V
The Paper-Knife
The village of Bamberley lay about two miles from Beech Lodge, a homelike nest of buildings gathered in a wrinkle of the Sussex hills. It was well removed from any main road, and its thatched roofs and crooked cobbled streets had fortunately escaped the demoralizing finger of progress. It was, in fact, just as it had always been in the memory of its oldest inhabitant. A village green, with the pens of the cattle market just across the road, a rambling public house, whose swinging sign creaked cheerily when the wind was high, a few diminutive shops, the contents of which were huddled in the meadows, perhaps a hundred cottages, a dozen more pretentious buildings dominated by the village institute—and then the encircling hills, velvet and brown and wide, patched with irregular coverts and dotted as far as the eye could reach with farmhouse and barn.
Bamberley happened to be the most important of four adjoining villages; so here were the police headquarters of that utterly rural district. It was a neat brick building with the local jail immediately behind, standing where the crossroads provided the main interest in life.
The road from Beech Lodge climbs the crown of a low hill ere it dips into the village; and Derrick, as he strolled toward the station and looked down on all this, thought he had never seen anything so peaceful.
The sergeant, a large, ruddy-faced, cylindrical man, greeted him with undisguised interest, and Derrick lost no time in getting to the point. They talked in the tiny office, which seemed filled by the other man’s bulk. Derrick knew what he wanted, for this visit had occasioned him much thought. He was aware, too, that minor officials in isolated places were apt to regard with a jealous eye anything that might infringe on their position and privilege. It was at once obvious that the sergeant felt an added sense of responsibility when the visitor asked if he might read the official documents in the Millicent case.
Burke had been prepared by the constable for Derrick’s coming, and during the past few weeks had chafed at his delay. He wanted to talk about the Millicent case more than anything else in the world. It was the biggest and most baffling puzzle in his career, and for a day or so the eyes of England had turned curiously toward Bamberley. After the inquest they turned away to the next sensation, leaving the police force of that tiny community with the stinging sensation of having fallen grievously short. Since then, Burke, feeling his position more than he would ever admit, had explored every avenue that presented itself to his methodical mind. And always with the same result. Now, after nearly two years of silence, the thing was up again, brought up by a complete stranger who had actually taken into his employ the man suspected of the crime, against whom no definite charge could be laid. Burke secretly wondered whether by any chance Derrick and his gardener knew each other a good deal better than appeared on the surface of things. This was undoubtedly a matter for caution.
“The point is, sir,” he said slowly, “that I have no authority to tell you anything whatever, unless it is clear that the law may be aided thereby, and you have supplementary evidence with a direct bearing on the case.”
Derrick nodded. “I quite understand, sergeant, and that’s entirely reasonable. Would you sooner I looked up the counsel acting for the crown at the inquest? I’m quite willing, if you’d rather not talk about it.”
Burke reflected. He did not want to lose anything that might help himself, nor did he want to go beyond his boundaries. There was probably nothing here, but he could not get the reappearance of Martin out of his head. He had walked past the cottage at Beech Lodge only the week before and had a look at the man. Martin had nodded coolly and gone on with his work. A hard man, any way one took him.
“Please yourself, sir, about that; but if you’ll tell me what’s in your mind perhaps it won’t be necessary to go any further.”
“It may take a little time, sergeant.”
Burke glanced out of the window and along the crossroads. “We’re not likely to be disturbed this morning.”
“Then I’ll begin with a question. Do you believe in the theory that when a serious crime has been committed, I mean one of passion or revenge, that the criminal, wherever he may be, is constantly reminded of it by the process of his own brain—that in spite of all he can do he builds up picture after picture, and lives it all over and over again?”
“There are too many proved instances of that to doubt it.”
“And do you also believe that something constantly suggests to such a man that he should go back and revisit the scene of the crime?”
“There was the Hardwick case, like that,” said Burke reminiscently. “You remember the Gloucester Square doctor who was killed by the man who afterwards took rooms immediately opposite the doctor’s house; and the murderer never could tell why, except that it seemed the only thing to do.”
“Then I take it that in your profession the likelihood is really weighed and considered.”
“Yes, sir, it is. Some of the London men who came down here two years ago were talking about it.”
