Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy Read online

  “It’s not my secret. I can’t tell you,” he declared with a sudden show of energy and then sank back into what seemed the lethargy of despair.

  French was more puzzled than ever. The facts looked as bad as possible, and yet if Whymper’s tale were true, he might be absolutely innocent. And French’s inclination was to believe the story so far as it went. The secret might be something discreditable affecting not Mr., but Miss Averill, which would account for the man’s refusal to reveal it. On the other hand, could Whymper be hiding information about the Starvel crime? Was he even shielding the murderer? Could he, learning what had occurred and finding proof of the murderer’s identity, have himself set fire to the house with the object of destroying the evidence? Somehow, French did not think he was himself the murderer, but if he knew the identity of the criminal he was an accessory after the fact and guilty to that extent.

  Whether or not he should arrest the young man was to French a problem which grew in difficulty the longer he considered it. On the whole, he was against it. If Whymper turned out to be innocent such a step would, of course, be a serious blunder, but even if he were guilty there were objections to it. Arrest might prevent him from doing something by which he would give himself away or at least indicate the correct line of research. Free, but with arrest hanging over him, the man would in all probability attempt to communicate with his accomplice—if he had one—and so give a hint of the latter’s identity. French made up his mind.

  “I have more than enough evidence to arrest you now,” he said gravely, “but I am anxious first to put your story to a further test. I will, therefore, for the present only put you under police supervision. If you can see your way to complete your statement, I may be able to withdraw the supervision. By the way, have you got the note Mr. Averill enclosed with the £500?”

  “ Yes; it is in my rooms.”

  “Then come along to your rooms now and give it to me. You had better hand over the notes also, for which of course, I’ll give you a receipt. I shall also want a photograph of yourself and a sample of your handwriting.”

  When French reached the hotel he took out some samples of Mr. Averill’s handwriting which he had obtained from Mr. Tarkington and compared them with that of Whymper’s note. But he saw at a glance that there was nothing abnormal here. All were obviously by the same hand.

  That evening, after racking his brains over his problem, it was borne in on him that a visit to Annecy was his only remaining move. It was not hopeful, but as he put it to himself, you never knew. He felt there was nothing more to be learned at Thirsby, but he might find something at Annecy which would give him a lead.

  He saw Sergeant Kent and urged him to keep a close watch on Whymper’s movements, then next day he went up to town and put the case before Chief Inspector Mitchell. That astute gentleman smiled when he heard it.

  “Another trip to the Continent, eh, French?” he observed drily. “Fond of foreign travel, aren’t you?”

  “It’s what you say, sir,” French answered, considerably abashed. “I admit it’s not hopeful, but it’s just a possibility. However, if you think it best I shall go back to Thirsby, and——”

  “Pulling your leg, French,” the Chief Inspector broke in with a kindly smile. “I think you should go to France. You mayn’t learn anything about the tragedy, but you’re pretty certain to find out Whymper’s business and either convict him or clear him in your mind.”

  That evening at 8.30 French left Victoria and early next morning reached Paris. Crossing the city, he bathed and breakfasted at the Gare de Lyon, and taking the 8.10 a.m. express, spent the day watching the great central plain of France roll past the carriage windows. For an hour or two after starting they skirted the Seine, a placid, well-wooded stream garnished with little towns and pleasant villas. Then through the crumpled up-country north of Dijon and across more plains, past Bourg and Amberieu and through the foothills of the Alps to Culoz and Aix. At Aix French changed, completing his journey on a little branch line and reaching Annecy just in time for dinner. He drove to the Splendid, where Whymper had stayed, a large hotel looking out across a wide street at the side of which came up what looked like a river, but which he afterwards found was an arm of the lake. Scores of little boats lay side by side at the steps along the road, and on the opposite side of the water stood a great building which he saw was the theatre, with behind it the trees of a park.

