CHAPTER 11 OF THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 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 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 of rest since it happened. The dry official manner in which Inspector Chippenfield produced a notebook 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, bare-headed and barefooted. He tapped loudly on the counter with a haypony. What do you want, boy? roughly asked the inspector.  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'd had better go inside and hear what Hill has to say, Inspector, while Mrs. Hill minds the shop, said Rolf.  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, or how they found out.  This way, sir, if you please. Inspector Chippenfield and Rolf followed him into the parlor. Now Hill impatiently said the Inspector Chippenfield. The butler raised his head verily. I suppose I may well begin at the beginning and tell you everything, he said. Yes, replied the Inspector. It is 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, few banks' 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's 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 to continue Hill humbly, more than he would have trusted most servants on account of my past. I fancy, if I may so, 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 weakness. Hill timidly bowed his head as though apologizing to the dead judge for assailing his character, a weakness for the ladies. Sometimes Sir Horace went off for the weekend 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 a rather loud voice, and I couldn't help overhearing 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 to 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 a 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 at the table at which they had been sitting most knocked over. And the refreshments I'd 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 are 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 and bought 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 leave it 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's 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's 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 Birchhill. He wants to see you tonight 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 Birchhill was a man I'd met in prison, and he was in the cell next to me, how he'd got on my tracks I had no idea, but I seemed to see all my new life falling to pieces now, he knew. I tried to run straight since I served my sentence, and I knew sir Horace would stand to me, but he couldn't afford to have any scandal about it, and I knew that if there was any possibility of my past becoming known, I should have to leave his employ.  Nothing was known about my past here, so I determined to go and see this Birchhill, sir. The address she had given me was in Westminster, and as my time was practically my own, when Sir Horace wasn't home, I went down that same evening. And when I got up the flight of stairs and knocked at the door, it was a woman's voice that said, come in. I thought I recognized the voice. When I opened the door, you can imagine my surprise, when I saw the young woman to be Doris Fanning, who had had the quarrel with Sir Horace that night, and had brought me the note that morning. Birchhill was sitting in a corner of the room, with his feet on another chair smoking a pipe. Come in, number 21, he says, with an unpleasant smile. Come in and say an old friend.  The girl did so, and as soon as the door was close behind her, Birchhill turned round to me and burst out. Hill, that damned employee of yours, has served me a nasty trick, but I'm going to get even with him, and you're going to help me. I was taken back at his words, but I wanted to hear more before I spoke. Then he told me that the young woman I had seen had been brutally treated by Sir Horace. She had been living in a little flat in Westminster on a monthly allowance, which Sir Horace made her. But he'd suddenly cut off her allowance, and she'd have to be turned out in the street to starve, because she couldn't pay her rent. A nice thing said Birchhill fiercely, for this high-placed loose liver to carry on like this with a poor innocent girl whose only fault was that she loved him too well. If I could show him up and pull him down, I would, but I've done time like you, Hill. He was a judge who sentenced me, and if I tried to injure him that way, my word would carry no weight. But I'd put up a job on him that'll make him sorry for the longest day he lives, and you'll help me. Sir Horace is in Scotland, and you're in charge of his place. Get rid of the servant's hill, and we'll burgle his house. We can easily do it between us. At this stage of his narrative, Hill stopped and looked anxiously at his audience, as though to gather some idea of their feelings before he proceeded further. But Inspector Chippenfield, with a fierce stare, merely remarked, And you consented? I didn't at first, Hill retorted earnestly, but when I refused, he'd threatened me, threatened that he'd expose me, and drag me and my wife and child down to poverty. I pleaded with him, but it was of no use, and at last I had to consent. I had some hope that in doing so I might find an opportunity to warn Sir Horace, but Birchhill did not give me a chance. He insisted that the burglary should take place without delay. All I was to do was to give him a plan of the house, explain where to find most valuable articles that had been left there, and wait for him at the flat while he commented the burglary. His idea in making me wait for him at the flat was to make sure that I didn't play him false, put the double on him, as he called it, and he told the girl not to let me out of her sight till he came back. If anything went wrong, I should have to pay for it when he came back. In accordance with Sir Horace's instructions, I sent the servants off to his country state. It had been arranged that Birchhill was to wait for me to come over to the flat on the 18th of August, the night fixed for the burglary. But about seven o'clock while I was at Riversbrook, I heard the noise of wheels outside, and looking out I saw to my dismay Sir Horace getting out of a taxi cab with a suitcase in his hand. My first impulse was to tell him everything. Indeed, I think that if I had had a chance I would have. But he came in looking very severe and without saying a word about why he had returned from Scotland, said very sharply, Hill, have the servants been sent down to the country as I directed? I told him that they had. Very good, he said. Then you go away at once. I won't want you any more. I want the house to myself tonight. Sir Horace began trembling a little, but he stopped me. Go immediately, he said. Don't stand there. And he said it in such a tone that I was glad to go. There was something in his look that frightened me that night. I got across to Birchhill's place and found him and the girl waiting for me. I told him what had happened and begged him to give up the idea of the burglary.  First he said I had been playing him false and had warned Sir Horace. But when I assured him that I hadn't, he insisted on going to commit the burglary just the same. With that he pulled out a revolver from his pocket and swore with an oath that he had put a bullet through me when he came back, if I had played him false and put Sir Horace on his guard, and that he had put a bullet in the old scoundrel, meaning Sir Horace, if he interrupted him while he was robbing the house.  I sat there not daring to breathe, hoping he'd sleep till morning. But Miss Fanningham, waking up about nine, and he staggered to his feet to get out, with his revolver stuck in his coat pocket. He was away over three hours and the girl and I sat there without saying a word, just looking at each other and waiting for a clock on the mantelpiece to chime the quarters. It was a cuckoo clock and it had just chimed twelve when we heard a quick step coming upstairs to the flat. The girl fixed her big dark eyes inquiringly on me and then we heard a horse whisper through the keyhole, telling us to open the door. The girl ran to the door and let him in, Marchie shrieked at the sight of him when she saw him in the light, for he looked ghastly and there was a spot of blood on his face, and his hands were smeared with it. He was shaking all over and he went to the whiskey bottle and drained the drop of spirit he'd left in it. Then he turned to us and said, Sir Horace Fuelwanks is dead, murdered. I suppose he read what he saw in our eyes for he burst out angrily.  