“Another point is the matter of coincidence. How do you feel about that?”
“It’s something that has played a big part in our work. One can’t put it aside. Coincidence and the other things you’ve mentioned often seem to run together.”
“And you know, of course, that Mr. Millicent’s gardener turned up very soon after I took Beech Lodge?”
“Yes, Mr. Derrick; Constable Peters reported that you had authorized him to occupy the cottage.”
“Then can you guess what brought him here all the way from Burma?”
“Did he go that far?”
Derrick nodded. “And came back by way of Canada—”
“There might be several reasons,” said the big man thoughtfully.
“Well, as a matter of fact there is but one.”
“How do you know, sir?”
“Martin told me himself.”
“What was it?” Burke’s tone had changed a little.
“He had to come. He had no bones about saying so.” Derrick paused a moment. “Sergeant, could an innocent man have felt like that?”
The sergeant stared at his own massive boots, glittering mountains of leather that shone with official luster.
“Anything else, Mr. Derrick?”
“Of course you remember Perkins?”
“Perfectly; the sort of woman one can’t forget.”
“Yes; a strange character, showing nothing on the surface, and so much a part of Beech Lodge that we took her on with the house.”
Burke grinned. “I can see that she hasn’t changed much.”
“No, she can’t change. But did you know that she walked in her sleep?”
The sergeant looked at him sharply. “For a newcomer, sir, you’ve unearthed a good deal. I never heard that before.”
“And would you think it of interest if I told you that the desk at which Mr. Millicent was found is of particular attraction to both Martin and Perkins?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’ve seen them both examining it closely when they thought they were unobserved. They were looking for something, sergeant.”
Burke got up, stood at the diminutive window, and with his hands folded behind his back stared at the verdant expanse of Bamberley Green. Obviously he was thinking very hard. Derrick lit his pipe and contemplated the big frame, the thick neck, and round, neatly clipped skull. There was no promise of great ability here, no quick perception, no imaginative brain. Burke found his inspiration in his official regulations. Law, order, and discipline, was it not all in a book? He was the type for whom it was hard to let go, and impossible to forget. And the biggest thing in his life was still the Millicent murder. It hurt, just as Constable Peters had intimated. Presently he turned.
“Mr. Derrick, in most cases of crime, and especially that of murder, the force is pestered with amateur detectives who believe they have the one and only clue. It’s very often a reporter for some paper. They make all kinds of trouble, and always mix things up if you give them any rope. But you’ve said enough to justify me in talking about what took place at the inquest on Mr. Millicent; though, mind you, it’s entirely unofficial.”
“That’s all I ask, sergeant; and if this thing can be solved I have no desire to appear in it at all. I’d much sooner not. If we get any results, they’re yours, not mine. I don’t pose as an amateur detective; but, from what I have already seen and know, I believe this thing can be run to earth.”
Burke reached to a shelf above his head and took down a large leather-bound volume. On the well-thumbed pages of this were pasted envelopes, from one of which he extracted a docket bearing the name of Millicent, with a date. The manner in which he turned to it suggested that this procedure had often taken place before. He cleared his throat and began rather stiffly.
“At ten thirty on the night of October fourteenth—that’s two years ago less three days—I was just leaving this office when Paling, the groom of Dr. Henry, drove up in great haste and said that I was wanted at once at Beech Lodge by the doctor, who was himself at that time at the Lodge. He had been summoned there by Martin, Mr. Millicent’s gardener, who told him that a murder had been committed. We galloped all the way to the Lodge, arriving there at ten thirty-seven by my watch. I left instructions here that Constable Franklin should follow me without delay. I was admitted by the maid Perkins, who took me to the study, where I found Mrs. Millicent, her daughter, and the doctor. A lamp was burning on the desk, and beside it was Mr. Millicent, lying forward so that his head rested on the desk. He was quite dead. There was a large wound in his neck that had bled profusely and formed a puddle among his papers. The doctor very wisely had left things undisturbed, because his first examination proved that life was extinct.”
“Were Perkins and Martin in the room at this time?” asked Derrick evenly.
“No, only Mrs. and Miss Millicent and the doctor. Perkins and Martin waited in the hall with the doctor’s groom.”