  After dinner French asked for the manager, and producing his photograph of Whymper inquired if anyone resembling it had recently stayed at the hotel. But yes, the manager remembered his guest’s friend perfectly. He had stayed, he could not say how long from memory, but he would consult the register. Would monsieur be so amiable as to follow him? Yes, here it was. M. Whymper?—was it not so? M. Whymper had arrived on Friday, the 8th of October, and had stayed for three nights, leaving on Monday, the 11th. No, the manager could not tell what his business had been or how he had employed his time. Doubtless he had gone on the lake. To go on the lake was very agreeable. All the hotel guests went on the lake. By steamer, yes. You could go to the end of the lake in one hour, and round it in between two and three. But yes! A lake of the greatest beauty.

  French had not expected to learn more than this from the manager. He remembered that in his original letter to Cook, Whymper had asked for Talloires, and he now spoke of the place. Talloires, it appeared, was a small village on the east side of the lake, rather more than half-way down. A picturesque spot, the manager assured him, with no less than three hotels. If monsieur wished to visit it he should take the steamer. All the steamers called.

  Next morning accordingly French took the steamer from the pleasant little Quay alongside the park. French thought the lake less lovely than that of Thun, but still the scenery was very charming. High hills rose up steeply from the water, particularly along the eastern side, while towards the south he could see across the ends of valleys snow peaks hanging in the sky. Villas and little hamlets nestled in the trees along the shore.

  Right opposite the pier at Talloires was a big hotel, and there French, having ordered a drink, began to make inquiries. But no one had seen the original of the photograph, or recollected hearing a name like Whymper.

  Another large hotel was standing close by, and French strolled towards it beneath a grove of fine old trees which grew down to the water’s edge. This hotel building had been a monastery and French enjoyed sauntering through the old cloisters, which, he was told, formed the salle a manger during the hot weather.

  Having done justice to an excellent déjeuner, he returned to business, producing his photograph and asking his questions. And here he met with immediate success. Both the waiter who attended him and the manager remembered Whymper. The young architect had, it appeared, asked to see the manager and had inquired if he knew where in the neighbourhood a M. Prosper Giraud had lived. When the manager replied that no such person had been there while he had been manager—over five years—Whymper had been extremely disconcerted. He had then asked if Mme. Madeleine Blancquart was known; and on again receiving a negative reply, had been more upset than ever. He had left after lunch and the manager had heard that he had repeated his questions to the police.

  In ten minutes French was at the local gendarmerie, where he learned that not only had Whymper made the same inquiries, but had offered a reward of 5,000 francs for information as to the whereabouts of either of the mysterious couple. Interrogations on the same point had been received from the police at Annecy, so presumably Whymper had visited them also.

  This supposition French confirmed on returning to the little town. Whymper had made his inquiries and offered his reward there also and had seemed terribly disappointed by his failure to locate the people. He had left his address and begged that if either of the persons were heard of a wire should be sent him immediately.

  As French made his way back to London he felt that in one sense his journey had not been wasted. Whymper’s actions seemed on the whole to confirm his sto
ry. French did not believe he would have had the guile to travel out all that way and to show such feeling over a failure to find purely imaginary people. He felt sure that M. Prosper Giraud and Mme. Madeleine Blancquart did really exist and that Mr. Averill had mentioned them. If Whymper had invented these people he would have spoken of them so that his inquiries might be discovered in confirmation of his statement. If Whymper, moreover, had had sufficient imagination to devise such a story, he would certainly have had enough to complete it in a convincing manner.

  The more French considered the whole affair, the more likely he thought it that there really was a secret in the Averill family a secret so important or so sinister that Whymper was willing to chance arrest rather than reveal it. And if so, it could concern but one person. Surely for Ruth Averill alone would the young man run such a risk. And then French remembered that until the fire, that was, until Whymper’s visit to Starvel, the courtship of the young people had been going strong, whereas after the tragedy the affair had seemed at a standstill. There was some secret vitally affecting Ruth. French felt he could swear it. And what form would such a secret be likely to take? French determined that on his return he would make some guarded inquiries as to the girl’s parentage.

