The Case of the Abominable Snowman Read online

  ‘Well, there may be something in it. In Elizabeth’s case.’

  ‘Oh now, Georgia, darling. A respectable Harley Street specialist?’

  ‘Whose word have we for that?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say he was a London specialist if he wasn’t. Too easily disproved. We’ll verify it, of course.’

  ‘“Respectable” is the operative word. You must be as naïf as friend Hereward if you think a man who happens to be a specialist is automatically respectable. I could tell you things –’

  ‘Now, now, Georgia! None of your In-Darkest-Wimpole-Street reminiscences!’

  They were turning in at the wrought-iron gate of the Dower House.

  ‘It’s just occurred to me. Clarissa won’t have heard yet. You must break it to her, my dear. She’d a very soft spot for Elizabeth Restorick, whatever she might say about her.’

  While Georgia went to find her cousin, Nigel sought the seclusion of their bedroom. Miss Cavendish’s domestic arrangements were going to be a bit awkward if he had to stay on some while in Easterham. His commission from Mrs Restorick was vague, but, he realized it now, he had come under the spell of the dead woman, and would not be happy till he knew all about her death. No, not her death; it was her life that most mattered, both to him and for the solution of the case. The police could look after material clues. His job would be to recreate for his own imagination, in all its lurid, fascinating, pitiable detail, the story of the girl he had seen hanging in that sandalwood-scented room, a cryptic shadow of a smile upon her red lips.

  Fumbling in his pocket, Nigel took out a pencil and paper. When Georgia came up twenty minutes later, she found him sprawled upon the window seat, staring out at the snow-piled village green. She took up the paper from beside him, and began to read.

  ‘(i) Where does Clarissa come into all this? Did she know, or merely suspect, that E. was in danger? “I wish you may save Elizabeth from damnation.” Did Charlotte R. ask her to invite me down?

  ‘(ii) Yes, she told me so. She knew what my profession is. Just what was C. expecting to happen?

  ‘(iii) What was the nature of E.’s “nervous disorders”, and why is Bogan so reticent about it? (Answer fairly obvious. Post-mortem will make it clear.)

  ‘(iv) Is the cat relevant? Get Uncle John inquire from experts whether any drug could send cat temporarily haywire. Shakespeare – “I would like to be there, were it but to see how the cat jumps” – transfer into past tense, and the Bard expresses my own heartfelt wish.

  ‘(v) Why does Andrew so dislike Doc. Bogan, and why does the Doc. not resent his nasty cracks more? Who is this “person who revels in evil” that A. talked about? A. himself, perhaps. That was no leg-pull, or my name’s Adolf Hitler.

  ‘(vi) How far would Hereward go to hush up a first-class family scandal, even at the cost of creating a minor ditto? H. by no means a nonentity.

  ‘(vii) Will Dykes. Was it E. or Mrs R. who invited him down? How long had he known E.? Was she really engaged to him? Was he aware of the nature of her “nervous disorder”? How is his bedroom situated in relation to E.’s? Ditto for the rest of the household.

  ‘(viii) Why do Dykes and the Ainsley creature row? What is her position in the general set-up?

  ‘(ix) And, to go back to Scribbles, who was it suggested to E. that she should give the cat a saucer of milk on the night of the séance in the Bishop’s room?’

  ‘I shall really have to give you a nice note-book,’ said Georgia, after working her way through the microscopic writing that covered both sides of the paper. ‘You need more room to spread yourself.’

  ‘I don’t want a nice note-book. It’d ruin the shape of my suit.’ Nigel patted with some complacence the pocket of his new tweed suit that was already beginning – like all his clothes – to look as if he had slept the night in it.

  ‘Clarissa is very upset. But I somehow felt the news was not altogether a shock to her. She wants to talk to you after lunch. Maybe you’ll get the answer to your question I.’

  Clarissa Cavendish did not appear for lunch herself. But shortly afterwards she sent for Nigel to her own room. She was sitting bolt upright, her hands resting on her ivory cane, her snow-white hair peeping from under a mob-cap. Her face was still lavishly made-up, and indeed she presented the same picture of herself as on the previous night; but, when she began to speak, it was evident that the news of Elizabeth’s death had shaken her out of that eighteenth-century character more than a little, for its mannerisms of speech were far less pronounced.