You don't think I did it, as gods my judge I never did it. He was dead and stiff when I got there. Then he told us his story of what had happened. He said that when he got to Rivisbrook there was a light in the library and he got over the fence and hid himself in the garden. Then he noticed that there was a light in the hall and that the hall door was open. He thought Sir Horace had left it open by mistake and he was going to creep into the house and hide himself there till after Sir Horace went to bed. But suddenly the light in the library went out and Birchill again hid behind a tree for he thought Sir Horace was retiring for the night. Then the light in the hall went out and immediately after Birchill heard the hall door being closed. Then he heard a step on the gravel path and saw a woman walking quickly down the path to the gate. She was a well-dressed woman and Birchill naturally thought that she was one of Sir Horace's lady friends. But he thought it odd that Sir Horace, who was always a very polite gentleman to the ladies, should not have shown her off the premises. He waited in the garden about half an hour and as everything in the house seemed quite still he made his way to a side window and forced it open. He had an electric torch with him and he used this to find his way about the house. First of all he wanted to find out in which room Sir Horace was sleeping and he knew from the plan he'd made me draw for him which was Sir Horace's bedroom. So he went there and opened the door quietly and listened. But he could not hear anyone breathing. Then he tried some of the other rooms and turned on his torch but could see no one. He thought that perhaps Sir Horace had fallen asleep in a chair in the library and he went there. He listened at the door but could hear no sound. Then he turned on his torch and by its light he saw dreadful sight. Sir Horace was lying huddled up near the desk, dead, just dead, he thought, because there were little bubbles of blood on his lips as if they had been blown there when breathing his last. He didn't want to see any more but he turned and ran out of the house. I didn't believe his story though Miss Fanning did but he stuck to it and seemed so frightened that I thought there might be something in it till he brought out that he'd lost his revolver somewhere. Then I remember the horrid threats he used against Sir Horace and I was convinced that he had committed the murder but of course I dared not let him think I suspected him and I pretended to console him but the feeling that kept running through my head was that both of us would be suspected of the murder. I told this to a Bertschel and that frightened him still more. What are we to do? he kept saying. We shall both be hanged. Then after a while we recovered ourselves a bit and began to look at it from a more commonsense point of view. Nobody knew about Bertschel's visit to the house except our two selves and the girl and there was no reason why anybody should suspect us as long as we kept that knowledge to ourselves. Bertschel's idea after we talked this over was that I should go quietly home to bed and pay a visit to Riversbrook on Friday as usual, discover Sir Horace's few banks body and then tell the police. But I didn't like to do that for two reasons. I didn't think that my nerves would be in a fit state to tell the police how I found the body without betraying to them that I knew something about it and I couldn't bear to think of Sir Horace's body lying neglected all alone in that empty house till the following day though I kept that reason to myself. It was the girl who hid on the idea of sending a letter to the police. She said that it would be the best thing to do because if they were informed and went to the house and discovered the body it wouldn't be so difficult for me to face them afterwards. I agreed to that and so did Bertschel who was very frightened in case I might give anything away and consented on that account. The girl showed us how to write the letter too. She said she'd often heard of anonymous letters being written that way and she brought out three different pens and a bottle of ink and a writing pad. After we'd agreed to write she showed us how to do it each one printing a letter on the paper in turn and using a different pen each time. You took care to leave no fingerprints said Inspector Chippenfield. We used a handkerchief to wrap our hands in said Hill. Bertschel got tired of passing the paper from one to another and wrote all his letters leaving spaces for the girl and made to write in ours. When the letter was written we wrote the address on the envelope the same way and stamped it. Then I went out and posted the letter in a pillar box. At Covent Gardner suggested Inspector Chippenfield. Yes at Covent Garden said Hill. When I got home my wife was awake and in a terrible fright. She wanted to know what I'd been but I didn't tell her. I told her though that my very life depended on nobody knowing I'd been out on my own home that night and I made her swear that no matter who questioned her she'd stick to the story that I'd been at home all night and in bed. She begged me to tell her why and as I knew that she'd have to be told the next day I told her that Sir Horace Few Banks had been murdered. She buried her face in a pillar with a moan. But when I took an oath that I had had no hand in it she'd recovered and promised not to tell a living soul that I had been out of the house and I knew I could depend on her. Next morning as soon as I got up I hurried off to a little wine tavern and asked to see the morning papers. It was a foolish thing to do because I might have known that nothing could have been discovered in time to get into the morning papers for I hadn't posted the letter until nearly four o'clock but I was all nervous and upset and as I couldn't face my wife or settle to anything until I knew the police had got the letter and found the body I though a strictly temperate man in the ordinary course of life Sir sat down in one of the little compartments of the place and ordered a glass of wine to pass the time till the first editions of the evening papers came out. They are usually here about noon but there was no news in the first editions and so I stayed there drinking port wine and buying the papers as fast as they came out but it was not till the six thirty editions came out late in the afternoon that the papers had news. I hurried home then and went up to Riversbrook and reported myself to you Sir. As he finished his story he buried his face in his hands and bowed his head on the table in an attitude of utter dejection. Rolf looking at him wondered if he were acting apart or if he had really told the truth. He looked at Inspector Chippenfield to see how he regarded the confession but his superior officer was specifically writing in his notebook. In a few moments however he put the pocketbook down on the table and turned to the butler. Sit up man! he commanded sternly. I want to ask you some questions. He raised a haggard face. Yes Sir he said with what seemed to be a painful effort. What is this girl fanning like? Rather a show a piece of goods if I may say so sir.  And Sir Horace had been keeping her? I think so sir. And a fourth night before Sir Horace left for Scotland there was her quarrel. Sir Horace cast her off. That is what it looked like to me said the butler. What was the cause of the quarrel? That I don't know sir. Didn't Birchill tell you? Well not in so many words. But I gathered from things he dropped that Sir Horace had found out that he was a friend of Miss Fanning's and didn't like it. Naturally said the philosophic police official. Is Birchill still at this flat and is the girl still there? The last I heard of them they were sir. Of course they had been talking of moving after Sir Horace stopped all the allowance. Well Hill. I'll investigate the story of yours. Said the inspector as he rose to his feet and placed his notebook in his pocket. If it is true, if you have given us all the assistance in your power and have kept nothing back I'll do my best for you. Of course you realize that you are in a very serious position. I don't want to arrest you unless I have to but I must detain you while I investigate what you have told us.  I'll give you three minutes in which to explain things to your wife. End of chapter 11 of The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Reece. Read by Lars Rolander. Chapter 12 of The Hampstead Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rolander. The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Reece. Chapter 12. Do you think Hill's story is true? Rolf asked the inspector Chippenfield as they left Camden town police station and turned in the direction of the tube station. We'll soon find out, replied the inspector. Of course there is something in it, but there is no doubt Hill will not stick at a lie to save his own skin, but we are more likely to get at the truth by threatening to arrest him than by arresting him. If he were arrested he would probably shut up and say no more. And are you going to arrest Bochil? Yes. For the murder? asked Rolf. No. For burglary. It would be a mistake to charge him with murder until we get more evidence. The papers would jeer us if we charged him with murder and then dropped the charge. Do you think Bochil will squeak? On Hill? said the inspector. When he knows that Hill has been trying to fit him for the murder, he'll try to do as much for Hill. And between them we'll come at the truth. We are on the right track at last, my boy. And thank God, we have beaten our friend Crue. Inspector Chippenfield's satisfaction in his impending triumph of a Crue was increased by a chance meeting with a detective. As the two police officials came out of Leicester Square Station on their way to Scotland Yard to obtain a warrant for Bochil's arrest, they saw Crue in a taxi cab. Crue also saw them and telling the driver to pull up, leaned out of the window and looked back at the two detectives. When they came up with the taxi cab, they saw that Crue had on a light overcoat and that there was a suit case beside the driver. Crue was