  But when he reached London he found a fresh development had taken place, and his thoughts for some time to come were led into a completely new channel.

  CHAPTER VII

  POSTHUMOUS EVIDENCE

  The cause of Inspector French’s change of outlook on the Starvel case was a note from Sergeant Kent which was waiting for him on his arrival at Scotland Yard. The sergeant wrote enclosing a letter addressed to “The Heirs or Assigns of the late Mr. John Roper, Starvel, Thirsby, Yorkshire, W.R.” The postmaster, he explained, had shown it to him, asking him if he knew to whom it should be forwarded. Though he did not suppose it could have anything to do with the tragedy, the sergeant thought that French should see it.

  “No good,” French thought. “Nothing to me.” Nevertheless he slit open the envelope and withdrew the contents.

  It was a letter headed “The Metropolitan Safe Deposit Co., Ltd., 25b, King William Street, City,” and read as follows:

  “DEAR SIR or MADAM,—We beg to remind you that the late Mr. John Roper of Starvel, Thirsby, Yorkshire, W.R., was the holder of a small safe in our strong-rooms. The rent of the safe, 30/– (thirty shillings stg.). is now due, and we should be glad to receive this sum from you or alternatively to have your instructions as to disposal of its contents.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “FOR THE METROPOLITAN SAFE DEPOSIT CO., LTD.”

  To French it seemed a rather unusual thing that a man in Roper’s position should require the services of a safe deposit company. He could not but feel a certain curiosity regarding the object which required such careful guarding. As things were he supposed he had as much right as anybody to deal with the affair, and as it was but a short distance to King William Street, he decided he would go down and investigate.

  Half an hour later he was explaining the position to the manager. As far as was known, Roper had no relatives or heirs. His safe would therefore be given up, and on behalf of Scotland Yard he, French, would take charge of its contents.

  The contents in question proved to be a small sealed envelope, and when French had once again reached the seclusion of his own office he tore it open and ran his eye over its enclosure. As he did so his eyes grew round and he gave vent to a low, sustained whistle. To say that he was at that moment the most astonished man in London would be a very inadequate description of his sensations.

  The enclosure consisted of a single sheet of grey note-paper with an address, “Braeside, Kintilloch, Fife,” printed in small embossed letters at the top. One side was covered with writing, a man’s hand, cultivated, but somewhat tremulous. It read:

  15th May, 1921.

  “I, Herbert Philpot, doctor of medicine and at present assistant on the staff of the Ransome Institute in this town, under compulsion and in the hope of avoiding exposure, hereby remorsefully confess that I am guilty of attempting the death of my wife, Edna Philpot, by arranging that she should meet with an accident, and when this merely rendered her unconscious, of killing her by striking her on the temple with a cricket bat. I do not state my overwhelming sorrow and despair, for these are beyond words.

  “May God have mercy on me,

  “HERBERT PHILPOT.”

  French swore in amazement as he read this extraordinary document. Dr. Herbert Philpot! Surely that was the Thirsby doctor? He turned to his notes of the case. Yes, the name was Herbert all right. Presumably it was the same man. At all events it would be easy to find out.

  But what under the sun did the document mean? Was it really a statement of fact, a genuine confession of murder, written by Philpot? If so, how had it fallen into the hands of Roper, and what had the man been keeping it for? Had he been blackmailing Philpot? Or was the whole thing a forgery? French was completely puzzled.

  But it was evident that the matter could not be left where it stood. It must be gone into and its monstrous suggestion must be proved or rebutted.

  French’s hand stole toward his pocket and half unconsciously he filled and lit his pipe, puffing out clouds of blue smoke while he thought over his latest development. If the confession were genuine and if Roper were blackmailing Philpot, Philpot would want to get rid of Roper. Could it therefore be possible that Philpot was in some way mixed up with the Starvel crime? Not personally, of course; there was medical evidence that the doctor was ill in bed at the time of the tragedy. But could he be involved in some way that French could not at the moment fathom? It seemed too far-fetched to consider seriously, and yet here was undoubtedly a connection with Roper of the most extraordinary kind.

