Patricia Wentworth - The Case Is Closed

‘I was sure of it from the first,’ said Miss Silver.

‘But he was here – he drew his allowance here in Glasgow that afternoon.’

Miss Silver nodded.

‘At a quarter to six. Let me run over the details, and you will see how it all fits in. Bertie Everton’s alibi depends on the evidence of the people who saw him in the Caledonian Hotel on Tuesday, July 16th, the day of the murder. His own account is that after dining with his uncle on the evening of the fifteenth he caught the 1.5 from King’s Cross, arriving in Edinburgh at 9.36 on the morning of the sixteenth, that he went straight to the Caledonian Hotel, where he had a late breakfast and put in some arrears of sleep. He lunched in the hotel at half-past one, and then wrote letters in his room. In the course of the afternoon he complained to the chambermaid that his bell was put of order. He went out some time after four, enquiring at the office if there had been any telephone message for him. He did not return to the hotel until getting on for half-past eight, when he rang and asked the chambermaid to bring him some biscuits as he did not feel well and intended to go to bed. In her statement she says that she thought he was the worse for drink, but when she brought him his tea at nine o’clock next morning he seemed all right and quite himself.’

Miss Silver paused, coughed in a refined manner, and proceeded.

‘There were several points that struck me in this statement and in the evidence as to Bertie Everton’s movements. To begin with, why, when he was staying at the Caledonian Hotel, did he take a train from King’s Cross? The King’s Cross trains arrive at the Waverley Station, which is a mile from that hotel. If he had taken a train from Euston, he would have got out at the Caledonian Station, where he would only have had to walk through a swing-door. Why, then, did he choose the King’s Cross-Waverley route? It occurred to me at once that he must have had some strong motive. The point was unnoticed at the inquest, and it does not seem to have emerged at all at the trial.’

‘Why did he arrive at the Waverley?’ said Hilary.

Henry said, ‘He didn’t,’ and Miss Silver nodded.

‘Exactly, Captain Cunningham. It was Francis Everton who arrived at the Waverley Station, having come over from Glasgow, probably on a motor-bicycle. You were not able to get any information on this point?’

‘No – no luck – too long afterwards.’

‘I was afraid so. But I feel sure that he came on a motor-bicycle. The head-dress and goggles make a perfect disguise. Having garaged his machine, he had only to go down into the station, present the cloakroom ticket with which, I feel sure, his brother must have furnished him, and take out a suit-case containing a suit of Bertie Everton’s clothes and this wig. The change would be easily effected in a lavatory. With his own clothes in the suit-case, he could then take a taxi to the Caledonian Hotel, and be seen breakfasting there.’

‘How much alike were they?’ said Henry. ‘It was a bit of a risk, wasn’t it?’

Miss Silver shook her head.

‘No risk at all. The first thing I did was to secure photographs of the brothers. There is a decided family likeness, but Frank had short dark hair growing well back from the temples, whereas Bertie Everton’s shock of red hair is easily the most noticeable thing about him. In this wig Frank would deceive any hotel servant. It would be so easy to avoid being seen full face. He had only to rest his head on his hand, to be busy with a newspaper, to be blowing his nose – there are half a dozen expedients.’

‘The chambermaid never saw his face,’ said Hilary in an excited tone. ‘We found her, and she said so – didn’t she, Henry? She said no one could mistake that red head of his, and when he complained about the bell he was writing letters with his back to the door, and he ordered his biscuits standing over by the window looking out, and when she brought them he’d been washing and had the towel up to his face drying it. I got it all out of her – didn’t I, Henry?’

Henry put his arm round her.

‘You’ll get wind in the head if you’re not careful,’ he said.

