Chapter Seventeen
I
“You realise, Mr. Chapman, that what you have just told us is very serious? Very serious
indeed.”
“Of course I realise it. I wouldn’t have come here to tell you about it unless I’d felt that it was
urgent.”
“And you say Miss Lane can’t remember exactly when she last saw this bicarbonate bottle
containing morphine?”
“She’s got herself all
muddled5 up. The more she tries to think the more uncertain she gets. She
said I
flustered6 her. She’s trying to think it out while I came round to you.”
“We’d better go round to Hickory Road right away.”
As the inspector
spoke7 the telephone on the table rang, and the
constable8 who had been taking
notes of Nigel’s story stretched out his hand and lifted the receiver.
“It’s Miss Lane now,” he said, as he listened. “Wanting to speak to Mr. Chapman.”
Nigel leaned across the table and took the receiver from him.
“Pat? Nigel here.”
The girl’s voice came, breathless, eager, the words tumbling over each other.
“Nigel. I think I’ve got it! I mean, I think I know now who must have taken—you know—taken
it from my handkerchief drawer, I mean—you see, there’s only one person who—”
The voice broke off.
“Pat. Hallo? Are you there? Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you now. Later. You’ll be coming round?”
The receiver was near enough for the constable and the inspector to have heard the conversation
clearly, and the latter nodded in answer to Nigel’s questioning look.
“Tell her ‘at once,’ ” he said.
“We’re coming round at once,” said Nigel. “On our way this minute.”
“Oh! Good. I’ll be in my room.”
“So long, Pat.”
Hardly a word was spoken during the brief ride to Hickory Road. Sharpe wondered to himself
whether this was a break at last. Would Patricia Lane have any definite evidence to offer, or would
it be pure
surmise9 on her part? Clearly she had remembered something that had seemed to her
important. He supposed that she had been telephoning from the hall, and that therefore she had
had to be guarded in her language. At this time in the evening so many people would have been
passing through.
Nigel opened the front door at 26 Hickory Road with his key and they passed inside. Through
the open door of the common room, Sharpe could see the
rumpled10 red head of Leonard Bateson
Nigel led the way upstairs and along the passage to Pat’s room. He gave a short tap on the door
and entered.
“Hallo, Pat. Here we—”
His voice stopped, dying away in a long choking
gasp12. He stood motionless. Over his shoulder,
Sharpe saw also what there was to see.
The inspector pushed Nigel gently aside. He went forward and knelt down by the girl’s
huddled14
body. He raised her head, felt for the pulse, then delicately let the head resume its former position.
He rose to his feet, his face grim and set.
“No?” said Nigel, his voice high and
unnatural15. “No. No. No.”
“Yes, Mr. Chapman. She’s dead.”
“No, no. Not Pat! Dear stupid Pat. How—”
“With this.”
It was a simple, quickly
improvised16 weapon. A marble paperweight slipped into a woollen sock.
“Struck on the back of the head. A very efficacious weapon. If it’s any
consolation17 to you, Mr.
Chapman, I don’t think she even knew what happened to her.”
Nigel sat down shakily on the bed. He said:
“That’s one of my socks . . . She was going to mend it . . . Oh, God, she was going to mend it. . .
.”
Suddenly he began to cry. He cried like a child—with abandon and without self-consciousness.
“It was someone she knew quite well. Someone who picked up a sock and just slipped the
paperweight into it. Do you recognise the paperweight, Mr. Chapman?”
He rolled the sock back so as to display it.
Nigel, still weeping, looked.
“Pat always had it on her desk. A Lion of Lucerne.”
He buried his face in his hands.
“Pat—oh, Pat! What shall I do without you!”
Suddenly he sat upright, flinging back his untidy fair hair.
“I’ll kill whoever did this! I’ll kill him! Murdering swine!”
“Gently, Mr. Chapman. Yes, yes, I know how you feel. A
brutal19 piece of work.”
“Pat never harmed anybody. . . .”
Speaking
soothingly20, Inspector Sharpe got him out of the room. Then he went back himself into
the bedroom. He stooped over the dead girl. Very gently he detached something from between her
fingers.
II
Geronimo,
perspiration21 running down his forehead, turned frightened dark eyes from one face to
the other.
“I see nothing. I hear nothing, I tell you. I do not know anything at all. I am with Maria in
kitchen. I put the minestrone on, I grate the cheese—”
Sharpe interrupted the catalogue.
“Nobody’s accusing you. We just want to get some times quite clear. Who was in and out of the
house the last hour?”
“I do not know. How should I know?”
“But you can see very clearly from the kitchen window who goes in and out, can’t you?”
“Perhaps, yes.”
“Then just tell us.”
“They come in and out all the time at this hour of the day.”
“Who was in the house from six o’clock until six thirty-five when we arrived?”
“Everybody except Mr. Nigel and Mrs. Hubbard and Miss Hobhouse.”
“When did they go out?”
“Mrs. Hubbard she go out before teatime, she has not come back yet.”
“Go on.”
“Mr. Nigel goes out about half an hour ago, just before six—look very upset. He come back
with you just now—”
“That’s right, yes.”
“Miss Valerie, she goes out just at six o’clock. Time signal, pip, pip, pip. Dressed for
cocktails22,
very smart. She still out.”
“And everybody else is here?”
“Yes, sir. All here.”
