The Starvel Hollow Tragedy · Chapter 5 (2/2)

“I should like you to think carefully, Mr. Whymper. The matter is more serious than perhaps you realise. You handed Messrs. Cook a stolen twenty-pound note. I am not suggesting that you stole it or that you are in any way to blame for passing it. But you must tell me where you got it. You cannot expect me to believe that you don’t know. Twenty-pound notes are too uncommon for that.”

Rather to French’s surprise the young man began once more to show relief.

“But that’s what I must tell you, Inspector,” he declared, but he did not meet French’s eye, and again the other felt he was lying. “I have had that note for a long time and I don’t really remember how it came into my possession.”

“Now, Mr. Whymper, as a friend I should urge you to think again. I am not making any threats, but it may become very awkward for you if you persist in that statement. Think it over. I assure you it will be worth your while.”

French spoke coaxingly and the other promised he would try to remember. He seemed to French like a man who felt he had been exposed to a danger which was now happily past. But if he thought he had got rid of his visitor he was mistaken.

“When were you last at Starvel, Mr. Whymper?”

At this question Whymper seemed to crumple up. He stared at his questioner with an expression of something very like horror. When he answered it was almost in a whisper.

“The day after the fire. I have not been there since.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, when were you last there before the fire?”

Whymper’s composure was coming back. He seemed to be nerving himself for a struggle. He spoke more normally.

“Really, I couldn’t tell you, Inspector. It was a long time ago. I was only there half a dozen times in my life. Once it was by Miss Averill’s invitation, the other times on the chance of seeing her.”

“Were you there within a week of the fire?”

“Oh no. The last time was long before that.”

“Had you any communication with Mr. Averill⁠—I mean within a week of the fire?”

“No. I never had any communication with Mr. Averill. I have never seen him.”

“Or with anyone in the household; either by letter, telegram, telephone, personal interview or in any other way whatever?”

“Yes. I met Miss Averill accidentally on the day before the fire. Mrs. Oxley, the wife of a solicitor here, came round to the church where I am working to see about some stones she was buying, and Miss Averill was with her. Miss Averill was on her way to stay with some friends and I saw her to the station.”

“Did she give you the twenty-pound note?”

“She did nothing of the kind,” Whymper returned with some heat.

“Was Miss Averill the only member of the Starvel household with whom you communicated during the week before the fire?”

Whymper hesitated and appeared to be thinking.

“Well, Mr. Whymper?”

“I met Roper, Mr. Averill’s valet and general man, for a moment on the evening of the fire. We met by chance and merely wished each other good evening.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“On the street just outside the church gate. I was leaving work for the night.”

“At what hour was that?”

“About half-past five.”

“And do you assure me that you had no other communication with any member of the Starvel household during the period in question?”

“None.”

“Nor received any message through any third party?”

“No.”

“Well, Mr. Whymper, it is only fair to tell you that the note in question was in Mr. Averill’s safe five days before the fire. You will have to explain how it came into your possession, if not to me, then later on in court. Now think,” French’s voice was suave and coaxing, “would you not rather tell me here in private than have it dragged out of you in the witness box?”

“I would tell you at once, Mr. French, if I had anything to tell, but I’ve nothing. There must be some mistake about the note. The one I gave to Messrs. Cook couldn’t possibly have been in Mr. Averill’s safe at any time.”

The words sounded reasonable, but Whymper’s manner discounted them. More than ever was French convinced that the man was lying. He pressed him as hard as he could, but Whymper stuck to his story and nothing that French could say shook him. French, of course, could only bluff. He was quite unable to prove that Whymper had really passed the stolen note, and though he believed he had done so, he fully realised that he might be mistaken.

Recognising he had failed for the moment, French set himself to calm the other’s anxieties before taking his leave. He pretended to accept the young man’s statement, saying he was afraid his journey had proved a wild-goose chase, and that he would now have to interview the other persons whose names he had obtained from Cook’s. Whether his efforts were successful he wasn’t sure, but the look of relief on Whymper’s face made him think so. Outwardly at all events both men seemed to consider the incident closed when, after French had again warned the other as to secrecy, they bade each other good night.

