!"

"Who says I don't?" retorted Sally, blushing faintly. Helen looked helplessly from one to the other. "Well, all I can say is I think you're mad."

"Oh, I am glad!" said Neville. "I was beginning to feel frightfully embarrassed. If you haven't got anything more to say it would be rather nice if you went away."

Helen walked to the door, remarking, as she opened it: "You might have waited till I'd gone before you proposed - if that extraordinary invitation was really a proposal."

"But you showed no signs of going, and it would have made me feel very self-conscious to have said: "Oh, Helen, do you mind going, because I want to propose to Sally?"'

"You're both mad!" declared Helen, and went out. Sally rose to her feet. "Neville, are you sure you won't regret this?" she asked anxiously.

He put his arms round her. "No, of course I'm not: are you?"

She gave one of her sudden smiles. "Well, yes - pretty sure!"

"Darling, that's handsome of you, but deluded. I'm only sure that I shall regret it awfully if I don't take this plunge. I think it must be your nose. Are your eyes blue or grey?"

She looked up. He kissed her promptly; she felt his arms harden round her, and emerged from this unexpectedly rough embrace gasping for breath, and considerably shaken.

"Ruse," said Neville. "Grey with yellow flecks. I knew it all along."

She put her head on his shoulder. "Gosh, Neville, I - I wasn't sure - you really meant it till now! I say, is it going to be a walking tour, or something equally uncomfortable?"

"Oh no! But I thought we might do some canal work, and we're practically bound to spend a good many nights in peasants' huts. Can you eat goat?"

"Yes," said Sally. "What's it like?"

"Rather foul. Are you busy this week, or can you spare the time to get married?"

"Oh, I should think so, but it'll mean a special licence, and you can't touch Ernie's money till you've got probate."

"Can't I? I shall have to borrow some, then."

"You'd better leave it to me," said Sally, her natural competence asserting itself. "You'd come back with a dog-licence, or something. By the way, are you certain you won't be arrested for these tiresome murders?"

"Oh yes, because Ernie's hat doesn't fit!" he replied.

"I suppose that's a good reason?"

"Yes, even the Sergeant thought so," he said happily.

The Sergeant did think so, but being unwilling to let his last suspect go, he kept his conviction to himself. On his way downstairs from Ernest Fletcher's dressingroom, he encountered Miss Fletcher, who looked surprised to see him, but accepted quite placidly his explanation that Neville had invited him. She said vaguely: "Dear boy! So thoughtless! But men very often are, aren't they? I hope you don't think he had anything to do with this dreadful tragedy, because I'm sure he would never do anything really wicked. One always knows, doesn't one?"

The Sergeant made a non-committal sound.

"Yes, exactly," said Miss Fletcher. "Now, what can have become of Neville? He ought not to have left you alone upstairs. Not that I mean - because, of course, that would be absurd."

"Well, madam," said the Sergeant. "I don't know whether I'm supposed to mention it, but I fancy Mr. Fletcher has gone off to get engaged to be married."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said, a beaming smile sweeping over her face. "I feel he ought to be married, don't you?"

"Well, I'm bound to say it looks to me as though he needs someone to keep him in order," replied the Sergeant.

"You're so sensible," she told him. "But how remiss of me! Would you care for some tea? Such a dusty walk from the police station!"

He declined the offer, and succeeded bit by bit in escaping from her. He walked back to the police station in a mood of profound gloom, which was not alleviated, on his arrival there, by the sight of Constable Glass, still awaiting his pleasure. He went into a small private office, and once more spread his notes on the case before him, and cudgelled his brain over them.

Glass, following him, closed the door, and regarded him in a melancholy fashion, saying presently: "Fret not thyself because of evil-doers. They shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb."

"A fat lot of withering they'll do if I don't fret over them!" said the Sergeant crossly.

"Thou shaft grope at noonday as the blind gropeth in the darkness."

"I wish you'd shut up!" snapped the Sergeant, exasperated by the truth of this observation.

The cold blue eyes flashed. "I am full of the fury of the Lord," announced Glass. "I am weary of holding-in!"

"I haven't noticed you doing much holding-in so far, my lad. You go and spout your recitations somewhere else. If I have to see much more of you I'll end up a downright atheist."

"I will not go. I have communed with my own soul.

There is a way which seemeth right to a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death."

The Sergeant turned over a page of his typescript. "Well, there's no need to get worked up about it," he said. "If you take sin as hard as all that, you'll never do for a policeman. And if you're going to stay here, for goodness' sake sit down, and don't stand there staring at me!"

Glass moved to a chair, but still kept his stern gaze upon the Sergeant's face. "What said Neville Fletcher?" he asked.

"He talked me nearly as silly as you do."

"He is not the man."

"Well, if he isn't he may have a bit of a job proving it, that's all I can say," retorted the Sergeant. "Hat or no hat, he was in London the night Carpenter was done in, and he was the only one of the whole boiling who had motive and opportunity to kill the late Ernest. I grant you, he isn't the sort you'd expect to go around murdering people, but you've got to remember he's no fool, and is very likely taking us all in. I don't know whether he did in Carpenter, but the more I look at the evidence, the more I'm convinced he's the one man who could have done his uncle in."

"Yet he is not arrested."

"No, he's not, but it's my belief that when the Superintendent thinks it over he will be."

"The Superintendent is a just man, according to his lights. Where is he?"

"I don't know. He'll be down here soon, I daresay."

"There shall be no more persecution of those that are innocent. My soul is tossed with a tempest, but it is written, yea, and in letters of fire! Whoso sheddeth a man's blood by man shall his blood be shed!"

"That's the idea," agreed the Sergeant. "But as for persecuting the innocent -'

"Forsake the foolish and live!" Glass interrupted, a grim, mirthless smile twisting his lips. "Woe to them that are wise in their own eyes! Know that judgments are prepared for scorners, and stripes for the back of fools!"

"All right!" said the Sergeant, nettled. "If you're so clever, perhaps you know who really is the murderer?"

Glass's eyes stared into his, queerly glowing. "I alone know who is the murderer!"

The Sergeant blinked at him. Neither he nor Glass had noticed the opening of the door. Hannasyde's quiet voice made them both jump. "No, Glass. Not you alone," he said.