The Verdict of You All

Book 763: Murder Room

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Geoffrey Hastings is doing very well for himself: having survived the Great War, he is not only working for wealthy financier Sir John Smethurst but is engaged to his daughter, Emily. Hastings has a rival for Emily's affections in the form of Samuel McCorquodale, a successful businessman and both friend and rival of Sir John, and there is no love lost between the two men. Then Sir John is found murdered, and suspicion falls on Hastings until an unexpected alibi sets him free. But who did murder Sir John? Layer after layer of deception is peeled away until the shocking truth emerges . . .

Release date: July 28, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

“IF it’s not taking a liberty, Mr. Jackson, I’d much like to know what you think is wrong with the master.”

Mr. Jackson, thus directly challenged, drew slowly at his cigar and allowed a dignified but respectful frown to appear upon his fine brow. After a suitable pause, sufficient to suggest a
reluctance to engage in gossip but not so long as to imply a snub to his attractive questioner, he replied, after the manner of lesser men, with another question.

“What, Mrs. Phillips, makes you think that there is anything wrong?”

The conversation was taking place in the cosy “Room” situated in the airy half-basement of St. Margaret’s Lodge, a large house standing in its own grounds in that part of St.
John’s Wood which is so much more pleasant a place for wise—and wealthy—men to live in than is the noisy and overcrowded square mile comprised in the magic word Mayfair. Sir John
Smethurst, whose wisdom and wealth were both beyond question to those who were aware of his prominence in the world vaguely but adequately spoken of as “finance,” had yielded to his
wife and been taken to live in Mayfair, but directly after her death, and ten years before this story opens, he had hastened to amend an error long since recognized and had moved northwards. He was
now housed as comfortably as anyone can be in London, with a reasonable amount of air to breathe, quiet in which to think, and room in which to move.

The occupants of the Room were but two in number—Mr. Henry Jackson, the white-haired and venerable butler of tradition, and Mrs. (by courtesy) Phillips, thirty years younger than her
companion, but, by virtue of her supremacy in her own domain, his equal in rank and privilege.

Mrs. Phillips blushed slightly at the austerity of the question with which her own had been met, but she stuck to her guns.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but Miss Richards told me that Miss Emily was quite worried about Sir John, and she’s not a girl that chatters, and so I thought there
might be something serious.”

“Miss Richards, of course, was quite right to speak to you, Mrs. Phillips, if she had to speak at all, and I know the subject will not pass into common talk. As it has come to your ears, I
think, perhaps, I am justified in discussing the matter with you.”

Having eased his conscience of any suspicion of gossip, Mr. Jackson prepared for a thorough and enjoyable indulgence therein. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and put his hand
upon a neat decanter which stood on the table at his elbow.

“Another glass, Mrs. Phillips? A light and perfectly harmless wine, but of a rare bokay. I have no faith in a full-bodied vintage.” (Jackson was quoting his master, but his companion
was suitably impressed.) “You are right, Mrs. Phillips; there is, I fear, something unmistakably wrong, though I doubt if the fact has been discerned outside Sir John’s immediate
décolletage.” (Jackson was fond of airing his French, though not always happy in his choice of words.) “I have observed it myself, and Mr. Hastings has spoken to me about
it in confidence on more than one occasion.”

“But what is it, Mr. Jackson? It can’t be money, and at his age it can’t hardly be . . . be . . .” Mrs. Phillips dropped her eyes becomingly, and the butler palpably
ruffled his feathers at the challenge.

“If you mean love, Mrs. Phillips, age has nothing to do with it, and Sir John is, in any case, still a young man—younger, in fact, than myself.” The butler was sixty-five, but
he had a nice little sum laid aside in the bank, and both he and Mrs. Phillips were aware of the fact. “No, I don’t think it’s love, though. My opinion is that it started about
the time that South American gentleman, Mr. Fernandez, dined here about three months ago. You remember I told you he reminded me of that Valentino we saw at the pictures. He might have been a bit
quiet before that—Sir John might, I mean—but that night, after Mr. Fernandez had gone, he seemed to me excited like, and since then he has been restless and jumpy. Not exactly
frightened, but on edge—excité.”

“What did Mr. Hastings say about it, Mr. Jackson?”

“He didn’t say much, Mrs. Phillips. Just asked me if I’d noticed anything. Said Miss Emily was worried about her father. Asked me not to speak of it to anyone—which, of
course, I naturally should not do.”

“It’ll be a worry for Miss Emily, coming just now. And Mr. Hastings too—a pleasant-spoken gentleman, I thought him. Miss Emily brought him down to see me soon after the
engagement was announced.”

“He’s more than that, Mrs. Phillips. He’s what they call a ‘white man,’ and I know Sir John thinks the world of him, trusts him like a son, more
than——” He broke off as a bell trilled twice outside the door. “Ah, there’s the study. That’ll be him going.” He glanced at the clock as he rose from his
chair. “Eleven o’clock—earlier than usual. Ah, well, the earlier to bed for me. You’ll be turning in too, I expect, Mrs. Phillips. Couchez bien.”

