Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 24, No. 4. Whole No. 131, October 1954

The Crooked Figures by Phyllis Bentley

It’s a very serious responsibility to be a Detective-Inspector,” said Tarrant gloomily.

“Who is the blonde this time?” inquired Miss Phipps flippantly.

“She’s a brunette, and I’m going to marry her,” Tarrant blurted out.

Astonishment so distorted the little novelist’s features that her old-fashioned pince-nez slipped off her nose; they flew through the air on the end of their chain and came to rest with a click against the large black button on her bosom. Without her glasses Miss Phipps looked pinker, wilder, and more helpless than before; even her mop of white hair appeared to have become more disheveled.

Tarrant sighed as he looked at her; it seemed impossible that such a rabbit as Miss Marian Phipps appeared could be any help to him. That she had solved two of his most puzzling cases for him a few years before was surely a matter of chance, a pair of accidents; such an exterior as hers could not possibly hide a brain. Her eyes, however, now that he could see them without their enlarging lenses, were bright and kindly, and certainly he had found the solution of those earlier a flairs in mere conversation with Miss Phipps. He had come to try it again and he would try it again; he cared so much about this particular affair that anything was worth trying.

“It’s not a police case,” he managed, holding his head down. “It’s a matter of conscience.”

Miss Phipps looked grave.

“Tell me all about it, my dear boy,” she said. She drew the pince-nez firmly out to the end of their tether, and with an imperious gesture replaced them on her nose. “Who is the young lady? Have you known her long? Why is it suddenly so serious to be a Detective-Inspector?”

“Because she expects me to be able to solve this puzzle,” Tarrant muttered, his head still down. “At least, she doesn’t exactly expect it, but she hopes. And I hate to see her so troubled. She wants to know whether she ought to accept a legacy or not.”

“A legacy!” said Miss Phipps, perplexed. “But what possible objection can there be to accepting a legacy?”

“It’s twenty thousand pounds,” said Tarrant.

“Oh!” said Miss Phipps.

“From a man she only saw for five minutes in the Strand,” said Tarrant.

“Ah!” said Miss Phipps.

In spite of her efforts to conceal it, her discomfort was apparent in her voice. Tarrant looked up inquiringly.

“It isn’t at all what you think,” he said. “Mary isn’t like that at all. She’s incapable of telling a lie.”

“Tell me about her,” urged Miss Phipps kindly.

“I’ll tell you about her meeting with the man first, if you don’t mind,” said Tarrant. “Mary is a nurse; she was trained in New York, but has come over here for a few years’ English experience. She was in a hospital first, now she’s in a nursing home.”

“Is she American by birth?” inquired Miss Phipps.

“Yes. But her grandparents were north-country English before they emigrated,” said Tarrant. “But I’ll explain about all that later. Now, Mary was walking down the Strand in the rush hour one autumn evening — in point of fact,” Tarrant broke off, coloring, “she had just seen me off to Brittlesea from Charing Cross. I’d been up to New Scotland Yard unexpectedly on business, and as I had a little time to spare before my train, I called at the nursing home. Mary hadn’t much time before going on duty; I’m afraid she missed a meal to come out with me.”

“How did you meet Miss — er — Mary?” asked Miss Phipps.

“Her name is Mary Fletcher Arne-son,” supplied Tarrant. “I met her when she was with a convalescent patient in Brittlesea. Luckily for me, a case took me to the hotel where they were staying.”

“Was that patient the testator?” asked Miss Phipps hopefully.

“No, no! That patient was a young girl with a broken leg,” said Tarrant impatiently. “She has nothing to do with this case at all.”

“Go on,” said Miss Phipps.

“Mary, as I said, was walking down the Strand in the rush hour. Just in front of her she noticed an old man with a middle-aged one. The fiftyish one was just the ordinary stockbroking kind, but the old man was rather striking. He was tall, rather stooping, with curly gray hair sticking out beneath his hat, and a very strong, fierce old face. Like a hawk, Mary said. He was well dressed, she said, in a handsome coat of very fine cloth with an astrakhan collar. He had dark gray gloves and a new-looking dark gray felt hat, and a rather elegant silk scarf. Altogether an imposing old chap. He leaned quite heavily on his stick, an old-fashioned affair, Mary said, black with something white, carved, for a handle.”