  Asking Nigel to give her a full account of what had taken place, she sat expressionless, motionless, her bird-like eyes fastened upon him unwinking. When he had finished, she remained silent for a moment. Then she said,

  ‘You believe that poor Betty was murdered?’

  ‘Yes. Provisionally. The police will soon have final evidence, one way or the other.’

  ‘The police may pursue their own courses. It is to be expected. But there are things beyond their comprehension. You will never know who killed poor Betty unless you know Betty.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You will help me?’

  ‘I shall be obliged to you if you will place that cushion at my back. I am a little fatigued.’

  Nigel did as she asked. The straight, brittle little figure relaxed, with the ghost of a sigh. It was characteristic of her that she broke straight into the gist of the matter, without hesitation or apology.

  ‘I am an old woman. I have been silly in my day, too – a silly, fond creature like poor Betty. But Betty found many men she could love, none she could respect; while I found one man I could respect, and his love was not for me. That man was Betty’s father, Harry Restorick. You will perceive why, for all her faults, I looked upon Betty as my own daughter.’

  The old woman began to tell Nigel about Elizabeth’s childhood. She had been a fascinating, fearless child, devoted to her brother Andrew, who was two years older than herself. The two had, indeed, been more like twins. Their charm had extricated them often from the consequences of the escapades into which their wild fearlessness led them. During the early years, Miss Cavendish had seen a good deal of them, for she used to stay at Easterham Manor and look after the children whenever their governess was on holiday. Then, after the Great War, Harry Restorick took his family out to America. In 1928, when Elizabeth was fifteen years old, the blow had fallen. Fate struck at that happy, fortunate family, which had possessed everything the human heart could ask for, through her who had seemed its most fortunate member.

  ‘How it happened, I was never precisely to know,’ said Miss Cavendish. ‘But Elizabeth, who was at a high school out there, became pregnant. Her child was still-born. She refused to tell her parents who was its father. Harry resigned his post and came home. He was very nice in his sense of propriety, but it was not the scandal that broke him, it was Betty’s attitude. The child, he told me, showed no remorse, no understanding of the enormity of her behaviour. She had become sullen, her heart closed to him, but – alas – open to the worst influences. I own I hardly credited this till I saw Betty myself: she returned later with her mother. She was indeed an altered creature, all fire and beauty now, but the fire was a sullen smouldering, and the beauty corrupted. She might have been won back to her better self, only that two years later Harry and his wife were killed in a motor-car accident. Hereward and Charlotte took her under their wing, but, as soon as she came of age and had control of the income her parents left her, she was off. Since then her career has been’ – the old lady’s voice trembled – ‘as bright and headlong as Lucifer’s.’

  Miss Cavendish paused. Her jewelled fingers tapped once or twice on the handle of her stick.

  ‘I hope I am not censorious,’ she declared at last, with a return to her old manner. ‘Betty, I believe, after her parents died, looked upon me as her one link with the past – she did not agree with Hereward, and Andrew was seldom in England. She found me willing to accept her as she was. Perhaps I was too indulgen
t. But you could not resist her loveliness. She came to visit me from time to time. Yes, she used to tell me about her lovers. It was difficult to reprobate something which – how am I to describe it? – seemed to be, for her, a matter of pure rejoicing. Glorying in wickedness, the world would call it, but I am a foolish old woman, I was so dazzled by the glory I could not see the wickedness. Ah well, right or wrong, it doesn’t signify now.’

  ‘But, this last time you saw her, something was different? You spoke of “saving her from damnation”.’

  ‘You are thinking she was past saving. Perhaps that is true. But, as you say, something was different. I had not seen her for some six months. When she came here, just before Christmas, I was shocked by her appearance and her manner. I saw a terrible strain in her eyes, it was more than illness – more as if she was fighting some sickness within her soul. I had never seen her like that, since the time when she had just been brought back from America. Indeed, sir, I saw something in her eyes I not had seen even then.’ Miss Cavendish paused. Then she whispered one word: ‘Disgust’.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?