‘You did very well,’ said Miss Silver. ‘That was how it was done. And you see there was very little risk. Everyone in the hotel knew that noticeable head of red hair, and when they saw it they were quite sure that they were seeing Bertie Everton. At a little after four Frank left the hotel, asking about a telephone call at the office as he went out. He must have taken the suit-case with him and changed back into his own clothes. He could have done it in the station. He had then to pick up his motor-bicycle, ride over to Glasgow, and present himself at Mr. Johnstone’s office by a quarter to six. The distance is about forty-two miles, I believe. He could do it easily. He was in the office till a quarter past six. At half-past six he was, I feel sure, upon the road again. But he made one big mistake – he stopped on the way for refreshment. Drink, as you know, was his enemy, and he was unable to resist the temptation. The moment I read in the chambermaid’s statement that she thought Bertie Everton was the worse for drink when she answered his bell at half-past eight that Tuesday evening, I had the feeling that here was a very important clue. I was right. Enquiry quickly informed me that drink was not one of Bertie Eyerton’s vices – I could not find anyone who had ever seen him the worse for it – whereas his brother’s weakness was notorious. At that moment I felt sure that Bertie Everton’s alibi was fraudulent and the result of a cleverly contrived impersonation. We shall never know all the details. Having-got rid of the chambermaid, Frank would have had to watch his opportunity and leave the hotel. He most probably changed back into his own clothes up there in his brother’s room. There would not be many servants about at that hour in the evening. He had only to get out of the room without being seen, after which no one would notice him. He could proceed to wherever he had left his motor-bicycle and return to Glasgow. But he did one thing which I feel sure was not in his brother’s plan – he kept the wig. I have a strong conviction that he was never intended to keep the wig.’

‘And it’s the wig that’s going to smash Bertie Everton’s alibi,’ said Henry in a tone of great satisfaction.

Miss Silver nodded.

‘That, and Mrs. Mercer’s statement,’ she said.

Hilary leaned forward.

‘The one Mercer dictated to her? Oh, Miss Silver!’

‘Not that one. She kept on saying that it wasn’t true, poor creature, and when I told her you could testify that it had been written in fear of her life she said she had put down what really happened a bit at a time when her husband was out of the way, and that it was pinned inside her stays. And there it was, done up in an old pocket handkerchief. It was very blurred and ill written, poor thing, but the Superintendent had it typed out and read over to her, and she signed it. We are old acquaintances, and he has allowed me to bring away a copy. Bertie Everton will be arrested without delay. I think that Mrs. Grey should be communicated with at once and advised to place Mr. Grey’s interests in the hands of a first-rate solicitor. I will now read Mrs. Mercer’s statement.’

mrs. mercer’s statement

‘I want to say what I know. I can’t go on any longer and not tell. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t do what he said. I’ve wished and wished I’d let him kill me then and not swore false and let Mr. Geoffrey go to prison. I’ve not had one happy moment since, thinking about him and about Mrs. Grey.

‘I’ve got to go back to explain. Alfred and me was sweethearts when I was a girl, and he let me down and lost me my character. And when I was out of a place Mrs. Bertram Everton that was Mr. Bertie’s mother heard about me. She was staying near my home, and she took me away to give me another chance, and had me trained under her cook, and by and by when the cook left I got the place. It’s all a matter of twenty-five years ago. Mr. Bertie was five years old, and Mr. Frank was the baby. Mr. Bertie was the loveliest child I ever did see, though you wouldn’t think it now. He’d the wonderfullest head of hair, for all the world like a new-minted penny, and he’d the sort of way with him you couldn’t stand out against, and I suppose that was his ruin – everything come easy to him. He liked pictures and music, and he liked money, oh, something terrible. That’s where it all began. He got into disgrace taking money that belonged to the other children, and then it come out that some of them had give it to him so he shouldn’t tell on them for things they’d done, and it seemed that was worse than stealing. It fair broke his mother’s heart, and she was never the same again. They sent him to be educated somewhere foreign after that, and he come home a very gay young gentleman and got into a fast set in London. And presently his mother died and the house was broke up, and I was in other places for years and didn’t hear nothing about the Evertons.