The Hampstead Mystery - John R. Watson (best management books of all time txt) 📗

and started drinking port wine, and as fast as the evening papers came out he sent the boy out for them, glanced through them, and then crumpled them up. He stayed there till after five o'clock. By that time the 6.30 editions would reach Camden Town, and if you remember it was the six-thirty editions which had the first news of the murder. The tavern-keeper declares that Hill drank nearly two bottles of Tarragona port, in threepenny glasses, during the day."

"I should have credited Hill with a better taste in port, with his opportunities as Sir Horace Fewbanks's butler," said Inspector Chippenfield drily. "What you have found out, Rolfe, only goes to bear out my own discovery that Hill is deeply implicated in this affair. I have found out, for my part, that Hill did not spend the night of the murder at home here."

There was a ring of triumph in Inspector Chippenfield's voice as he announced this discovery, but before Rolfe could make any comment upon it there was a quick step behind them, and both men turned, to see Hill. The butler was astonished at finding the two police officers in his wife's shop. He hesitated, and apparently his first impulse was to turn into the street again; but, realising the futility of such a course, he came forward with an attempt to smooth his worried face into a conciliatory smile.

"Hill!" said Inspector Chippenfield sternly. "Once and for all, will you own up where you were on the night of the murder?"

Hill started slightly, then, with admirable self-command, he recovered himself and became as tight-lipped and reticent as ever.

"I've already told you, sir," he replied smoothly. "I spent it in my own home. If you ask my wife, sir, she'll tell you I never stirred out of the house after I came back from taking my little girl to the Zoo."

"I know she will, you scoundrel!" burst out the choleric inspector. "She's been well tutored by you, and she tells the tale very well. But it's no good, Hill. You forgot to tutor your little daughter, and she's innocently put you away. What's more, you were seen in London before daybreak the night after the murder. The game's up, my man."

Inspector Chippenfield produced a pair of handcuffs as he spoke. Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips before he was able to speak.

"Don't put them on me," he said imploringly, as Inspector Chippenfield advanced towards him. "I'll—I'll confess!"

CHAPTER XI

Inspector Chippenfield's first words were a warning.

"You know what you are saying, Hill?" he asked. "You know what this means? Any statement you make may be used in evidence against you at your trial."

"I'll tell you everything," faltered Hill. The impassive mask of the well-trained English servant had dropped from him, and he stood revealed as a trembling elderly man with furtive eyes, and a painfully shaken manner. "I'll be glad to tell you everything," he declared, laying a twitching hand on the inspector's coat. "I've not had a minute's peace or rest since—since it happened."

The dry official manner in which Inspector Chippenfield produced a note-book was in striking contrast to the trapped man's attitude.

"Go ahead," he commanded, wetting his pencil between his lips.

Before Hill could respond a small boy entered the shop—a ragged, shock-headed dirty urchin, bareheaded and barefooted. He tapped loudly on the counter with a halfpenny.

"What do you want, boy?" roughly asked the inspector.

"A 'a'porth of blackboys," responded the child, in the confident tone of a regular customer.

"If you'll permit me, sir, I'll serve him," said Hill and he glided behind the little counter, took some black sticky sweetmeats from one of the glass jars on the shelf and gave them to the boy, who popped one in his mouth and scurried off.

"I think we had better go inside and hear what Hill has to say, Inspector, while Mrs. Hill minds the shop," said Rolfe. He had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hill's white frightened face peering through the dirty little glass pane in the parlour door.

Inspector Chippenfield approved of the idea.

"We don't want to spoil your wife's business, Hill—she's likely to need it," he said, with cruel official banter. "Come here, Mrs. Hill," he said, raising his voice.

The faded little woman appeared in response to the summons, bringing the child with her. She shot a frightened glance at her husband, which Inspector Chippenfield intercepted.

"Never mind looking at your husband, Mrs. Hill," he said roughly. "You've done your best for him, and the only thing to be told now is the truth. Now you and your daughter can stay in the shop. We want your husband inside."

Mrs. Hill clasped her hands quickly.

"Oh, what is it, Henry?" she said. "Tell me what has happened? What have they found out?"

"Keep your mouth shut," commanded her husband harshly. "This way, sir, if you please."

Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe followed him into the parlour.

"Now, Hill," impatiently said Inspector Chippenfield.

The butler raised his head wearily.

"I suppose I may as well begin at the beginning and tell you everything," he said.

"Yes," replied the inspector, "it's not much use keeping anything back now."

"Oh, it's not a case of keeping anything back," replied Hill. "You're too clever for me, and I've made up my mind to tell you everything, but I thought I might be able to cut the first part short, so as to save your time. But so that you'll understand everything I've got to go a long way back—shortly after I entered Sir Horace Fewbanks's service. In fact, I hadn't been long with him before I began to see he was leading a strange life—a double life, if I may say so. A servant in a gentleman's house—particularly one in my position—sees a good deal he is not meant to see; in fact, he couldn't close his eyes to it if he wanted to, as no doubt you, from your experience, sir, know very well. A confidential servant sees and hears a lot of things, sir."