going on a journey of some kind. Anything fresh about the Riverbrook case? he asked. No, nothing fresh, replied Inspector Chippenfield, looking Crue straight in the face. You are a long time in making an arrest, said Crue in a bantering tone. We want to arrest the right man, was the reply. There is nothing like getting the right man to start with. It saves such a lot of time and trouble. Where are you off to? I'm taking a run down to Scotland. The Inspector glanced at Crue rather enviously. You are fortunate in being able to enjoy yourself just now, he said meaningly. I won't drop work altogether, remarked Crue. I'll make a few inquires there. About the Riverbrook affair? Yes. With the murderer practically arrested, Inspector Chippenfield permitted himself the luxury of smiling at the way in which Crue was following up a false scent. I thought the murder was committed in London, not in Scotland, he said. Wrong, Chippenfield, said Crue with a smile. Sir Horace was murdered in Scotland, and his body was brought up to London by train and placed in his own house in order to mislead the police. Good-bye. As the taxi cab drew off, Inspector Chippenfield turned to his subordinate and said, we'll rub it into him when he comes back and finds that we've got our man under lock and key. He's on some wild goose chase, Scotland. He might as well go to Siberia while he's about it. With a warrant in his pocket, Inspector Chippenfield, accompanied by Rolf, set out for Macaulay Mansion's Westminster. They found the mansions to be situated in a quiet and superior part of Westminster, not far from Victoria Station, and consisting of a large block of flats overlooking a square, a pocket-hanked chief patch of green, which was supposed to serve as breathing space for the flats which surrounded it. Macaulay Mansion's had no lift, and Number 43, the scene of the evidence of Hill's confession, was on the top floor. Inspector Chippenfield and Rolf mounted the stairs steadily, and finally found themselves standing on a neat coconut-door mat outside the door of Number 43. The door was closed. Well, well, said the Inspector as he paused panting on the door-mat and rang the bell. Snug quarters of these, very snug.  The door opened, and a young woman confronted them.  She wore a well-made indoor dress of soft satin, without ornaments, and her luxuriant dark hair was simply and becomingly coiled at the back of her head. She held a book in her left hand, with one finger between the leaves, as though the summons to the door had interrupted her reading, and glanced inquiringly at the visitors, waiting for them to intimate their business. She was so different from the type of girl they had expected to see, that Inspector Chippenfield had some difficulty in announcing it. Are you Miss Fanning? he asked. Yes, she replied. Then you are the young woman we wish to see, and with your permission we'll come inside, said Inspector Chippenfield, recovering from his first surprise and speaking briskly. They followed the girl into the hall, and into a room off the hall to which she led the way. A small Pomeranian dog, which lay on an easy chair, sprang up, barking shrilly at their entrance. But at the command of the girl, it settled down on its silk cushion again. The apartment was a small sitting room, dainty furnished in excellent feminine taste. Both police officers took in the contents of the room with a glance of trained observers, and both noticed that prominent among the ornaments on the mantelpiece stood a photograph of the late Sir Horace Few Banks in a handsome silver frame. The photograph made it easy for Inspector Chippenfield to enter upon the object of the visit of himself and his subordinate to the flat. I see you have a photograph of Sir Horace Few Banks there, he said, in what he intended to be an easy conversational tone, waving his hand towards the mantelpiece. The wistful expression of the girl's face deepened as she followed his glance. Yes, she said simply, it is so terrible about him. Was he a relative of yours? asked the Inspector. She had come to the conclusion they were police officers, and that they were aware of the position she occupied. He was very kind to me, she replied. When did you see him last? How long before he died? Are you detectives? she asked. From Scotland Yard replied Inspector Chippenfield with a bow. Why have you come here? Do you think that I know anything about the murder? Not in the least, the Inspector's tone was reassuring. We merely want information about Sir Horace's movements prior to his departure from Scotland. When did you see him last? I don't remember, she said after a pause. You must try, said the Inspector in a tone which contained a suggestion of command. Oh, a few days before he went away. A few days, repeated the Inspector. And you parted on good terms? Yes, on very good terms, she met his glance frankly. Inspector Chippenfield was silent for a moment. Then, fixing his fiercest stare on the gall, he remarked abruptly. Why is Birchhill? Birchhill? She endeavoured to appear surprised, but her sudden pallor betrayed her inward anxiety at the question. I don't know what you mean. I mean the man you've been keeping with Sir Horace Few Bank's money, said the Inspector brutally. I've been keeping no body with Sir Horace Few Bank's money, protested the girl feebly. It's cruel of you to insult me. That'll about do to go on with, said Inspector Chippenfield, with a sudden change of tone, rising to his feet as he spoke. Rolf, keep an eye on her while I search the flat. Rolf crossed over from where he had been sitting and stood beside the girl. She glanced up at him wildly, with terror dawning in the depth of her dark eyes. What do you mean? How dare you! she cried in an effort to be indignant. Now don't try your tragedy errors on us, said the Inspector. We've no time for them. If you won't tell the truth, you had better say nothing at all. He plunged his hand into a jardinier and withdrew a briar wood pipe. This looks to me like Birchhill's property. Keep that dog back, Rolf. The little dog had sprung off his cushion and was eagerly following the Inspector out of the room. Rolf caught up the animal in his arms and returned to where the girl was sitting.  The Inspector tramped noisily into the little hall, leaving the door of the room wide open. Rolf and the girl saw him fling open the door of another room, a bedroom, and stride into it. He came out again shortly, and went down the hall to the rear of the flat. A few minutes later he came back to the room where he had lived Rolf and the girl. His knees were dusty, and some feathers were adhering to his jacket, as though he had been plunging in odd nooks and corners and beneath beds. He was hot, flurried, and out of temper. The birch-flown were his first words addressed to Rolf. I've hunted high and low, but I cannot find a sign of him. It beats me how he's managed it. He couldn't have gone out the front way without my seeing him go past the door, and the back windows are four stories high from the ground. Perhaps he wasn't here when we came in, suggested Rolf. Oh, yes, he was. Why, he'd been smoking that pipe in this very room. She was clever enough to open the window to let out the tobacco smoke before she left us in. But she didn't hide the pipe properly, for I saw the smoke from it coming out of the chardonnay, and when I put my hand on the bowl, it was hot. Feel it now. Rolf placed his hand on the pipe, which Inspector Chippenfield had deposited on the table. The bowl was still warm, indicating that the pipe had recently been alight. He must have been smoking the pipe when we knocked at the door and dashed away to hide before she let us in, grumbled the Inspector. But the question is, where can he have got to? I've hunted everywhere, and there's no way out except by the front door, so far as I can see. Go and have a look yourself, Rolf, and see if you can find a trace of him. I'll watch the go. Rolf put down the little dog he had been holding, and went out into the hall. The dog accompanied him, frisking about him in a friendly fashion. Rolf first examined the bedroom that he had been seen Inspector Chippenfield enter. It was a small room containing a double bed. It was prettily furnished in white, with white curtains and toilet table articles in ivory too much. A glance round the room convinced Rolf that it was impossible for a man to secrete himself in it. The door of the wardrobe had been flung open by the Inspector, and the dresses and other articles of feminine apparel it contained flung out of the floor.  