“And then?”
Burke turned a page. “It was, of course, most important not to destroy the slightest clue that might have been left, so a very careful examination of the room was made, with exact measurement of the position in which the body was found. I searched the room, examined the door leading to the lawn, and found that it was fastened. By this time Constable Franklin had arrived, and he helped. We went over the entire ground floor, made sure that all windows were closed, then locked the study door, and took Mr. Millicent upstairs to his own room. I left the constable on guard outside with instructions that no person should be allowed to enter or leave the grounds.”
“What sort of a night was it?”
“Dull, mild, and rather cloudy, with no rain.”
“And the outside of the house?”
“Nothing could be done till next morning except make sure that any tracks should remain undisturbed; but after a most careful examination we found nothing of the kind. My own conclusion, and it has not been changed since, was that the blow must have been struck by some member of the household—or”—here Burke paused significantly—“at any rate someone in the family service. Mind you, Mr. Derrick, this is absolutely unofficial.”
“I quite understand that. Now what can you tell me about the inquest?”
“I was just coming to that. The witnesses were narrowed to five: Mrs. Millicent and her daughter, Dr. Henry, Perkins, and Martin. I’ll take them in their order, so Mrs. Millicent comes first. She told a very simple story. Her husband was forty-five, and the latter part of their married life had been spent at Beech Lodge. He had at one time a very comfortable income, which latterly had been reduced by speculations. They were not, however, in difficult circumstances, although she seemed to know very little of his financial affairs. He was always much interested in anything that had to do with the Orient. So far as she was aware he had no enemies. He spent a good deal of his time in the garden and often went for long walks, always alone. Since his last trip to the East, from which he returned five years before his death, he seemed to have some kind of worry, of which he would never speak, or explain. Letters had arrived for him from Singapore, at which his worry seemed to increase; but he always destroyed these and never referred to their contents. From what I make of it, he was up to his eyes in something he found it necessary to conceal from those he cared for most. There had been no hard words with any of the staff, and no stranger had been at the house that day so far as we could learn.”
“I understand that Mrs. Millicent engaged Perkins, while later on her husband employed Martin. How much later?”
“About a year.”
“So that any collusion between them before this is improbable?”
“I should say so; and it seems that they took very little notice of each other at any time.”
“Then, as far as we have gone, the period between the actual moment of the murder and the time when Perkins notified Mrs. Millicent is unaccounted for.”
Burke nodded. “Exactly!”
“Before we go on to the other evidence, can you tell me whether anything was missed after the murder?”
The sergeant opened another envelope, extracting a sheet of brown paper some eighteen inches long.
“This is a drawing made by Mrs. Millicent of a thing that her husband used as a paper-knife. It’s not been found since that night.”
Derrick took it eagerly and scrutinized the outline of a murderous-looking weapon. Its curving blade must have measured a foot, being chopped off at the point in a curious and characteristic fashion. The handle was heavy and carried a short guard. Its deadly curve was unmistakable.
“By George!” he said. “That’s a Malay kris!”
“Yes, Mr. Millicent got it in the East and seemed to attach some kind of sentimental value to it. He always kept it on his desk. Of course, it may be that it was there for protection, though the average man would have preferred a revolver. On the other hand, you can see what chance anyone would have against a thing like that.”
“Then there are two assumptions,” answered Derrick thoughtfully, “one that the person who committed the crime knew that this thing was on the desk available for his purpose; the other, that he came without any evil intent, but a dispute developed and in a burst of anger he picked up the kris, and struck.”
“And there’s just one person to whom both of those cases might apply, at ten o’clock at night,” said Burke grimly, “the person against whom we have no evidence.”
“I agree with that. Did anything else disappear at the same time?”
“So far as we know only one thing, and that apparently not of any importance. It was a sort of little toy image, about three or four inches high, that Mr. Millicent used as a paperweight. It was carved out of a block of jade. He used to joke about it in a queer sort of way and say it was more valuable than they knew. Sometimes it was on his desk, but only when he was in the room himself. At other times he used to hide it away; but no one ever knew where. He never talked about it, except in that joking manner. It seems to have been an ugly-looking thing, too, but Mrs. Millicent could not make a drawing of it.”