“What was the carving?” inquired Miss Phipps.

“Mary didn’t see at the time,” said Tarrant, “but later she found it represented a dog.”

“What kind of dog?”

“An Airedale,” said Tarrant with a touch of exasperation. “But really, Miss Phipps, such a detail is of no importance.”

Miss Phipps snorted. “I don’t agree,” she said. “But how did Miss Arneson come to notice any of these details, as you call them, at all?”

“Because she was held up by the old man and his companion,” explained Tarrant. “You know what the traffic is like in the Strand, both on and off the pavement. The old chap was tottering along slowly. Mary tried to pass him first on one side and then on the other, but he doddered about, and the crowd streamed by, and Mary couldn’t pass without pushing him aside rather rudely.”

“What is she like, your Mary?” asked Miss Phipps in a warmer tone.

“She’s tall and dark and strong,” said Tarrant, “but slender. Her hair has no waves in it, thank goodness; it’s smooth and thick and done tight against her head, always very neat. She has dark eyes, large and bright; and thick eyebrows and thick eyelashes. She’s been to Columbia University; she’s very intelligent. And she’s very candid, and very energetic, and always dressed just right; she always looks fresh and neat and easy on the eye, whether in uniform or in mufti,” finished Tarrant hurriedly.

“She’s better than you deserve, young man,” said Miss Phipps with enthusiasm.

“I know that,” mumbled Tarrant. “She has a warm, jolly sort of voice,” he added, “and just enough American in her accent to make it — er — attractive.”

“Very good,” said Miss Phipps cheerfully. “All that is highly satisfactory. So she followed the old man down the Strand, and did not push him. Then what happened?”

“He stepped to the edge of the pavement,” said Tarrant, “and held up his stick to wave for a taxi. The middle-aged fellow hung back, looking bored. Well, you know what taxis are, and you know what the traffic is, and you know old men; the taxis buzzed past, and the old man grew cross and waved his stick more frantically, and he took a step forward in his excitement—”

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Phipps distressfully.

“Exactly,” said Tarrant. “All in a moment a bus bore down on him, and the driver put his brakes on hard, and Mary snatched the old chap by the collar, and the next moment Mary and the old man and the middle-aged one and several other pedestrians were all lying in a heap on the pavement, with fragments of the black stick, and glass from the bus’s broken lamp, flying about them.”

Miss Phipps drew a deep breath. “He wasn’t hurt?” she said.

“Not a mark on him anywhere,” replied Tarrant cheerfully. “But of course it was a shock to him, being so old. Mary and the other man picked him up and carried him off into a chemist’s shop nearby and gave him brandy and sal volatile and so on, and presently a constable came in and took their statements. But it was before that the old man looked at Mary so strangely.”

“Ah!” said Miss Phipps. “He looked at her strangely, you say.”

“Yes. It was like this,” explained the detective. “At first he was so dazed, he seemed almost unconscious; he clung to her arm as old people do, not releasing her even when she got him seated in the chair at the chemist’s. She had one arm round him supporting him; and when the brandy was brought, she offered it to him with her other hand. Well, as she brought the glass to his lips he gave a tremendous start. His whole body seemed to quiver, and he looked at her hand as if his eyes would fall out of his head. And then he moved his eyes to her cuff, and then slowly upwards till they rested on her face. It was a most extraordinary look he gave her, Mary said; she was very much struck by it, and somehow very sorry for him.”

“But can’t you define the look more clearly?” pressed Miss Phipps. “Was it fear, or hate, or horror, or love — or what?”

“A bit of all of them, Mary said,” replied Tarrant.

“And what did he say to her?” asked Miss Phipps eagerly.

“Nothing,” said Tarrant, “for the constable arrived just then. And as soon as she had given her account of the affair and explained that she thought the old man was not hurt, Mary had to hurry away. It was time for her to go on duty, and the old chap had the other man to take him home.”

“Yes?” said Miss Phipps as the detective paused. “Go on.”

“There isn’t any more,” said Tarrant confusedly. “That is the difficulty, you see.”

Miss Phipps stared at him. “What do you mean?” she said.