Mrs. Phillips started.

“Good-night, Mr. Jackson,” she said.

As the butler emerged from the basement stairs into the roomy hall, the subject of his recent conversation was standing in the doorway of the study opposite, exchanging some last remarks with
his employer inside the room.

Geoffrey Hastings was a tall, well-built man of some thirty-five years of age, with the greying hair and set mouth that came so prematurely to many young men who passed through the crucible of
war, but the laughing, happy eyes of a boy. He was universally respected as a shrewd and capable man of business, but still more liked—it would hardly be too much to say loved—both by
women and men, for his capacity to get the full measure of happiness out of life and to see that others got it too. It had, moreover, been revealed to him that even butlers and taxi-drivers had
immortal souls, so that his popularity was not confined to people in his own walk of life.

He greeted Jackson, as the latter prepared to help him on with his coat, with a cheerful grin.

“That was a better bottle of port than I usually get here, Jackson,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Hastings,” said the butler with a chuckle. “Sir John told me to get up a bottle of the ’96 as he said he thought you might be going to bring him some news that
you and he might want to celebrate. He said that last Monday, too, but if you’ll remember, sir, you did not dine here, after all.”

Geoffrey Hastings appeared somewhat surprised by this piece of information, but he made no comment upon it.

“Well, anyhow, Jackson,” he said, “it did more credit to your cellar than some of the stuff you palm off on a poor secretary. Oh, by the way, Sir John told me to tell you that
he was riding to-morrow; he wants to be called at seven—a God-forsaken hour—and I suppose it means soon after six for you.”

“No, sir; Sir John won’t let me get up early. James calls him. But I—I would willingly do that, and more than that, for Sir John, sir,” said the butler quietly.

“I know you would, Jackson. How long have you been with him?”

‘‘Twenty-three years, sir. Ever since he started to be anything at all. He was a good friend to me, Mr. Hastings. I had been in trouble through a woman I was in love with giving me
the chuck. He took me with a pretty rotten character—said we’d both got to make something like a fresh start and we might as well do it together.”

Hastings laid his hand on the butler’s arm as he stood in the open doorway.

“I know, Jackson,” he said, “and you’ve only told me one side of the story. I’ve heard the other from Sir John. You’ve been a good friend, too. I only hope
that I shall be as lucky when my time comes to start a household of my own. Anyway, early rising or not, it’s time all hard-working men like you and me were in bed. It must be after
eleven.”

The butler looked at his watch.

“Five minutes past, exactly, sir.”

“Well, good-night and good luck to you, Jackson.”

“Thank you, sir. Good-night to you, sir.”

The butler’s eyes followed Geoffrey’s figure, as it moved down the steps and along the winding drive, with a look of genuine affection.

“That’s the right sort,” he muttered to him self as he closed the door. “Pity there aren’t a few more like him—there wouldn’t be all this Bolshevism if
there was.”

And as Geoffrey Hastings disappeared through the drive gate into the street, a shadow gently detached itself from the bed of tall geraniums that bordered the drive and flitted into the blacker
depths of the shrubs beyond.

P.C. RAFFLES, of N Division, was pacing in leisurely fashion down Regent Avenue, St. John’s Wood, at about seven o’clock on the morning of
October 28th, his mind pleasantly filled with thoughts of the hot breakfast and comfortable bed that awaited him as soon as his relief appeared, when he became conscious of the fact that his name
was echoing down the silent street. Turning round, he saw a strange figure waddling down the road towards him, emitting at intervals between each panting breath the cries which had attracted his
attention.

“Mr. Raffles! Mr. Raffles!”

On nearer approach the figure proved to be none other than the dignified butler of St. Margaret’s Lodge, but in a condition hardly recognizable to his acquaintances. Mr. Jackson and Mr.
Raffles had more than once shared a pint of port in the Room already referred to, Mr. Jackson being a diplomatist of the first water; but on those occasions the butler was clothed in the stately
apparel of his office, to say nothing of the dignity thereof, his voice calm in the assurance of respectful audience, his face gently flushed by the generous wine. Now his appearance was very
different. His face was white and haggard, with wild eyes seeming to start from his head on which the grey hair rose in a tumbled mass; his body, shrunk to a mockery of the handsome figure which he
was accustomed to present to the admiring world, was enveloped in a flowing Japanese silk kimono, evidently a present from his master, beneath which appeared pink pyjamas, one leg of which, hanging
round his ankle, attempted vainly to perform the function of a missing slipper.

“Mr. Raffles . . . my master . . . Sir John . . . he’s dead.”

The butler leant against the neighbouring wall as he gasped out his message, but the stolid presence of the Law appeared to calm him, and he gradually recovered his breath and his
equanimity.

“Dead, Mr. Jackson? I’m sorry to hear that. Heart, is it; or has he had a stroke?”

“No, no. He’s been killed—murdered!”

The policeman at once began to take more than a polite interest in the butler’s news.

“Good Lord! Murdered! Where? In your house?”

“Yes; in the study. Someone broke into the house last night. But won’t you come and see?”