  She lived in Cocaine Town on Cocaine Hill,

  She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,

  They fought all night with a cocaine rat.’

  ANON.

  RUMINATING THAT AFTERNOON on Miss Cavendish’s story, Nigel found himself most intrigued by the incidents she had related of Elizabeth’s childhood. It was not the highly coloured Elizabeth of later years that came most vividly before his imagination, nor the sullen, corrupted girl who had returned from America, but the child plotting with Andrew to climb up inside the huge chimneys of the Manor and appear out of the chimney-pots while a garden-party was in progress on the lawn below, the child setting her pony at an impossible fence with a look in her eyes that said – as Clarissa had put it – ‘Stop me if you dare.’

  Nigel was still turning over these memories when Superintendent Phillips called in. What with his countryman’s gait and his slow country speech he gave the impression of having endless time at his disposal. In fact the snow, lying deeper and deeper every day, compelled the inquiry to take a leisurely tempo which suited him better than Nigel or Scotland Yard. If the superintendent was slow, however, he was thorough enough. He made Nigel go over his own part in the affair, including his original commission – the investigation of the Scribbles episode, beaming at him the while with the encouraging look of a teacher drawing out a nervous child. Nigel rather took to him. He was a pleasant contrast to the jumpy, unpredictable people up at the Manor with whom he had been dealing so far.

  ‘Well now, that’s very helpful, Mr Strangeways. Very helpful indeed,’ he said when Nigel had finished. ‘You and me should get this affair to rights between us. But Major Dixon, he talks of calling in the C.I.D., so many of the parties involved being London folk. Mind you, I reckon we could handle it down here, but ’tis a bit awkward – Mr Restorick being a well-known gentleman in these parts. He needs handling with tact.’

  ‘You’ve established that it was murder?’

  ‘We can’t be sure till we’ve had the expert’s report on the rope. But there’s indications.’ Phillips gave Nigel one of his dazzling beams. ‘Indications. Yes.’ With maddening deliberation he extracted a note-book from his pocket, licked his thumb, turned over page after page: when he had found the right one, he beamed at it as if it were a long-lost friend. The gist of his matter followed at leisure.

  First, a careful examination of the snow-covered grounds had established that no unauthorized person visited the Manor on the night of the murder. There was no signs of a struggle in Miss Restorick’s room. The bed had been occupied that night, but was not unduly disarranged. A rumpled nightdress lay on it. This meant nothing, for a murderer might not be expected to tidy up behind him. One scarlet slipper was found on the floor close beneath where the body had hung, the other under the bed. A number of fingerprints had been photographed and were now being worked upon. There was no sign of a suicide-note, but the police were going over a number of letters and bills found in the bureau. The bedrooms most adjacent to the dead woman’s were occupied by the Restorick children, a maid who was looking after them in the absence of their governess, and Andrew Restorick. The rest of the house-party slept in the opposite wing. No one had heard any suspicious sounds during the night.

  ‘You asked the children too?’ Nigel put in.

  ‘Mrs Restorick did not wish them to be upset, sir. So she put the questions in my presence. Neither of them heard steps passing their door last night, they said.’

  ‘I suppose the household in general must have gathered what you were driving at.’

  ‘I told them it was all in the way of routine, but some of ’em looked at me a bit odd.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Dr Bogan, sir. And that Miss Ainsley. Of course, Mr and Mrs Restorick knew already we wasn’t satisfied.’

  ‘And I told Andrew.’

  ‘Oh, you did, sir, did you? I wondered. A cool customer, that. But he’s a pleasant-spoken gentleman. Remember him when he was so high, I do. A proper handful, he and poor Miss Betty were.’

  ‘How did Mr Dykes take it?’

  ‘Dazed, sir,’ said the superintendent, after a suitable pause for finding the mot juste. ‘He was dazed. Didn’t seem to understand what was going on. A writing gentleman, they tell me. I like a nice book myself, now and again.’

  ‘Well, Super, so far so good. But I fancy you’ve got something up your sleeve yet.’