“I mean,” said Tarrant, “that the incident occurred in September. Mary heard no more of the matter — for the police did nothing, as no one was hurt and the bus driver was plainly exonerated — until October. And at the end of October, Mary received a letter from a firm of lawyers in Gray’s Inn, saying that she was one of the legatees under the will of the late Sir John Kebroyd, and would site come to see them. She went, and found that Sir John Kebroyd had left her twenty thousand pounds. ‘But who is Sir John Kebroyd?’ asked Mary. Well, at that the lawyers hummed and ha’d, and said they ought to warn her that their client intended to contest the will. ‘But who is your client?’ asked Mary. ‘If you would like to meet Mr. John William Kebroyd,’ said the lawyers, ‘we should be happy to arrange it; but we respectfully suggest that the meeting take place in the presence of your solicitor.’ Well, of course Mary had no solicitor; but the way those lawyers looked down their noses at her got her back up — after all, she’s an American, and American women are used to having their own way; so she consulted me, and I found her a good solicitor, and I went with her to the interview. And Mr. John William Kebroyd—”

“Was the fiftyish man who accompanied the old man in the Strand,” concluded Miss Phipps.

“That’s right,” said Tarrant. “The old man’s son.”

“And on what grounds was the son about to contest the will?” inquired Miss Phipps sardonically. “He could hardly call it undue influence on Mary’s part.”

“No, though I daresay he’d like to,” said Tarrant. “He’s contesting on grounds of unsound mind. Old Sir John threw himself overboard in mid-Atlantic, from the S.S. Atlantis.”

“Really! Poor old boy! That certainly was rather odd,” said Miss Phipps distressfully. “Why did he do that, do you think?”

“I don’t know, and seemingly nobody else knows either,” said Tarrant. “The very day after that incident in the Strand, old Sir John Kebroyd made a new will, leaving twenty thousand pounds to Mary Fletcher Arneson. And the day after it was signed, he booked passage to New York on the Atlantis, and the day after that, he sailed on her. There was no reason why he should go to the States, and he didn’t even tell his son he was going. There was certainly no reason for him to throw himself overboard — which, mark you, he was actually seen to do. But why did he do it? He was rich, and healthy for his age; his wife died many years ago, but he had his son John William, and some grandchildren, to care for. The son is contesting the will, as I say, on grounds of unsound mind, and Mary doesn’t want to accept the legacy. But his throwing himself overboard,” continued Tarrant, “doesn’t really surprise me. A man who leaves half his estate to a girl he’s never spoken to, and only seen for a couple of minutes, would do anything. It’s true he may have thought she saved his life. And perhaps she did,” commented Tarrant. “As Mary tells the story, she only helped John William to save it, but I expect she did most of it. But as Sir John threw his life away the very next week, that doesn’t solve the mystery.”

“Oh, come!” said Miss Phipps, smiling. “It’s not really very mysterious, is it? A good deal of it is quite clear. Enough, at any rate, to show that your Mary is quite entitled to her legacy. Half the estate — that’s so significant.”

“Miss Phipps!” gasped Tarrant. “Upon my word! Really! No, it’s intolerable! You say the story’s clear to you? Perhaps you’ll explain, then, first, how Sir John knew Mary’s name and the name of her nursing home. They were both in the will, in full.”

“My dear boy!” expostulated Miss Phipps. “That part is as clear as crystal. Didn’t you say a policeman came and took down their statements? Mary gave her name and address to him. Americans usually (and very sensibly) give their names in full, and of course the old man heard her.”

“Of course! How stupid of me,” said Tarrant, blushing.

“They say,” commented Miss Phipps, “that love is blind. Perhaps that explains it. But what have you done towards solving the mystery?”

“What would you have done?”

“I should have taken the first train to Yorkshire,” snapped Miss Phipps.

Tarrant’s mouth fell open. “Yorkshire? How did you know?” he spluttered.

“But it’s so obvious,” said Miss Phipps. “You said Mary’s grandparents were north-country English.”

“That’s right. At least her grandmother was. She never knew her grandfather; he died on board ship when they emigrated,” said Tarrant.

“Good heavens!” cried Miss Phipps, more impatiently than before. “You knew that, and yet you talk of a mystery!”

Tarrant gaped. “But what made you think of Yorkshire?” he said. “There are other places in northern England besides Yorkshire. Perhaps it was just a guess?”