A sudden light danced in Derrick’s eyes. “Then there was no concealment about this?”
“No more than that it used to be stowed away, and he’d never allow it to be touched. You know how men sometimes get queer ideas about things?”
“Yes, I know.”
“And it’s generally something quite unimportant. Well, it was like that with this image. Matter of fact, it was so ugly that no one in the house seemed to want to touch it, except Perkins.”
“Ah!” said Derrick slowly. His eyes were very keen. “Now, there are a few other questions I’d like to ask, but first you might tell me what other evidence was given.”
The sergeant glanced out of the window. “That’s queer! I was going to say that Miss Millicent couldn’t tell us anything important, and there she is now.”
Derrick looked up. The girl was just abreast of the tiny office, walking slowly. Involuntarily she turned her head, and their eyes met. Color mounted to her cheeks, and she bowed. Derrick went out to her quickly. There were no preliminaries.
“May we come over in a few days? I think perhaps you could help then.” He spoke as though their last conversation had only been interrupted.
“Do!” she nodded.
“And till then I hope you’re not worrying, or anxious?”
She shook her head, smiled, and sent him a look of complete confidence. “Would it seem odd if I said that I worry less now than in the past two years?”
“I’m so glad of that!”
“It’s quite true. I’m happier, and so is mother. I”—she hesitated a little—“I think we don’t feel so horribly alone.”
“You’re not.” His voice was queerly strained. “Indeed, you’re not.”
She glanced at him again, then turned quickly away.
Derrick looked after her, following the slight figure till it came to the corner of the green. Something of him went with her, and he reentered the sergeant’s office wondering at himself.
Whatever doubts the latter might have had about this unofficial conference had been laid at rest. The new master of Beech Lodge was animated by more than mere curiosity. That was now established; and, surveying the past two years, the big man realized how heavily the unfathomed crime had rested on his own spirit. The memory of it could never leave him till the mysterious scroll was unrolled. This visit of Derrick’s might result in nothing; but, in a way not entirely clear, the chance of solution seemed at last a little more probable. He looked at the young man almost with respect.
“As I said, Miss Millicent could really tell us little more than her mother. She seemed just as frightened of something that might still take place as of what had happened. She knew about the image, but nothing of its history; and my impression was that she linked it up with the crime in a way that none of the rest of us did. She had no explanation of this. I got the impression that she understood her father, if one can put it that way, better almost than her mother—although I have no real reason for saying this.”
Derrick glanced at him shrewdly. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you mentioned it. Anything else?”
“No, sir. Perkins was the next witness. She had been in Mrs. Millicent’s employ for nearly five years. An Englishwoman, aged thirty-eight, she had traveled a good deal before she went into service. She stated that on the night in question she was on her way upstairs from the servants’ hall—there was no other servant there at the time—and passed the study. The door was closed, and there was no sound; but she could see the lamplight under the door. A little later, when she was ready for bed, she went back to the servants’ hall for a book and noticed that the door was ajar and the lamp still burning.
“She went in, thinking that Mr. Millicent had gone to bed and forgotten to put it out. There she found him, bent forward over the desk, his head on one side and a deep wound in his neck from which the blood had poured in a pool. She said that for a moment she could not move, then ran upstairs, hammered at Mrs. Millicent’s door, and told the latter that there had been an accident in the study. Mrs. Millicent called to her to send Martin at once for the doctor, so she raced down to the cottage at once without going again into the study. She found Martin, who ran for Dr. Henry, coming back a little later with the doctor and groom in the cart. Then the groom came for me. As you probably know, Beech Lodge is about halfway between Bamberley and the doctor’s house.”
“Did Perkins admit having missed anything from the desk?”
“She mentioned the paper-knife but said nothing about the image till she was questioned.”
“And then?”
The sergeant reflected a moment. “I didn’t make much of what she said then. She was very upset, and rambled a good deal, till I think the coroner was glad to have done with her. I almost thought she attached as much importance to that as to the paper-knife, but of course she was hysterical.”
“Possibly,” murmured Derrick. “So I take it that Martin could not actually have seen the body till he returned with the doctor?”