Inspector Chippenfield nodded his head sharply, but he did not speak.

"I think Sir Horace trusted me, too," continued Hill humbly, "more than he would have trusted most servants, on account of my—my past. I fancy, if I may say so, that he counted on my gratitude because he had given me a fresh start in life. And he was quite right—at first." Hill dropped his voice and looked down as he uttered the last two words. "I'd have done anything for him. But as I was saying, sir, I hadn't been long in his house before I found out that he had a—a weakness—" Hill timidly bowed his head as though apologising to the dead judge for assailing his character—"a weakness for—for the ladies. Sometimes Sir Horace went off for the week-end without saying where he was going and sometimes he went out late at night and didn't return till after breakfast. Then he had ladies visiting him at Riversbrook—not real ladies, if you understand, sir. Sometimes there was a small party of them, and then they made a noise singing music-hall songs and drinking wine, but generally they came alone. Towards the end there was one who came a lot oftener than the others. I found out afterwards that her name was Fanning—Doris Fanning. She was a very pretty young woman, and Sir Horace seemed very fond of her. I knew that because I've heard him talking to her in the library. Sir Horace had rather a loud voice, and I couldn't help overhearing him sometimes, when I took things to his rooms.

"One night,—it was before Sir Horace left for Scotland—a rainy gusty night, this young woman came. I forgot to mention that when Sir Horace expected visitors he used to tell me to send the servants to bed early. He told me to do so this night, saying as usual, 'You understand, Hill?' and I replied, 'Yes, Sir Horace,' The young woman came about half-past ten o'clock, and I let her in the side door and showed her up to the library on the first floor, where he used to sit and work and read. Half an hour afterwards I took up some refreshments—some sandwiches and a small bottle of champagne for the young lady—and then went back downstairs till Sir Horace rang for me to let the lady out, which was generally about midnight. But this night, I'd hardly been downstairs more than a quarter of an hour, when I heard a loud crash, followed by a sort of scream. Before I could get out of my chair to go upstairs I heard the study door open, and Sir Horace called out, 'Hill, come here!'

"I went upstairs as quick as I could, and the door of the study being wide open, I could see inside. Sir Horace and the young lady had evidently been having a quarrel. They were standing up facing each other, and the table at which they had been sitting was knocked over, and the refreshments I had taken up had been scattered all about. The young woman had been crying—I could see that at a glance—but Sir Horace looked dignified and the perfect gentleman—like he always was. He turned to me when he saw me, and said, 'Hill, kindly show this young lady out,' I bowed and waited for her to follow me, which she did, after giving Sir Horace an angry look. I let her out the same way as I let her in, and took her through the plantation to the front gate, which I locked after her. When I got inside the house again, and was beginning to bolt up things for the night Sir Horace called me again and I went upstairs. 'Hill,' he said, in the same calm and collected voice, 'if that young lady calls again you're to deny her admittance. That is all, Hill,' And he turned back into his room again.

"I didn't see her again until the morning after Sir Horace left for Scotland. I had arranged for the female servants to go to Sir Horace's estate in the country during his absence, as he instructed before his departure, and they and I were very busy on this morning getting the house in order to be closed up—putting covers on the furniture and locking up the valuables.

"It was Sir Horace's custom to have this done when he was away every year instead of keeping the servants idling about the house on board wages, and the house was then left in my charge, as I told you, sir, and after the servants went to the country it was my custom to live at home till Sir Horace returned, coming over two or three times a week to look over the place and make sure that everything was all right. On this morning, sir, after superintending the servants clearing up things, I went outside the house to have a final look round, and to see that the locks of the front and back gates were in good working order. I was going to the back first, sir, but happening to glance about me as I walked round the house, I saw the young woman that Sir Horace had ordered me to show out of the house the night before he went to Scotland, peering out from behind one of the fir trees of the plantation in front of the house. As soon as she saw that I saw her she beckoned to me.

"I would not have taken any notice of her, only I didn't want the women servants to see her. Sir Horace, I knew, would not have liked that. So I went across to her. I asked her what she wanted, and I told her it was no use her wanting to see Sir Horace, for he had gone to Scotland. 'I don't want to see him,' she said, as impudent as brass. 'It's you I want to see, Field or Hill or whatever you call yourself now.' It gave me quite a turn, I assure you, to find that this young woman knew my secret, and I turned round apprehensive-like, to make sure that none of the servants had heard her. She noticed me and she laughed. 'It's all right, Hill,' she said. 'I'm not going to tell on you. I've just brought you a message from an old friend—Fred Birchill—he wants to see you to-night at this address.' And with that she put a bit of paper into my hand. I was so upset and excited that I said I'd be there, and she went away.

"This Fred Birchill was a man