“What had she got to say?”
“Well, the first time was last Tuesday. She said her name was Miss Robinson, and I put her through to Mr. Porlock. Tuesday evening it was. He says, ‘Anything to report?’ and she tells him, ‘Not very much. They’ve arrived, but Miss Cole, the governess, she’ve gone back to town, and the old nurse is there again.’ Mr. Porlock says he’s not interested in old nurses-what about the new secretary? And the maid sniffs and says Mrs. Oakley’s all out to spoil her, sending her up to London to get herself an evening dress. And Mr. Porlock says, ‘When?’ The maid says, ‘Tomorrow,’ and Mr. Porlock takes her up sharp. ‘Now listen,’ he says-‘this is very particular.’ And he tells her Mr. Oakley wants some luminous paint to dodge up a clock for the little boy, and she’s to get Mrs. Oakley to send Miss Brown-that’s the secretary-to the Luxe Stores between twelve and one o’clock, because they’ve got some there. ‘Now don’t forget, and don’t make a mess of it,’ he says. ‘She’s to go to the Luxe Stores between twelve and one.’ And he asks her what Miss Brown will be wearing, and she tells him she’s only got the one coat, a light brown tweed, and shabby at that. So he asks about her hat, and her shoes, and her handbag, all very particular. He says with a sort of a laugh, ‘Do her hair and eyes still match?’ and the maid sniffs and says she hasn’t taken that much notice. Then he says, ‘Is there anything else?’ and she says, ‘Something funny’s happened.’ And he says, ‘What?’ and she tells him. It seems Mrs. Oakley went through from her bedroom to the boudoir before dinner-there’s a door going through. Hooper hears Mrs. Oakley call out as if she was hurt. She goes to see what’s the matter, and she finds her with a crumpled-up photo in her hand, staring at it. Mrs. Oakley, she sits down sudden as if she’s going to faint, and Hooper picks the photo up. ‘Well?’ says Mr. Porlock, and the maid says, ‘Do you want me to tell you who it was?’ A very nasty sort of way she says it. And Mr. Porlock says, ‘You can tell me the photographer’s name.’ She says, ‘Rowbecker & Son, Norwood,’ and Mr. Porlock whistles and rings off. A minute or two later he rings up a London number-here it is, sir-and talks to someone he calls Maisie. He tells her, ‘It’s for between twelve and one tomorrow. Look out for a long tweed coat, light-coloured and shabby,’ and gives her the rest of the description he’s got from the maid, and finishes up with, ‘Her hair and eyes used to be a perfect match. I expect they are still-golden brown and very attractive. Get on with it!’ That was all that time, sir.”
“There were other times?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Hooper rang up next day about half past seven -said she couldn’t ring before, she had to wait till Mrs. Oakley went to her bath. She says Mr. Oakley and Miss Brown was back, and Mr. Porlock swore. And then he laughs and says, ‘What’s the odds?’ and rang off.”
“That all?”
“No, sir. She rang up yesterday afternoon and said Mrs. Oakley had been very upset ever since Wednesday-‘the day you came to see her.’ And Mr. Porlock says, ‘Is she coming tonight?’ And the maid says she’s in two minds about it, but she don’t want Mr. Oakley to know there’s anything wrong, and she thinks she’ll come.”
Lamb said, “H’m!” and then, “Thanks, Pearson.”
When the door had shut again he turned to the tray, poured out a good stewed cup of tea, added milk and sugar with a liberal hand, and did full justice to the anchovy toast, the sandwiches, and the cake, the only contribution he made to the case from start to finish being a grunt and a “So he went to see her on Wednesday. Well, we’ll be along as soon as we’ve finished our tea.”
They were passing through the hall on their way to the front door, when Justin Leigh came up.
“If you can spare me just a moment- I’m arranging to do some of my work down here until after the inquest, but I shall have to run up to town and get the papers I want. I thought of going up first thing in the morning. I’ll be back in time for lunch.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Leigh.”
It appeared that Mr. Leigh hadn’t finished.
“ Miss Lane would like the lift both ways. I suppose there’s no objection to that?”
The Chief Inspector didn’t answer so quickly this time. When he spoke, it was to say,
“I haven’t seen Miss Lane yet. She mayn’t be very important, but I want to see her. Will you make yourself responsible for having her back here by two o’clock tomorrow?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Lamb walked on, then halted rather suddenly and looked back.
“What does she want to go up for?”
“Her cousin, Lady Pemberley, is an invalid. She wants to go up and see her. She’s afraid all this may have been a shock. I’ve arranged to drop her there and pick her up again.”
There was another slight pause. Then the Chief Inspector said,
“All right, Mr. Leigh. But I shall be wanting to see her not later than two o’clock.”
Chapter XXIV
Martin Oakley met them with a flat refusal. “My wife’s ill-she can’t see anyone.”
“Have you a doctor’s certificate, Mr. Oakley?”
“No, I haven’t, and I don’t need one. I know my wife a great deal better than any doctor. She’s not fit to see anyone. Good heavens, man-a gentle, delicate woman has a man killed practically next door to her, and you expect her to be able to discuss it! Why, the shock was enough to kill her. And she’s got nothing to say, any more than I have myself. We were all there, standing close together. Mr. Porlock had gone over towards the stairs. Then he began to come towards us again, and the lights went out. We heard a groan and a fall, and less than a minute after that the lights came on, and there was Porlock lying dead on the floor with a dagger in his back. That’s all I know, and that’s all my wife knows. She’s very sensitive and tender-hearted. She went down on her knees to see if there was anything to be done, and when she found he was dead she became hysterical.”
Lamb said, “So I understand.”
They were in the study, among its incongruous chromium plating and scarlet velvet, registered by the Chief Inspector as ‘gimcrackery.’ He knew what an English gentleman’s study ought to look like, and it wasn’t anything like this. He said,
“How long have you known Mr. Porlock?”
“A couple of months.”
“And Mrs. Oakley-how long has she known him?”
“She never met him until he paid a formal call on Wednesday last.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“Of course I am-you can ask anyone you like. I’d met him in the way of business. She didn’t so much as know him by sight.”
“Then will you explain why she should have called him Glen?”
“She did nothing of the kind.”
“Mr. Oakley, there were eight people present besides yourself and your wife. They all agree that Mrs. Oakley called out repeatedly, ‘Oh, Glen! Glen’s dead-he’s dead! Oh, Glen- Glen-Glen!’ ”
“I should say they had made a mistake. How could she call him Glen? His name was Gregory. We were all calling him Greg. She was in the habit of hearing me speak of him as Greg. What she said was, ‘Greg’s dead! He’s dead-dead-dead!’ She was sobbing and crying, you understand, and I can’t think why anyone should have thought she said Glen-it makes nonsense.”
The Chief Inspectai allowed a pause to follow this statement. When he thought it had lasted long enough he said,
“I should like to see Miss Dorinda Brown and Mrs. Oakley’s maid. Perhaps I might begin with the maid.”
Martin Oakley stiffened.
“The maid? She’s only been with my wife a week. She wasn’t there last night.”