“That is his evidence, which I will come to in a minute, and also Perkins statement. It would be a matter of perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes after Perkins waked Mrs. Millicent.”
“And Mrs. Millicent, and I suppose her daughter, stayed with the body till the doctor came?”
“Yes.”
“Where was Perkins then?”
“Also in the study, trying to help Mrs. Millicent, who she thought was going off her head.”
“Let me go back a minute. The first time Perkins passed the study on her way upstairs the door was shut, and the next time ajar. How long intervened?”
“Perkins says perhaps half an hour, while she undressed.”
“So during that half-hour the crime was committed, and the door was probably left ajar by the murderer?”
“I could never see it any other way, Mr. Derrick.”
“And that is the time left unaccounted for?”
“Exactly. Now you’ve reached the point where I’ve had to leave the thing for two years, and you’ve reached it by the same road of reasoning.”
Derrick smiled. “Tell me what the doctor said, sergeant.”
“Very little. He testified that from the condition of the body life could not have been extinct for more than one hour.”
“That again narrows it down to about one half-hour in which the thing happened. The question is what did happen, so perhaps we’d better hear what Martin said.”
“There again it didn’t amount to much. He stated that he was smoking in the garden of the cottage when Perkins came running in, half dressed, crying out like a mad woman that Mr. Millicent had been murdered, and—”
“She used the word ‘accident’ to Mrs. Millicent,” interrupted Derrick.
“Yes, but not this time. She told Martin to get Dr. Henry as soon as possible. There was no horse at Beech Lodge then, so he ran all the way to the doctor’s place. The rest of it coincided with Perkins’s evidence. He also said that he had been outside the cottage all the evening and could swear that no one had entered the grounds from the road.”
“Had there been any difference between him and Mr. Millicent?”
“Apparently not. Mr. Millicent had been in the garden with him that afternoon, discussing the pruning of the roses and general preparations for the winter. Mrs. Millicent confirmed this, subsequently, and said that her husband trusted the man implicitly.”
“Did Martin mention the paper-knife?”
“He was questioned but said he knew nothing about it. From what the others testified, it seems that he very seldom came into the house, so it’s reasonable he should not have known.”
“Or the image?” asked Derrick thoughtfully.
“No, sir, nothing of that, either.”
“And how long had he been in Mr. Millicent’s employ?”
“A matter of something less than five years.”
“And before that?”
“According to his statement, knocking about in the Orient.”
“Do you think it is possible that he may have met his master somewhere in the East, and the fact never came out?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but now it begins to seem possible.”
“And that there had for some time existed between them something that ultimately culminated in murder?”
“We could not get as far as that at the inquest, sir.”
“Let it stand for the present. What was Martin’s manner or attitude while he gave evidence?”
“A bit surly, as he always is, though I think without meaning it. It’s a bit against him that he’s apt not to look one in the face.”
Derrick nodded. “Now I’ll only put one or two more questions. From what you know, do you imagine there can be any link or understanding between him and Perkins?”
The sergeant shook his head with decision. “What makes me feel there is not is that, from all I can gather, Perkins dislikes the man.”
“That seems to be so. When I took him on she preferred to do the boots and coals herself, though he was available. She’s doing them now. On the other hand, Martin has come back around the world, and Perkins seems riveted to the house. Neither of them displayed any particular interest in their wages. Martin jumped at thirty shillings a week, which is not much as things go now. The point is, why are they both so keen on Beech Lodge?”
Burke stroked his chin. “I suppose that’s one of those coincidences you spoke of. I’ll admit that they almost certainly know a good deal more than we’ve been able to get out of them, but we haven’t got enough evidence to hang your hat on. One can’t make an accusation on anything else, much less an arrest. It’s up to me to prove that so-and-so is guilty, and not for him to prove that he isn’t.”
“What then would you call a step toward real evidence?” asked Derrick, with a little lift in his voice.
“Proof that either Perkins or Martin had been lying at the inquest, or”—he added with an incredulous smile—“the discovery of that paper-knife, or even the image.”
Derrick put his hand in his pocket and laid a small dark green object on the table.
“Was it at all like this, sergeant?”
The blood rushed suddenly to the big man’s temples. “My God, sir! where did you find that?”