Rolf went out into the hall again, and entered the room next to the bedroom. This apartment was apparently used as a dining room, for it contained a large table, a few chairs, a small sideboard, a spirit stand, a case of books and ornaments, and two small oak presses. Plainly, there was no place in it where a man could hide himself. The next room was the bathroom, which was also empty. Opposite the bathroom was a small bedroom, very barely furnished, offering no possibility of concealment. Then the passage opened into a large roomy kitchen. The full width of the rooms on both sides of the hall and the kitchen completed the flat. Rolf glanced keenly around the kitchen. There were no cooking appliances visible, or pots or pans, but there was much lumber and odds and ends as though the place were used as a storeroom. Presumably Miss Fanning obtained her meals from the restaurant on the ground floor of the mansions, and had no use for a kitchen. The room was dirty and dusty, and crowded with all kinds of rubbish. But the Michelinist rubbish stored in the room offered no hiding place for a man. Rolf nevertheless made a conscientious search, shifting the lumber about, and fretting into dark corners without result. Finally he crossed the room to look out of the window, which had been left open, no doubt by Inspector Chippenfield. The mansions in which the flat was situated formed part of a large building with back windows overlooking a small piece of ground. The flat was on the fourth story. Rolf looked around the neighbouring proofs, and down onto the ground fifty feet below, but could see nothing. He withdrew his head, and was turning to leave the room when his attention was attracted by the peculiar behaviour of the dog, which had followed him throughout on his search. The little animal, after sniffing about the floor, ran to the open window, and started whining and jumping up at it. Rolf quickly returned to the window and looked out. Why, of course, he muttered, how could I have overlooked it? Inspector, he called aloud, come here. Inspector Chippenfield appeared in the kitchen in a state of some excitement at the summons. He carried the key of the front room in his hand, having taken the precaution to lock Miss Fanning in before he responded to the call of his colleague. What is it, Rolf? he asked eagerly. This dog has tracked him to the window, so is he evidently escaped that way? He explained Rolf briefly. He has climbed along the window ledge. Inspector Chippenfield approached the window and looked out. A broad window ledge immediately beneath the window ran the whole length of the building beneath the windows on the fourth floor, and so far as could be seen continued round the side of the house. It was a dizzy but not a difficult feat for a man of cool head to walk along the ledge to the corner of the house. I wonder where that infernal ledge goes to, said Inspector Chippenfield, wainly twisting his neck and protruding his body through the window to a dangerous extent to see round the corner of the building. I daresay it leads to the water pipe, and the scoundrel, knowing that, has been able to get round, shin down, and get clear away. I'll soon find out, said Rolf. I'll walk along to the corner and see. Do you think you can do it, Rolf? asked the Inspector nervously. If you fell, he glanced down to the ground far below with a shutter. Nonsense, love-troll. I won't fall. Why, the ledge is a foot broad, and I've got a steady head. He may not have got very far after all, and I may be able to see him from the corner. He got out of the window, as he spoke, and started to walk carefully along the ledge towards the corner of the building. He reached it safely, peered round, screwed himself round sharply, and came back to the open window, almost at a run. You're right, he gasped, as he sprang through. I saw him. He is climbing down the spouting, using the chimney-brick work as a brace for his feet. If we get downstairs, we may catch him. He was out of the kitchen in an instant, up the passage, and racing down the steps at a time before the Inspector had recovered from his surprise. Then he followed as quickly as he could, but Rolf had a long start of him. When Inspector Chippenfield reached the ground floor, Rolf was nowhere in sight. The Inspector looked up and down the street, wondering what had become of him. At that instant, a tall, young man, bare-headed and coatless, came running out of an alleyway pursued by Rolf. Stop him! cried Rolf to his superior officer. Inspector Chippenfield stepped quickly out into the street in front of the fugitive. The young man canooned into the burly officer before he could stop himself, and the Inspector clutched him fast. He attempted to wrench himself free, but Rolf had rushed to his superior's assistance and drew the baton with which he had provided himself when he set out from Scotland Yard. Your maiden bother about using that thing, said the young man contemptuously.  I realise you've got me. We'll not give you another chance, Inspector Chippenfield dexterously snapped a pair of handcuffs on the young man's wrist. What are these for? said the captive regarding them sullenly. You'll know soon enough when we get you upstairs, replied the Inspector. Now then, up you go. They re-ascended the stairs in silence. Inspector Chippenfield and Rolf walking on each side of their prisoner, holding him by the arms, in case he tried to make another bolt. They reached the flat and found the front door open, as they had left it. The Inspector entered the hall and unlocked the drawing-room door. The girl was sitting on the chair where they had left her, with her head bowed down in an attitude of the deepest ejection. She straightened herself suddenly as they entered, and launched a terrified glance at the young man. Oh, Fred! she gasped. They were too good for me, Doris, he responded, as though in reply to her unspoken query. I would have gone away from this chap. He indicated role with the nod of his head, but I ran into the other one. He stooped as he spoke to brush with his manacled hands some of the dirt from his clothes, which he had doubtless gained in his perilous climb down the side of the house, and then straightened himself to look loweringly at his captors. He was a tall slender young fellow of about 25 or 26, clean-shaven with a fresh complexion and a rather effeminate air. He was well dressed in a grey lounge suit, a soft shirt with a high double collar and silk neck tie. He looked as he stood there more like a danyfied city clerk than the desperate criminal suggested by Hill's confession. Come on, watch the charge! he demanded insolently, with a slight glance at his manacled hands. Is your name Fredrick Birchell? asked Inspector Chippenfield. The young man nodded. Then, Fredrick Birchell, your charge, with burglaryously entering the house of Sir Horace Fewbanks at Hempstead on the night of the 18th of August. Birglary? said Birchell. Anything else? That will do for the present, replied the Inspector. We may find it necessary to charge you with a more serious crime later. Well, all I can say is that you've got the wrong man, but that is nothing new for you chaps, he added with a sneer. Surely you're not going to charge him with the murder? said the girl imploringly. The Inspector's reply was merely to warn the prisoner that anything he said might be used in evidence against him at his trial. He had nothing whatever to do with it. He knows nothing about it, protested the girl. If you let him go, I'll tell you who murdered Sir Horace. Who murdered him? asked the Inspector. Hill was the reply. End of Chapter 12 of the Hempstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees. Read by Lars Rolander, Chapter 13 of the Hempstead Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rolander, The Hempstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees, Chapter 13. Doris Fanning got off a Hallbond Tram at King's Cross, and with a hasty glance around her, as if to make sure she was not followed, walked at a rapid pace across the street, in the direction of Caledonian Road. She walked up that busy thoroughfare, at the same quick gate for some minutes, then turned into a narrow street, and with another suspicious look around her, stopped at the doorway of a small shop, a short distance down. The shop sold those nondescript goods, which seemed to afford a living to a not inconsiderable class of London's small shopkeepers. The windows and the shelves were full of dusty old books and magazines, Trumpery, Curious and Cheap China, Second Hand Furniture, and a collection of Michelinous Odds and Ends.  Moreover, the door was closed as though customers were not expected. The girl tried the door and found it locked, a fact which seemed to indicate that customers were not even desired. After another hasty look up and down the street, she tapped sharply on the door in a peculiar way. The door was opened after the lapse of a few minutes by a short thick-set man over 50, whose heavy face displayed none of the suavity and desire to please, which is part of the stocking trade of the small shopkeeper of London. A look of annoyance crossed his face at the sight of the girl, and his first remark to her was one which no well-regulated shopkeeper would have addressed to a prospective custer. You, he exclaimed, what in God's name has brought you here? I told you on no account to come to the shop. How do you know somebody hasn't followed you? I could not help it, kinsher. The girl responded pitchlessly. I am distracted about Fred, and I had to come over to ask your advice. You women are all fools, the man retorted. You might have known that I would read all about the case in the papers, and that I'd let you hear from me. Yes, kinsher, she replied humbly. But they let me see Fred for a few minutes yesterday at the police court, and he told me to come over and see you. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered since he was arrested. Yesterday he was committed for trial. I haven't closed my eyes for over a week. So you attended the police court proceedings, said Kemp, and when the girl nodded her head he went on. The more fool you, I suppose it would be too much to expect a woman to keep away even though she knew she could do no good. I knew that, kinsher, but I simply had to go. I should have died if I had stayed in that dreadful flat alone. I tried to, but I couldn't. I got so nervous that I had to put my handkerchief into my mouth to prevent myself from screaming aloud. While, since you were here, you'd better come inside instead of standing there and giving yourself and me away to every passing policeman. He led the way inside, and the girl followed him to a dirty, cheerless room behind the shop, which was furnished with a sofa bedstead, a table, and a chair. It was evident that Kemp lived alone and attended to his own once. The remains of an unappetizing meal were on a corner of the table, and a kettle and a teapot stood by the fireplace, in which a fire had recently been made with a few sticks for the purpose of boiling a kettle. Bedclothes were heaped on the sofa bedstead in a disordered state, and in the midst of them nestled a large tortoise shell-cat. Sit down, said Kemp. There was an old chair near the fireplace, and he pushed it towards her with his foot. What brought you over here? The girl sank into the chair and began to cry. I can't help it, Kensha, she said. I don't know what to say or do. Fancy Fred being charged with murder. Oh, it's too dreadful to think about, and yet I can't think of nothing else. Crying your eyes out won't help matters much, replied the unsympathetic Kemp. The girl did not reply, but rocked herself backwards and forwards on the chair. She summed so violently that she appeared to be threatened with an attack of hysteria. Kemp watched her silently. The cat on the sofa bedstead, as if awakened by the noise, got up, jawned, looked inquiralling round, and then with a measured leap sprang into the girl's lap. She was startled by his act, and then she smiled through her sobs as she stroked the animal's coat. Poor old Peter, she exclaimed, he wants to console me. Don't you, Peter? I say, Kensha, I wish you'd give me, Peter. You don't want him. Oh, look at the deer. The cat had perched himself on one of her knees to beg, and he soared the air appealingly with his forepaws. I must give him a tit-bit for that. She eyed the remains of the meal on the table disdainfully. No, Peter, there is nothing fit for you to eat, positively nothing. Why, he understands me like a human being, she continued in amazement, as the huge cat dropped on all fours and deliberately sprang back to the sofa bedstead. I say, Kensha, you really want a woman in this place to look after you? It's in a most shocking state, it's like a pigsty. Kemp made no reply, but continued to watch her. Her tears had vanished, and she sat forward with her dark-eyed sparkling, one hand supporting her pretty face as she glanced round the room. Have you a cigarette? She asked suddenly. Kemp went into the shop and came back with a packet of cheap cigarettes. The girl pushed them away petulantly. I don't like that brand, she said. Haven't you got anything better? The man shook his head. No, then here goes. I must have a smoke or some sort. She stuck one of the cheap cigarettes dainty into her mouth. A match, Kensha, why the box is filthy. You must have a woman in to look after you, even if I have to find you one myself. I don't want a woman in the place, retorted Kemp. There is no peace for a man when a woman is about. What, let us have no more of this idle chatter. What brought you over here? I suppose it's about Fred. Poor Fred! The girl looked downcast for a moment. Then she tossed her head, puffed out some smoke, and exclaimed energetically. But he's not guilty, Kensha, and we'll get him off, won't we? Not merely by saying so, replied Kemp. What you'd better tell me how it came about that he was arrested for the murder. The police gave away nothing at the police court. Bill Dobbs was down there, and he told me they let out nothing. Except that their principal witness against Fred is that fellow Hill. I always knew he'd squeak. I told Fred to have nothing to do with the job. The girl's eyes flashed viciously. She tossed the cigarette into the fireplace and straightened herself. That's the low dirty scoundrel who committed the murder, she exclaimed. He ought to be in the dark, not Fred. Was Fred up there that night? asked him. Up where? At Riversbrook, or whatever they call it. Yes, he told me he didn't go. It's because he was up there that the police have arrested him, said the girl. Hill gave him away. Oh, he's a double-dyed villain, is Hill, and so quiet and respectable looking with it all. He used to let me in when I went to Riversbrook, and let me out again, and pocket the half-crows I gave him. And I, like a fool, never suspected him once, or thought that he knew anything about Fred coming to the flat. He didn't let it out till the night Sir Horace quarreled with me. Sir Horace found out about Fred, and when I went up to see him as usual, he told me that he had finished with me, and he called Hill up to show me out. Show this young lady out, he said, in that cold, haughty voice of his. And the vile old villain Hill just bowed, and held the door open. He followed me downstairs, and let me out at the side door. There he said, I'll escort you to the front gate. If you will permit me, miss. I usually lock the gate about this time. I thought nothing of this because he had come with me to the front gate before. He followed me down the garden path through the plantation till we reached the front gate. He opened the gate for me, and I said, good night, Hill. But instead of his replying, good night, miss Fanning, as he usually did, he hissed out like a serpent. You tell Bertil I want to see him to-morrow, and I'll come to the flat about nine o'clock. Tell him an old friend named Field wants to see him. Don't forget the name, Field. Then he locked the gate and was gone before I could speak a word. I gave Fred his message next morning. I wished, oh God, that I hadn't. She continued. I asked Fred not to keep the appointment, but he insisted on doing so. He said that he and Field had been good friends in the jail, and that Field had told him that if he ever got on to anything he would let him know. He seemed quite pleased at the idea of meeting Field again. I told him to beware that Field wasn't lying atrap for him, but he wouldn't listen to me. Sure enough, Field or Hill, as he calls himself now, did come over that evening, and I let him in myself. I took him into the sitting-room where Fred was, and I sat down in a corner of the room pretending to read a book, so that I could hear what our visitor had to say. But the cunning old devil whispered something to Fred, and Fred came over to me and asked if I'd mind leaving them alone for half an hour. I didn't mind so much, because I knew I could get it all out of Fred after he had gone.  Fred came into me, and I soon got the strength of it all from him. What do you think Hill had come for, to get Fred to burgle Sir Horace's house? And Fred had agreed to do it. I cried, and I stormed, and went into hysterics. But he wouldn't budge. You know how obstinate he can be when he likes. He said that Hill had told him there was a good hall to be picked up. Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting, and the servants were to be sent to his country house, so the coast would be clear. Hill was to leave everything right at Riversbrook on the afternoon of the 18th of August, and he was to come across to the flat and let Fred know. Hill came, as he promised, but as soon as he came in, I could see that something had happened. The first words he said were that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly from Scotland. I was glad to hear it, for I thought that meant that there would be no burglary. I said as much to Fred, and he would have agreed with me, but that devil Hill was too full of cunning. Of course, if you were frightened, we'd better call it off, he said.  I was never frightened of any job jet, he said, and I'd do this job tonight if the house was full of rosters. Hill pretended that he wasn't particular whether the thing came off or not that night. But all the while he kept egging Fred on to do it. Oh, I can see now what his game was. In spite of all I could do or say, it was arranged that Fred should go over, and see if it was quite safe to carry out the job. Hill said he thought Sir Horace was going out that night, and wouldn't be home until the early morning. About nine o'clock Fred went off, leaving Hill and me alone in the flat together. How I wish now that I had killed him when I had such a good chance. We sat there, scarcely speaking, and heard the clock strike the hours. After midnight I began to get restless, for I thought something must have happened to Fred. Hill said in a low voice, it's time Fred was back. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when I heard Fred step outside, and I ran to let him in. He came in as white as a sheet. Fred, I cried as soon as I saw him. There is some blood on your face. He didn't answer a word until he had taken a big drink of whiskey out of the decanter. Then he said in a whisper, Sir Horace, few banks has been murdered. Murdered cried Hill, leaping up from his chair. He can act well. I can tell you. My God! Fred, you don't mean it.  