“I never guess,” replied the novelist sharply. “You told me yourself. Here is an old man with an Airedale dog carved on his stick and a very fine cloth coat and a name like Kebroyd. Airedale, my dear boy, is in Yorkshire; very fine cloth, my dear boy, is made in Yorkshire; the name Kebroyd, my dear boy—”

“But, Miss Phipps,” interrupted Tarrant. “I was referring to Mary’s people, who came from Yorkshire; I had no idea the Kebroyds did too. They live in London now.”

“Listen,” said Miss Phipps firmly. “The reason why Sir John Kebroyd left his money to Mary is very clear to me. Let us look, not at the problem as you presented it, but at all the data you have accumulated. Here we have a man and his wife, Mary’s grandparents, leaving northern England — shall we say in the 1870s? — and emigrating to New York. Shall we say their name is Fletcher? A very Yorkshire name! You can check that with Mary, but from her own name it seems very probable.”

“It’s quite correct,” said Tarrant, almost tonelessly.

“We don’t know why the Fletchers left England,” said Miss Phipps, “but presently we shall deduce something of the nature of the reason, and you shall find out the rest by routine inquiries. On the voyage Mr. Fletcher dies. His wife gives birth to a daughter, who presently marries in the States a Mr. Arneson (no doubt of Swedish descent), and has in her turn a daughter Mary. Mary grows up, becomes a nurse, visits England, and is seen by a Yorkshireman, John Kebroyd, who hears her name and at once makes her his legatee. John Kebroyd then promptly dies — he does not die the same death as Mary’s Fletcher grandfather, it is true, but he is buried in the same place. The voyage to New York in the 1870s took longer than it does in the Atlantis, my dear boy, and Mr. Fletcher was no doubt buried at sea.”

“He was,” said Tarrant in a stiffled tone.

“So much is fact. Now for deduction,” Miss Phipps went on decisively. “It is clear there must be some connection between John Kebroyd and Mary’s grandfather. Was his name William, by any chance?”

“It was,” said Tarrant.

“Just so — Kebroyd called his son after him, you see,” explained Miss Phipps. “They are both. Yorkshiremen, and as soon as Kebroyd sees Mary he leaves her half his estate, takes steps to insure that she shall receive it soon, and goes off to — shall we say, to join his old friend William Fletcher? Or his cousin, perhaps; yes, I think Kebroyd and Fletcher might easily be cousins. Are we becoming far-fetched if we deduce some quarrel between Kebroyd and Fletcher, some remorse, some wrong? Yes, that is the way I see it: Kebroyd wronged Fletcher in the 1870s, so profoundly that Fletcher left his native land. Sixty years later Kebroyd repaired the wrong.”

“That’s all very well, Miss Phipps,” objected Tarrant, at last finding his tongue. “There’s a great deal in what you say, and I even know further details which support it. But you must remember that it was before Kebroyd heard Mary’s name that he gave her that strange glance.”

“Yes, that’s one of the most interesting features of the case,” remarked Miss Phipps. “Now how shall I explain it to your Do you know your Shakespeare?”

“No,” said Tarrant bluntly.

“There’s a bit in the prologue to Henry V which explains what I mean. “It runs like this:

Do you remember that line?”

“No, I don’t,” said Tarrant. “And what’s more, I don’t understand it.”

“It means this,” said Miss Phipps. “A mere nought, provided it’s put in the right place after a row of figures, can push the number up into the millions. That is to say, an object put in the right place, besides some other particular object, may magnify the significance of both enormously. Do you understand that?”

“Partly,” said Tarrant.

“Look here, my dear boy,” said Miss Phipps, somewhat exasperated. “Suppose you have lost a dish of chops from your pantry, and you see a dog sitting in your backyard, gnawing a juicy bone. Has that dog stolen your chops, or has he not?”

“Not enough evidence to say,” said Tarrant stolidly. “But I should keep an eye on him.”

“Exactly. But now, suppose when you approach the dog you see a broken piece of your own chop dish lying beside the animal. What do you do then?”

“Give the dog a good hiding,” said Tarrant with emphasis. “I see what you mean,” he added. “It’s the underlying principle of all detection.”