But to French it was very far indeed from being closed. He saw that the matter must be probed to the bottom. There was, however, nothing he could do that night except to take one obvious precaution. Whymper must be watched, and going to the police station he surprised Sergeant Kent considerably by asking him to put the young man under careful surveillance.

This precaution was a bow drawn at a venture, but to French’s surprise and delight, on the very next day it proved that the arrow had found its way between the joints of Whymper’s harness. While he was breakfasting a note was brought to him from Kent. In it the sergeant said that as a result of the order to put a watch on Whymper, Constable Sheldrake had made a statement which he, Kent, thought the inspector should hear. Sheldrake said that on the evening of the fire he had spent a couple of his free hours in taking a walk in the direction of Starvel with a friend of his, a young lady. Between half-past nine and ten the two were approaching the junction where the Starvel lane diverged from the road which circled round the outside of the hollow, when they heard steps approaching. Not wishing to be observed, they had slipped behind some bushes, and they had seen a man coming from the Starvel lane. He had passed close to them, and by the light of the moon Constable Sheldrake had not only recognised Whymper, but had seen that his face bore an expression of horror and distress. At the time there was no suspicion either of Whymper or of foul play at Starvel, and the constable, not wishing to be chaffed about the girl, had not mentioned the matter. But now he believed it to be his duty to come forward with his report.

Here was food for thought. The Starvel lane after passing through the Hollow almost petered out. As a rough track it wound on past one or two isolated cottages, debouching at last into a cross road some four miles farther on. It was therefore most unlikely that Whymper could have been coming from anywhere except Starvel. But if he had been coming from Starvel he had lied, as he had stated that he had not been there within a week of the fire.

This fact made French’s next step all the more imperative. He went down to the police station and saw Kent.

“Look here, sergeant,” he explained, “I want to search that young man’s rooms and I want your help. Will you do two things for me? First, I want you to find out at what time he goes home in the evening and let me know, and second to make some pretext to keep him half an hour later than usual at the church tonight. Can you manage that?”

“Of course, Mr. French. You may count on me.”

Kent was as good as his word. When French returned to the hotel in the afternoon a note was waiting for him, saying that Whymper always reached home about six. Accordingly ten minutes before six found French once more knocking at the door of 12 Stanhope Terrace.

“Has Mr. Whymper come back yet?” he asked the stout, good-humoured looking landlady.

She recognised her visitor of the night before and smiled.

“Not yet, sir. But he won’t be long. Will you come in and wait?”

This was what French wanted. It was better that she should suggest it than he. He paused doubtfully.

“Thanks,” he said at last, “perhaps it would be better if you think he won’t be long.”

“He might be here any time. Will you go up, sir? You know your way.”

French thanked her and slowly mounted the stairs. But once in Whymper’s sitting-room with the door shut behind him his deliberation dropped from him like a cloak and he became the personification of swift efficiency. Noiselessly he turned the key in the lock and then quickly but silently began a search of the room.

It was furnished rather more comfortably than the average lodging-house sitting room, though it retained its family resemblance to the dreary species. In the centre was a table on half of which was a more or less white cloth and the preparations for a meal. Two dining-room chairs and two easy chairs, one without arms, represented the seating accommodations. A sideboard, a corner cabinet laden with nondescript ornaments, a china dog and a few books, together with a small modern roll-top desk completed the furniture. On the walls were pictures, a royal family group of the early eighties and some imaginative views of sailing ships labouring on stormy seas. A gilt clock with a bell glass cover stood on the chimneypiece between a pair of china vases containing paper flowers.

French immediately realised that of all these objects, only the desk was of interest to him. It was evidently Whymper’s private property, and in its locked drawers would lie any secret documents the young man might possess. Silently French got to work with his bunch of skeleton keys and a little apparatus of steel wire, and in two or three minutes he was able to push the lid gently up. This released the drawers, and one by one he drew them out and ran through their contents.

He had examined rather more than half when he pursed his lips together and gave vent to a soundless whistle. In a small but bulky envelope at the back of one of the drawers was a roll of banknotes. He drew them out and counted them. They were all twenties. Twenty-four of them⁠—£480.

With something approaching excitement French took from his pocket the list given him by Tarkington of the numbers of twenty-pound notes sent to Starvel. A few seconds sufficed to compare. Every single one of the twenty-four was on the list!