I thought, and at the time I suppose Hill thought that Fred had shot him either accidentally, or in order to escape capture. He seemed to guess what we were thinking, for he swore that he had nothing to do with it. Sir Horace was dead on the floor when he got there. He told us all that had happened. When he got to Riversbrook he found lights burning on the ground floor. He jumped over the fence at the side and hid in the garden. He was there only a few minutes when he saw the lights go out. Then the front door was slammed and a woman walked down the garden path to the gate. A woman exclaimed Kemp. Yes, a woman. Why not? She had been to see Sir Horace, one of his society mistresses. I'll bet it was on her account that he came back from Scotland. What time was this? He asked with interest. About half past ten, replied the girl.  So Fred says. Of course he thought Sir Horace had done it, but he found out later that Sir Horace was dead. I can't understand it, said Kemp. What was she doing there? If she found the man dead, why didn't she inform the police? Now, wait a minute. She'd be afraid to do that if she was a society woman. It might be her who killed him, said the girl. Does Fred think that? Asked Kemp, looking at her closely. Fred doesn't know what to think, she replied. But it must have been this woman, or Hill who killed him. I feel sure myself that it was Hill. This woman parcels me, said Kemp thoughtfully. She must have been a cool hand if she went round turning out the lights after finding his dead body. About half past ten, you said. That is as near as Fred can make it. Go on with your story, he said. I'm interested in this. You were saying that Fred saw the lights go out, and then this woman came out of the house and walked away? Well, Fred got into the house through one of the windows at the side. The one Hill had told him to try, continued the girl. But first of all he waited about half an hour in the garden, so as to give Sir Horace time to go to sleep. He was able to find his way about the house, as Hill had given him a plan. He felt his way upstairs, and finding a door open, he went into the room and flashed his electric torch. By its light he saw Sir Horace few banks lying huddled up in a corner, with a big pool of blood beside him on the floor. He felt him to see if he was dead. The body was quite warm, but it was limp. Sir Horace was dead. Fred says he lost his nerve and ran for it as hard as he could. He rushed downstairs and out of the house and got back to the flat as fast as he could. The three of us sat there shaking with fear and wondering what to do. Hill was the first to recover himself. In his cunning plausible way, he pointed out that it was altogether unlikely that suspicion would fall on Fred or him. All we had to do was to keep quiet and say nothing. Then we'd have no awkward questions put to us. It was his suggestion that we should send an anonymous letter to Scotland Yard, telling them that Sir Horace had been murdered. That would be much better, he said, than leaving the body there until he went over and found it, when he had to go over to Riversbrook to take a look round, in accordance with the instructions that had been given him when Sir Horace went to Scotland. Knowing what he did, he was afraid that if he was allowed to discover the body and inform the police, he would let something slip when the police came at him with their hundreds of questions. We printed the letter to Scotland Yard, each one doing a letter at a time. Hill took it with him, saying he would post it on his way home. When he left, Fred and I sat there thinking. Suddenly it came to me as clear as daylight that Hill had committed the murder and had fixed up things so as to throw suspicion on Fred. He must have known Sir Horace was coming back from Scotland that night, and he had laid in wait for him and shot him. Then he had come over to my flat in order to persuade Fred to carry out the burglary, and direct suspicion to Fred for the murder, if the police worried him. I told Fred what I thought, but he only laughed at me and said I was talking nonsense. But I was right, for a week afterwards the police came and arrested Fred at the flat. How did they get him? asked Kemp. I saw them coming along the street from the window, and I pointed them out to Fred. He tried to get away through the kitchen window along the ledge and down the spotting. He almost got away, but one of the detectives saw him before he reached the ground, and they dashed downstairs and got him in the street. Next day I saw in the papers that Hill had made an important statement to the police, and this had led to Fred's arrest. Hill is the murderer kinsher. The cunning, wicked, treacherous villain told the police about Fred being up there. He wants to see Fred hang in order to save his own neck. The girl's voice rose to shriek, and she sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. Kinsher, she cried, you've got to help me put the rope around this wretched neck, do you hear me? Kemp's impassivity was in marked contrast to the girl's hysterical excitement. What do you want me to do? he asked. Fred wants you to get up and alibi for him. He sent me over to ask you to arrange it without delay. He wants you and two or three others to swear that he was over here on the night of the murder. That will be sufficient to get him off. Not me, said Kemp, shaking his head decidedly. I won't do it. It's too risky.  I'd only be landing myself in trouble for perjury instead of helping Fred out of trouble. He ought to have gotten alibi ready before he was arrested. I told him at the inquest that he ought to look after it, and he swore he'd not been up there on the night of the murder. It is too late to do anything in the alibi line now. I don't know anybody I could get to come forward and swear Fred was in their company that night. There is a difference between fixing up a tail for the police before a man's arrested and going into the witness box and committing perjury on earth. He spoke in such an uncompromising tone that the girl saw it was useless to pursue the matter further. Suppose I went to the police and told them that he was the murderer? She suggested. Kemp shook his head slowly. There is only your word for it that he'll kill them, he said. It doesn't look to me as if he did when he went over to your flat and told Fred that Sir Horace had come back from Scotland. If he had killed him, he would have let Fred go over without saying a word about it. Well, that was part of his cunning, said the girl. If he had said nothing about Sir Horace's return, Fred would have suspected him when he found the dead body.  Kemp shrugged his shoulders as though realising the uselessness of attempting to combat such a feminine form of reasoning. Didn't Fred say that the body was warm when he touched it? He asked. She meditated a moment over this evidence of Hill's innocence. Well, if Hill didn't kill him, the woman Fred so lean in the house must have done so, she declared. There is something in that, said Kemp. Look here, we've got to get Fred a good lawyer to defend him, and we must be guided by his advice as to what is the best thing to do. He knows more about what will go down with a jury than you do. I paid a solicitor to defend him at the police court, said the girl, but the money I gave him was thrown away. He said nothing, and did nothing. That shows he's a man who knows his business, replied Kemp. What's the good of talking to police court beaks in a case that is bound to go to trial? It's a waste of breath. The thing is to see that Fred is probably defended when the case come on at the Old Bailey.  I should say Holly Mead is the man, if you can get him. I don't know as he'd be likely to take up the case, for he don't go in much for criminal courts, and yet it seems to me that he might. You ought to try to get him, at least. He used to be a friend of your friends or horrors. So if he took up the case, it would look as if he believed Fred had nothing to do with a murder. It would be bound to make a good impression on the jury. Wouldn't it be very expensive? asked the girl. Not so expensive as getting hanged, said Kemp Grimley. You take my advice and have him, if you can get him. Never mind what he costs, if you can raise the money. You've got some money saved up, haven't you? Yes. I've nearly two hundred pounds. Sir Horace put hundred pounds in the savings bank for me on my last birthday. And the furniture at the flat is mine. I'd sell that and everything I've got for Fred's sake. That is the way to talk, said Kemp.  