  Phillips cocked a winsome eye at Nigel. ‘Maybe I have. First, sir, we had a report in this morning, from Mr Eaves – he’s a farmer and one of they Special Constables. Says he was patrolling last night, and saw a chink of light showing from a window at the Manor. This was at ten minutes past midnight. He was going to knock them up, but as he approached the house the light went out, so – seeing as Mr Restorick is an important gentleman hereabouts, this Mr Eaves decided he’d just pass a word to him quiet next morning. Well, along he comes, and I get him to show me which window it was. Mind you, it was tolerable dark, and we can’t be sure, but he pointed to Miss Restorick’s window.’

  ‘Crikey! That’s significant. Someone turned out her light at 12.10. Suppose it was Elizabeth herself, still alive. If she intended suicide, she wouldn’t be likely to turn off the light for a spell of sleep before she did it. If she was about to hang herself straight away, she probably wouldn’t do it either – it’s a very rare thing for people to commit suicide by hanging in the dark – practically, it’s difficult, and psychologically experience has proved it abnormal. The strong probability is that she didn’t turn out the light then. Which leaves us with a murderer. You tested the light switches for prints?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Phillips with slow satisfaction. ‘The switch of the bedside lamp and the switch by the door showed no fingerprints. They both show a blurred surface as if gloves had been used.’

  ‘Do they just? Your murderer takes pains.’

  ‘Then there is the matter of the door, Mr Strangeways. It’s a double-locking door, by the way. The maid’s own passkey could open it though the inside key was still in position. Milly deposed it was locked this morning, which suggested suicide. But you know as well as I do there’s more than one way of turning an inside key from the outside. String and pencil he used. We found string marks on the paint of the door.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you found the pencil too. I never noticed it.’

  ‘Rolled under the chest-of-drawers by the door.’

  ‘Murderer’s initials on it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Superintendent Phillips gravely. ‘Pencil came out of the morning-room. Any number of ’em there. Kept ready for guests who fancy to do a bit of writing.’

  ‘Quite so. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, sir, as no doubt you observed yourself, there was no overturned chair or such-like near the body. Of course, the poor lady might have stepped off t
hat luggage-rest – I believe it is – at the end of the bed. Or even off the bed itself. But they generally use a chair.’

  ‘Yes, we can’t press that point much. How about the rope itself?’

  ‘Mrs Restorick says it was cut from a spare length of clothes-line, kept in her store cupboard. This cupboard’s in the passage past the small dining-room. Anyone might have taken the rope. I’m following it up of course.’

  ‘In fact, everything points to its being a premeditated crime.’

  ‘That’s my opinion, sir,’ said the Superintendent, treating Nigel to one of his widest beams. ‘Cutting the rope all ready beforehand, for staging a suicide. Pencil and string to lock the key inside. It looks bad, sir. Cold-blooded, if you see my meaning.’

  ‘I do indeed. I think we can reconstruct the business in its general outline now. At ten o’clock, Milly leaves Miss Restorick. The latter, she says, is in her nightdress, applying cold cream to her face, having removed her make-up. Apparently all ready for bed. But she is excited, and has told the maid she needn’t bother to put away her clothes. Which all suggests she was expecting a visitor quite soon. A male visitor, obviously, or she wouldn’t have taken the trouble to put Milly off the track by removing the make-up, and wouldn’t have made herself up again.’

  ‘The trouble is the “quite soon”, isn’t it, sir? You suggest that her telling Milly not to put the clothes away means she was expecting a visitor any moment and didn’t want the girl to be there when he arrived. But surely he wouldn’t come to her so early? There might be people about. Besides, you were all up in the Bishop’s room last night till 10.30 or so.’

  ‘Yes. That’s a curious point. We’ll have to pass it by for the moment. At any rate – by the way, I suppose you’ve found out when the rest went to bed?’

  The superintendent had recourse to his note-book again.

  ‘The party broke up shortly after you left. Mrs Restorick and Miss Ainsley and Mr Andrew Restorick went up to bed at eleven o’clock. Dr Bogan and Mr Dykes about ten minutes after. Mr Restorick stayed downstairs a little later, but was in bed by 11.30, he says. The servants were all in bed by 11.0, except for the butler, who went round the ground floor locking doors and windows at 11.15 and retired at 11.20. We have not been able to cross-check these times yet.’