  But this was sheer idiocy! French pulled himself together. An inspector of his service ought to know better than to jump to conclusions! Hadn’t bitter experience again and again taught him its folly? Let him get hold of his data first.

  And then French recalled the statement of the landlord of the Thirsdale Arms in Thirsby. He had taken all that the landlord had said with a grain of salt— gossips were seldom entirely reliable—but if Philpot had been gambling to the extent of embarrassing himself financially. … It was worth looking into, anyway.

  Obviously the first thing was to make sure that the Philpot of the confession really was the Thirsby doctor. This at least was easy. He sent for a medical directory and traced the Thirsby man’s career. A few seconds gave him his information.

  Herbert Philpot was born in 1887, making him now thirty-nine years old. He passed through Edinburgh University, taking his final in 1909. For a year he was at sea and for two more years he worked in one of the Edinburgh hospitals. In 1913 he was appointed junior assistant at the Ransome Institution at Kintilloch, where he remained for eight years. In September, 1921— four months after the date of the confession, French noted—he set up for himself in Thirsby.

  So that was that. French’s interest grew as he considered the matter. If the confession were genuine, the affair would be something in the nature of a scoop, not only for himself personally, but even for the great organisation of the Yard. It would create a first-class sensation. The powers that be would be pleased and certain kudos and possible promotion would be forthcoming.

  French left the Yard and drove to the office of the Scotsman in Fleet Street. There he asked to see the files of the paper for the year 1921, and turning to the month of May, he began a search for news of an accident to a Mrs. Philpot at Kintilloch.

  He found it sooner than he had expected. On the 17th May, two days after the date of the confession, there was a short paragraph headed “Tragic Death of a Doctor’s Wife.” It read:

  “The little town of Kintilloch, Fife, has been thrown into mourning by the tragic death on Tuesday evening of Mrs. Edna Philpot, wife of Dr. Herbert Philpot, one of the staff of the Ransome Institute. The deceased lady in some way tripped while descending the stairs at her
home, falling down the lower flight. Dr. Philpot, who was in his study, heard her cry and rushed out to find her lying unconscious in the hall. She was suffering from severe concussion and in spite of all his efforts she passed away in a few minutes, even before the arrival of Dr. Ferguson, for whom Dr. Philpot had hurriedly telephoned. Mrs. Philpot took a prominent part in the social life of the town and her loss will be keenly felt.”

  “It’s suggestive enough,” French thought as he copied out the paragraph. “It looks as if she had been alone with him in the house. I must get more details.”

  He returned to the Yard and put through a telephone call to the Detective Department of the Edinburgh police, asking that any information about the accident be sent him as soon as possible.

  While he was waiting for a reply his thoughts reverted to Whymper. He was rather troubled in his mind about the young architect. While he was now strongly inclined to believe in his innocence, he was still not certain of it, and he hesitated upon starting off on this new inquiry until he had made up his mind definitely about the other matter. But some further thought showed him that there was no special reason for coming to an immediate decision about Whymper. Sergeant Kent was keeping him under police supervision and might well continue to do so for a day or two more.

  Two days later French received a voluminous dossier of the case from the authorities in Scotland. There were cuttings from several papers as well as three columns from the Kintilloch Weekly Argus. There was a detailed report from the local sergeant embodying a short history of all concerned, and a copy of Dr. Ferguson’s certificate of “death from concussion, resulting from a fall.” Finally there was a covering letter from the head of the department, marked “confidential,” which stated that, owing to some dissatisfaction in the mind of the local superintendent, the matter had been gone into more fully than might otherwise have been the case, but that this inquiry having evolved no suspicious circumstances, the affair had been dropped.