Sharpe looked down at his notebook. The time of Patricia’s call was
noted23 there. Eight minutes
past six, exactly.
“Everybody else was here, in the house? Nobody came back during that time?”
“Only Miss Sally. She been down to pillar-box with letter and come back in—”
“Do you know what time she came in?”
Geronimo frowned.
“She came back while the news was going on.”
“After six, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What part of the news was it?”
“I don’t remember, sir. But before the sport. Because when sport come we switch off.”
Sharpe smiled grimly. It was a wide field. Only Nigel Chapman, Valerie Hobhouse and Mrs.
Hubbard could be excluded. It would mean long and exhaustive questioning. Who had been in the
common room, who had left it? And when? Who would
vouch24 for who? Add to that, that many of
the students, especially the Asiatic and African ones, were constitutionally vague about times, and
the task was no enviable one.
But it would have to be done.
III
In Mrs. Hubbard’s room the atmosphere was unhappy. Mrs. Hubbard herself, still in her outdoor
things, her nice round face strained and anxious, sat on the sofa. Sharpe and
Sergeant25 Cobb sat at a
small table.
“I think she telephoned from in here,” said Sharpe. “Around about six-eight several people left
or entered the common room, or so they say—and nobody saw or noticed or heard the hall
telephone being used. Of course, their times aren’t reliable, half these people never seem to look at
a clock. But I think that anyway she’d come in here if she wanted to telephone the police station.
You were out, Mrs. Hubbard, but I don’t suppose you lock your door?”
Mrs. Hubbard shook her head.
“Mrs. Nicoletis always did, but I never do—”
“Well then, Patricia Lane comes in here to telephone, all
agog26 with what’s she’s remembered.
Then, whilst she was talking, the door opened and somebody looked in or came in. Patricia stalled
and hung up. Was that because she recognised the intruder as the person whose name she was just
about to say? Or was it just a general precaution? Might be either. I incline myself to the first
supposition.”
Mrs. Hubbard nodded emphatically.
“Whoever it was may have followed her here, perhaps listening outside the door. Then came in
to stop Pat from going on.”
“And then—”
Sharpe’s face darkened. “That person went back to Patricia’s room with her, talking quite
normally and easily. Perhaps Patricia taxed her with removing the bicarbonate, and perhaps the
Mrs. Hubbard said sharply:
“Why do you say ‘her?’ ”
“Funny thing—a pronoun! When we found the body, Nigel Chapman said, ‘I’ll kill whoever did
this. I’ll kill him.’ ‘Him,’ you notice. Nigel Chapman clearly believed the murder was done by a
man. It may be because he associated the idea of violence with a man. It may be that he’s got some
particular suspicion pointing to a man, to some particular man. If the latter, we must find out his
reasons for thinking so. But speaking for myself, I plump for a woman.”
“Why?”
“Just this. Somebody went into Patricia’s room with her—someone with whom she felt quite at
home. That points to another girl. The men don’t go to the girls’ bedroom floors unless it’s for
some special reason. That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Hubbard?”
“Yes. It’s not exactly a hard and fast rule, but it’s fairly generally observed.”
“The other side of the house is cut off from this side, except on the ground floor. Taking it that
the conversation earlier between Nigel and Pat was overheard, it would in all probability be a
woman who overheard it.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. And some of the girls seem to spend half their time here listening at
keyholes.”
She flushed and added apologetically:
“That’s rather too harsh. Actually, although these houses are solidly built, they’ve been cut up
and partitioned, and all the new work is flimsy as anything, like paper. You can’t help hearing
through it. Jean, I must admit, does do a good deal of snooping. She’s the type. And of course,
when Genevieve heard Nigel telling Pat his father had murdered his mother, she stopped and
listened for all she was worth.”
The inspector nodded. He had listened to the evidence of Sally
Finch28 and Jean Tomlinson and
Genevieve. He said:
“Who occupies the rooms on either side of Patricia’s?”
“Genevieve’s is beyond it—but that’s a good original wall. Elizabeth Johnston’s is on the other
side, nearer the stairs. That’s only a partition wall.”
“That narrows it down a bit,” said the inspector.
“The French girl heard the end of the conversation. Sally Finch was present earlier on before
she went out to post her letter. But the fact that those two girls were there automatically excludes
anybody else having been able to snoop, except for a very short period. Always with the exception
of Elizabeth Johnston, who could have heard everything through the partition wall if she’d been in
her bedroom, but it seems to be fairly clear that she was already in the common room when Sally
Finch went out to the post.”
“She did not remain in the common room all the time?”
“No, she went upstairs again at some period to fetch a book she had forgotten. As usual, nobody
can say when.”
“It might have been any of them,” said Mrs. Hubbard helplessly.
“As far as their statements go, yes—but we’ve got a little extra evidence.”
He took a small folded paper packet out of his pocket.
“What’s that?” demanded Mrs. Hubbard.
Sharpe smiled.
“A couple of hairs—I took them from between Patricia Lane’s fingers.”
“You mean that—”
There was a tap on the door.
“Come in,” said the inspector.
The door opened to admit Mr. Akibombo. He was smiling broadly, all over his black face.
“Please,” he said.
Inspector Sharpe said impatiently:
“Yes, Mr.—er—um, what is it?”
“I think, please, I have a statement to make. Of first-class importance to
elucidation29 of sad and
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