Tell him he must brief Holly Mead. I have nobody else but Holly Mead. Tell him that Holly Mead was a friend of Sir Horace's few banks, and that if he appears for the Fred, the jury will never believe that Fred had anything to do with the murder. And I don't think he had, though he did lie to me and swear he hadn't been up there that night. He added, after a moment's reflection, End of Chapter 13 of The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees. Read by Lars Rolander. Chapter 14 of The Hampstead Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Lars Rolander. The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees. Chapter 14. There is one link in the chain missing, said Rolf, who was discussing with Inspector Chippenfield in the lattice room at Scotland Yard, the strength of the case against Birchhill. And what is that? asked his superior. The piece of woman's handkerchief that I found in the dead man's hand, you remember, we agreed that it showed there was a woman in the case. Well, what do you call this girl fanning? Isn't she in the case? Surely you don't want any better explanation of the murder than a quarrel between her and Sir Horace over this man Birchhill? Yes, I see that plain enough, replied Rolf. There is ample motive for the crime. But how that piece of handkerchief got into the dead man's hand is still a mystery to me. It would be easily explained if this girl was present in the room or the house when the murder was committed. But she wasn't. Hill stories that she was at the flat with him. When you've had as much experience in investigating crime as I have, you won't worry over little points that at first don't seem to fit in with what we know to be facts, responded the inspector in a patronizing tone. I noticed from the first roll that you were inclined to make too much of this handkerchief business. But I said nothing. Of course, it was your own discovery and I have found during my career that young detectives are always inclined to make too much of their own discoveries. Perhaps I was myself when I was young and inexperienced. Now, as to this handkerchief, what is more likely than that Birchill had it in his pocket when he went out to Riversbrook on that fatal night? He was living in the flat with this girl fanning. What was more natural than that he should pick up a handkerchief of the floor that the girl had dropped and put it in his pocket for the intention of giving it to her when she returned to the room. Instead of doing so, he forgot all about it. When he shot Sir Horror's few banks, he put his hands into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead or his hands. It was a hot night and I take it that a man who has killed another doesn't feel as cool as a cucumber. While stooping over his victim with the handkerchief still in his hand, the dying man made a convulsive movement and caught hold of the corner of the handkerchief, which was torn off. Inspector Chippenfield looked across at his subordinate with a smile of triumphant superiority. Yes, said Rolf, meditatively. There is nothing wrong about that as far as I can see, but I would like to know for certain how it got there. Inspector Chippenfield was satisfied with his subordinate's testimonial to his specificacity. That is all right, Rolf, he said in a tone of kindly banter, but don't make the mistake of regarding your idle curiosity as a virtue. After the trial, if you are still curious on the point, I have no doubt virtue will tell you. He is sure to make a confession, though, for he is hanged. But it was more a spirit of idle curiosity than anything else that brought Rolf to Cruz's chambers in Holborn an hour later. Having secured the murderer, he felt curious as to what Cruz's feelings were on his defeat. It was the first occasion that he had been on a case which Cruz had been commissioned to investigate. And he was naturally pleased that Inspector Chippenfield and he had arrested the author of the crime, while Cruz was all at sea. It was plain from the fact that the latter had thought it necessary to visit Scotland that he had got on a false sin. It was not Scotland, but Scotland Yard that Cruz should have visited, Rolf said to himself with a smile. Cruz, in pursuance of his policy of keeping on the best terms for the police, gave Rolf a very friendly welcome. He produced from a cup or two glasses a decanter whiskey, a siphon of soda, and a box of cigars. Rolf quickly discovered that the cigars were of equalities that seldom came his way, and he leaned back in his chair and puffed with steady enjoyment. Then you are determined to hang Bertschild, said Cruz, as with the cigar in his fingers he faced his visitor with a smile. We'll hang him right enough, said Rolf. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it approvingly. Though the talk was of hanging, he'd never felt more thoroughly at peace with the world. It will be a pity if you do, said Cruz. Why? Because he's the wrong man. It would take a lot to make me believe that, said Rolf Stoutley. We've got a strong case against him. There is not a weak point in it. I admit that he was a tainted witness, but they'll find it pretty hard to break down his story. We've tested it in every way and find its stance. Then there are the boot marks outside the window. Bertschild's boots fit them to the smallest fraction of an inch. The gem he found in the flat fits the mark made in the window at Riversbrook, and we've got something more. Another witness saw him in Tanton Gardens about the time of the murder. If Bertschild can get his neck out of the noose, he's cleverer than I take him for. Crue did not reply directly to Rolf's summary of the case. I see that they've briefed Hallimede for the defense, he said after a pause. A waste of good money, said the police officer. Something appealed to a sense of humor, for he broke out into a laugh. What are you laughing at? asked Crue. I was wondering how Sir Horace feels when he sees the money he gave this girl Fanning being used to defend his murderer.  It was a cunning move of them to get Hallimede, said Rolf. They think it will weigh with the jury because he was such a close friend of Sir Horace, that he wouldn't have taken up the case unless he felt that Bertschild was innocent. What, you and I know better than that, Mr. Crue. A lawyer will prove that black is white if he's paid for it. I understand that, according to the etiquette of the bar, they have got to do it. A barrister has to abide by his brief and leave his personal feelings out of account. That's so. Theoretically he's an officer of the court, and his services are supposed to be at the call of any man who is in want of him and can afford to pay for them. Of course, a leading barrister such as Hallimede often declines a brief because he has so much to do. But he's not supposed to decline it for personal reasons. His heart will not be in the case, said Rolf philosophically. On the contrary, I think it will, said Crue. My own opinion is that, if necessary, he will exert his powers to the utmost in order to get Bertschild off, and that he will succeed. Not he, said Rolf confidently. Our case is too strong. You've got a lot of circumstantial evidence, but a clever lawyer will pull it to pieces. Circumstantial evidence has hung many a man, and it will hang many more. But a jury will hesitate to convict on circumstantial evidence when it can be shown that the conduct of the prisoner is at variance with what the conduct of a guilty man would be.  It's a one-sided beggar, but I'll take the cigars because I could do with a box of these, said Rolf. You might as well give them to me now, Mr. Crue. No, no, said Crue with a smile. Put a couple in your pocket now, because you won't win the box. Of course, I understand, Mr. Crue, why you say Bertschild is a wrong man. You feel a bit sore because we have beaten you. I would feel sore myself in your place, and I don't deny that we got information that put us on Bertschild's track, and therefore it was easier for us to solve the mystery than it was for you. I'm not a bit sore, said Crue. I can take a beating, especially when the men who beat me are good sportsmen. He bowed towards Rolf, and that officer blushed as he recalled how Inspector Chippenfield and he had agreed to withhold information from Crue and to try to put him on a false end. I wish you'd tell me what you consider the weak points of our case against Bertschild, asked Rolf. Your case is based on Hill's confession, and that, to my mind, is false in many details, said Crue. Take, for instance, his account of how he came into contact with Bertschild again. This girl fanning after quarrel with Sir Horace came over to Riversbrook with a message for Hill, which was virtually a threat. Now, does that seem probable? The girl who had been in the habit of visiting Sir Horace goes over to see Hill. No woman in the circumstances would do anything of the sort. She had too good an opinion of herself to take a message to a servant at a house from which she had been expelled by the owner who had been keeping her. How would she have felt it if she had run into Sir Horace? It is true that Sir Horace left for Scotland the day before, but it is improbable that the girl who had quarrelled with Sir Horace a fortnight before knew the exact date on which he intended to leave. And how did Hill behave when he got the message? According to his story, he considered to go and see Bertschild under threat of exposure, and he consented to become an accomplice in the burglary for the same reason. Sir Horace knew all about Hill's past, so why should he fear a threat of exposure? Hill explained that in the post-roll. He pointed out that, though Sir Horace knew his past, he couldn't afford to have any scandal about it. Quite so, but could Bertschild afford to threaten a man who was under the protection of Sir Horace's few banks? Would Bertschild pit himself against Sir Horace? I think that Sir Horace, knowing the law pretty thoroughly, would soon have found a way to deal with Bertschild. If he was threatened by Bertschild, his first impulse, knowing what a powerful protector he had in Sir Horace's few banks, would have been to go to him and seek his protection against this dangerous old associate of his convict days. According to Hill's own story, he