“Of course I will, Mr. Jackson.” The Law got slowly under way. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Oh yes. No doubt of that. Dead hours, I should think. But I told James to telephone to Dr. Bryant. I was that flustered I didn’t like to speak on the phone myself. I saw you passing
down the street from the study window, and I said to myself: ‘This is a police matter. I’ll get the police; James can get the doctor—he can’t do any good, but he’s got
to be sent for.’”

“You did right, Mr. Jackson. Is that chap going in at your gate?”

“Ah, that is Dr. Bryant.”

The police constable at once broke into a run.

“He mustn’t touch that body without me present,” he jerked out.

His fear was groundless, as the doctor was only just being admitted to the house by the footman as he came panting up to the steps.

“Good-morning, officer,” said Dr. Bryant. “Are we the first on the scene?”

“Yes, sir, as far as I know. The butler was just fetching me when I saw you arrive. It was my duty to see that the body wasn’t moved, sir, so I put on a bit of extra
speed.”

“That’s all right, officer; I know the routine in these cases. Now, then, where’s the body?”

They turned to the butler, who was just entering the house. He led them to the door of the study on the right-hand side of the entrance hall, and turned the key.

“Hullo, door locked?” said the constable.

“Yes, sir; I locked it,” replied the butler, “to make sure no one came into the room while I was out fetching you. I didn’t touch the window or let anyone stand outside
it—I thought it might upset possible clues.”

“Right again, Mr. Jackson. Pity there aren’t more like you. But was the door locked when the body was found?”

“I think not, sir. But Alice, the head-housemaid, will tell you about that; she found the body.”

“Right; then we’ll go in.”

The three men entered the room, in which the electric light was still burning, the butler closing the door after them and remaining by it. The other two at once walked across to the body, which
was lying face downwards between the writing-table and one of the French windows. The doctor knelt down beside it, whilst the policeman established himself in a commanding position at its feet,
from which he could see that mere Medicine should in no way interfere with the ordered course of the Law. But Dr. Bryant, as he had said, knew the routine in these cases. A glance at the skin had
been enough to confirm the fact of death, but as a matter of routine he touched the wrist and held a watch-glass to the small amount of mouth and nostril which was visible. After closely
scrutinizing the back of the dead man’s head and gently feeling it with his sensitive fingers, the doctor rose to his feet and turned to the constable.

“Yes, dead several hours. Fractured base of skull, I should think. Of course, a proper examination must be made, but no doubt your divisional surgeon will wish to do that. Oh, by the way,
Jackson, what about Miss Smethurst? Is she away?”

“No, sir. I have not yet informed Miss Emily of the contretemps. As there was no doubt as to Sir John being dead, I thought it best not to bring her upon the scene until the police were in
charge. (“Ain’t he a bloody little pearl?” P.C. Raffles murmured into his moustache.) I propose with your permission to ring up Mr. Hastings, her fiancé and Sir
John’s secretary, and ask him to break the sad news to her.”

The doctor, inwardly calling the butler a cold-blooded old fish, shrugged his shoulders.

“Very well, Jackson,” he said. “I dare say you’re right. Well, I must be off. Shall be at my surgery till eleven, officer. Jackson knows where it is; in the book, of
course. Good-morning.”

“Thank you, sir. I don’t doubt but what you’ll be wanted to give your opinion. Now I’ll shut this room up and get in touch with my headquarters at once. Perhaps I should
have done so before, but I had to be in here with you, and I don’t like using the whistle unless there’s something like a scrap on. Good-morning, sir.”

Having ushered his companions out of the room., the constable closed the door and, having locked it, put the key in his pocket.

“Now, Mr. Jackson,” he said, “telephone, please.”

“There’s one in there, sir,” said the butler, pointing to the room they had just left. (The dignity of the Law in action had unconsciously influenced him to adopt a form of
address more respectful than that which he had previously used.)

“Yes, I saw that. Receiver off; probably been knocked down. Mustn’t touch that,” said the constable. “I suppose there’s another?”

“Oh yes, sir. One in the morning-room and another upstairs.”

“Right. I’ll use the morning-room one. Now, Mr. Jackson, no one’s to leave this house till my inspector comes—not even to go into the garden. And, of course, no
one’s to go into the study.”

“No, sir. Certainly, sir. I will see to that at once. Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

The policeman’s eyes mellowed.

“We’ll talk about that when I’ve done telephoning, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

“Right, Mr. Raffles,” said the butler, his sense of proportion returning to him.

IN spite of the exquisite discretion of Mr. Jackson and the stern restrictive measures imposed by P.C. Raffles—now reinforced by other
stalwarts of his own division—a small crowd had collected outside St. Margaret’s Lodge by 10 a.m., at which hour a taxicab discharged at the front door Detective-Inspector Robert
Dobson, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard. A man of normal height and build, normal appearance, normal intellect—normal, in fact, in everything except his powers of
observation—Inspector Dobson might have been taken for anything, from a Member of Parliament (twentieth-century style) to a detective (real . . .