“Precisely,” said Miss Phipps. “Now I believe,” she continued, “that there were, about Mary’s appearance that afternoon, some details which, when added to her name, convinced John Kebroyd that she was Fletcher’s granddaughter. And perhaps, too, reminded him of that old wrong, of which he had so bitterly repented. He looked, you said, at Mary’s hand, at her cuff, at her face. Her cuff. I rather gathered from your account that Mary was in uniform?”

“Yes,” said Tarrant. “And I know what you’re going to say next, and you’re right; Mary’s grandmother, Helen Fletcher, was a nurse both before and after her marriage.”

“Mary’s face might be vaguely like her grandparents’, too,” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully. “Arneson is a Swedish name, and Swedes are usually fair, so as Mary is dark she probably ‘takes after’ her mother’s side of the family. But that’s a little far-fetched, perhaps, and I won’t press it. But John Kebroyd looked first at Mary’s hand, and started. Now what was there about Mary’s hand, do you think? Have you any idea?”

“Well, yes, as it happens I have,” said Tarrant, looking shame-faced. “You see, Mary and I are engaged, and I had chosen an engagement ring for her—”

“That afternoon?” queried Miss Phipps sharply.

“No. I chose it myself in Brittlesea. I wanted to bring it to London that day, but the engraving wasn’t finished,” said Tarrant. “But the point is this: a week or so before that day, that last time I had seen her, Mary lent me a ring of hers so that I could give the jewelers the size of her finger. I brought that ring back to her that afternoon, and she slipped it on; she must have been wearing it when old Kebroyd saw her. It was an old ring of twisted gold strands, with—”

“A monogram,” said Miss Phipps drily. “And it belonged to Mary’s grandmother.”

“No. It belonged to her grandfather’s aunt,” said Tarrant.

“Oh, my dear boy!” exclaimed Miss Phipps enthusiastically, her eyes gleaming. “But that’s brilliant! That’s really brilliant! It completes the whole story. Don’t you see? Can’t you imagine it? Some little Yorkshire town in the ’70s, and the rich old maiden aunt lies dying, and Mary’s grandmother is nursing her. And William Fletcher and John Kebroyd are cousins, and they each hope to inherit a share of their aunt’s wealth, and they’re each in love with Mary’s grandmother. And somehow or other, by some mean little trick which we shall never know for certain, Kebroyd turns his aunt’s affection away from Fletcher, and persuades her to leave all the money to him. She does so, and leaves only the ring to Fletcher. But the nurse, Mary’s grandmother, knows the trick and despises Kebroyd, and marries Fletcher. Fletcher’s so disgusted about the money — or perhaps it’s a business, you know; yes, that’s even better. There is now no place in the family business for Fletcher, so he emigrates to the States; while Kebroyd makes his aunt’s legacy the foundation for a large fortune. And presently Kebroyd is sorry, and tries to trace Fletcher, and hears that he died on shipboard and was buried at sea, leaving a wife and daughter. But he can’t trace the wife and daughter. And then one day, years later, suddenly he sees his aunt’s old ring on a girl’s finger, and the cuff above the hand is a nurse’s cuff, and the face is almost the face of the grandmother — and add to that, the girl is American and part of her name is Fletcher. All those things are crooked figures in the right place, and they make a million; they make Mary his cousin’s granddaughter. The stick, too, perhaps, with the carved dog — that may have been his aunt’s; and now it is all broken. Symbolism, you know. As he sits there, dazed, in the chemist’s chair, the whole drama of his life is set before him; and he knows what he must do. Yes, it’s all as plain as a pikestaff, my dear boy; and your Mary can accept her legacy with a clear conscience. In fact, it’s her duty to do so. You must confirm my hypothesis by inquiry at Kebroyd’s birthplace, and then if John William cuts up rough, you can just throw his great-aunt in his teeth. Now, what would you like for a wedding present?”

Miss Phipps beamed at him.

“It seems to me,” said Tarrant soberly, “that you’ve just given my wife twenty thousand pounds.”

Miss Phipps giggled excitedly. “In that case, my dear boy,” she said, “do you think your Mary would do me a favor?”

“If she wouldn’t, she isn’t my Mary,” said Tarrant smiling.

“Then would you ask her to allow me — I would take very great care not to make it libelous — would you ask her to allow me,” begged Miss Phipps, “to use the Kebroyd-Fletcher history in a story?”

Tarrant nodded emphatically.