was something in the nature of a confidential servant, trusted to some extent with the secrets of Sir Horace's double life, what more likely than such a man threatened, as he describes, should turn to his master, who had shielded him and trusted him. I confess that is a point which never struck me, said Rolf thoughtfully. Now, let us go on to the meeting between Hill and Bertschild, continued crew. This girl, Fanning, discarded by Sir Horace because he discovered she was playing in falls with Bertschild, is made ostensible reason for Bertschild's wishing to commit a burglary at Riversbrook, because Bertschild wants, as he says, to get even with Sir Horace's few banks. Is it likely that Bertschild would confide his desire for revenge so frankly to Sir Horace's confidential servant? The trusted custodian of his master's valuables? Who could rely on his master's protection? The protection of a highly placed man of whom Bertschild stood admittedly in fear and whom he knew, according to Hill's story, was unassailable from his slander. What had he to fear from the threats of a man like Bertschild, when he was living under Sir Horace's few banks protection? All that Hill had to do when Bertschild tried to induce him by threats of exposure of his past, to help in burglary at his master's house, was to threaten to tell everything to Sir Horace. Bertschild told Hill that he was frightened of Sir Horace's few banks, the judge who had sentenced him. Then Bertschild's confidence in Hill is remarkable. Any way you look at it, he sensed for Hill, whom he had known in jail and whom he hadn't seen since, to confide in him that it is his intention to burgle his employer's house. He rashly assumes that Hill will do all that he wishes and he proceeds to lay his cards on the table. But even supposing that Bertschild was foolish enough to do this, to trust a chance, jail, acquaintance, so implicitly there is a far more puzzling action on his part. Why did he want Hill's assistance to burgle a practically unprotected house? I confess I have great difficulty in understanding why such an accomplished flash burglar as Bertschild. One of the best man at the game in London at the present time should want the assistance of a man like Bertschild. In the present time should want the assistance of an amateur like Hill in such a simple job. Rolf looks startled. Hill says he wanted a plan of the house and to know what valuables it contained. Crew smiled. And has it been your experience among criminals Rolf? That a burglar must have a plan of the place he intends to burgle and that to get this plan he will give himself away to any man who can supply it. A plan has its uses, but it is indispensable only when a very difficult job is being undertaken, such as breaking through a wall or a ceiling to get at a room which contains a safe. This job was as simple as A, B, C. And besides, as far as I can make out, Bertschild knew the girl fanning must have known that Sir Horace would be going away sometime in August and that the house would be empty. Did he want a plan of an empty house? He would be free to room all over it when he had forced a window. He wanted to know what valuables were there, said Rolf, and therefore took Hill into his confidence. If Hill had told his master, even Bertschild would realize the risk of that. There would be no valuables to get. Next we come to Sir Horace's few bank's unexpected return. According to Hill's story, he made some tentative efforts to commence a confession as soon as he saw his employer, but Sir Horace was upset about something and was too impatient to listen to a word. Is such a story reasonable or likely? Hill says that Sir Horace had always treated him well, and according to his earlier statement, when he permitted himself to be terrorized into agreeing to his burglary, he told himself that Chance would throw in his way some opportunity of informing his master. And he told you that Bertschild mistrusting his unwilling accomplice hurried on the date of the burglary so as to give him no such opportunity. Well, Chance throws in Hill's way. The very opportunity he has been seeking, but he is too frightened to use it because Sir Horace happens to return in an angry or impatient mood. Let us take Bertschild's attitude when Hill tells him that Sir Horace has unexpectedly returned from Scotland. Bertschild is suspicious that Hill has played him false and naturally so, but Hill instead of letting him think so and thus preventing the burglary from taking place does all he can to reassure him while at the same time begging him to postpone the burglary. That was hardly the best way to go about it. Let us charitably assume that Hill was too frightened to let Bertschild remain under the impression that he had played him false. And let us look at Bertschild's attitude. It is inconceivable that Bertschild should have permitted himself to be reassured when right through the negotiations between himself and Hill, he showed the most marked distrust of the latter. Yet, according to Hill, he suddenly abandons this attitude for one of trusting credulity. Meekly accepting the assurance of the man, he distrusts that Sir Horace few banks unexpected return from Scotland on the very night the burglary is to be committed, is not a trap to catch him, but a coincidence. Then, after drinking himself, nearly blind, he sets forth with the revolver to commit a burglary on the house of the judge who tried him. On Hill's bare word that everything is all right, Gilliless trusting simple-minded Bertschild. Hill is left locked up in the flat with a girl, for Bertschild, who has just trusted him implicitly in a far more important matter affecting his own liberty, has a belated sense of caution about trusting his unworthy accomplice while he is away committing the burglary. The time goes on, the couple in the flat hear the clock strike 12 before Bertschild's returning footsteps are heard. He enters and immediately announces to Hill and the girl, with every symptom of strongly marked terror, that while on his burglary's mission, he has come across the dead body of Sir Horace few banks, murdered in his own house. Mark that, he tells them freely and openly, tells Hill as soon as he gets in the flat, allowing for the possible defects in my previous reasoning against Hill's story, admitting that an outright prosecution council may be able to buttress up some of the weak points, allowing that you may have other circumstantial evidence supporting your case, that is the fatal flaw in your chain. Because of Bertschild's statement on his return to the flat, no jury in the world ought to convict him. I don't see why, said Rolf. Crew fixed his steep eyes intently on Rolf as he replied, because if Bertschild had committed this murder, he would never have admitted immediately on his returning, least of all to Hill, anything about the dead body. But he told Hill that he didn't commit the murder, protested Rolf. But you say that he did commit the murder, retorted the detective. You cannot use that piece of evidence in both ways. Your case is that this man Bertschild, while visiting Riversbrook to commit a burglary, which he and Hill arranged and counter Sir Horace few banks and murdered him. I say that his admission to Hill on his return to the flat that he had come across the body of Sir Horace few banks is proof that Bertschild did not commit the murder. No murderer would make such a damning admission, least of all to a man he didn't trust, to a man who he believed was capable of entrapping him. Next you have Bertschild consenting to a message being sent to Scotland Yard, conveying the information that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is that the action of a guilty man? Wouldn't it have been more to his interest to leave the dead man's body undiscovered in the empty house and bolt from the country? It might have remained a week or more before being discovered. True, he would have had to find some way of silencing Hill while he got away from the country. He might have had to re-sort to the crude method of tying Hill up, gagging him and leaving him in the flat. But even that would have been better than to inform the police immediately of the murder and place his life at the mercy of Hill, whom he distrusted. Looked at your way. I admit that there are some weak points in our case, said Rolf. But you'll find that our counsel will be able to answer most of them in his addresses to the jury. If Bertschild didn't commit the murder, who did? Do you deny that he went up to Riversbrook that night? The letter sent to Scotland Yard shows that someone was there besides the murderer. If Bertschild was there and helped to write the letter, and so much is part of your case, he wasn't the murderer. In short, I believe Bertschild went up there to commit a burglary and found the murdered body of Sir Horace. Do you think that Hill did it? Astrolff. That is more than I'd like to say. As a matter of fact, I have been so obtuse as to neglect Hill somewhat in my investigations. In fact, I didn't know until I got hold of a copy of his statement to the police that he was an ex-convict. Inspector Chippenfield omitted to inform me of the fact. I didn't know that, said Rolf, without a blush as he rose to go. He ought to have told you. End of Chapter 14 of The Hampstead Mystery by John Watson and Arthur Rees read by Losch Rulander