Banquo’s Chair

by Rupert Croft-Cooke

SIR WILLIAM BRENT was a man whom I respected for the wholeheartedness with which, for thirty years, he had applied himself to the one form of research in which he was interested. He had risen to the head of the English Criminal Investigation Department and, I think, had enjoyed doing so.

In his quiet, pipe-smoking way, he had considered the innumerable problems which his work had presented to him, and although with no very spectacular performances, he had succeeded in a vast proportion of the cases on which he worked.

Outwardly the typical English man, almost - the refined English policeman, he used to be seen at Scotland Yard, his big, florid person unostentatiously bent on reaching his office and the matter in hand.

* * *

ONE quality in his methods was not mentioned in the eulogies with which the Press celebrated his retirement from office, although during my ten years' association with him I remarked it frequently. It was a sort of glinting mercilessness, a cruel, steely determination to outwit his culprits. I suppose that anyone in his position would tend to become callous. But towards the end it was plain to me that he regarded human nature as an abstract quantity, much as a scientist might regard a strange gas which it was his business to analyse. The motives of people, their arbitrary behavior in peculiar circumstances, their weaknesses, only appealed to Brent as part of the intensely interesting game of detection.

After he retired I wondered what he would find to fill the place of all that had occupied him so long. I was not kept long in doubt, however. Within a short time of his leaving Scotland Yard I received an invitation which could only mean that his former activities were not forgotten.

'Will you,' he wrote, 'come and dine with me at Turret House, Sydenham, on Thursday? Robert Stone will be there, and a third guest, and I can promise you an unforgettable evening.'

Naturally I had no intention of missing such an intriguing invitation, and I wrote my acceptance immediately. Flippantly I added the post-script: 'Shall I come armed?' The answer came by telegram, and consisted of the one word: 'Yes.'

* * *

ON the appointed day I reached Turret House, in spite of a gusty November storm. I found it to be one of those red-brick, sombre mansions, built here with ample gardens in the more spacious time of the late Queen. It stood back from the road behind tossed and dripping pine trees in the dejection of a district which had known better days. I did not like the house.

The door was opened by Lane, the man-servant whom I recognised from Sir William's more cheerful home in the West End. He took my coat, and I stepped into a hall, tiled and having a florid stone staircase facing the door, and a dark conservatory leading out of it. Then, to my surprise, I was shown straight into the dining-room. Brent rose at once and greeted me over the corner of a large mahogany table laid for dinner. 'You will excuse this?' he said. 'As a matter of fact, it is the only room we use.'

'Oh, you don't live here?' I said with some relief. ,

He smiled towards the heavy cornice supporting stout curtains of faded crimson. 'Good Lord, no!' he said. 'But you shall hear everything in a moment, when Stone turns up. Meanwhile a Martini?'

We had not long to wait for Robert Stone, that humorous, wiry little writer who had travelled almost everywhere, and was reputed to have fought a duel with a German ex-prince in the lavatory of the Cafe Royal. 'What the devil do you mean, Brent, by dragging me out to this red mausoleum?' he inquired almost as soon as he was in the room.

'My dear chap, I promised you something of an evening. If you can't trust me — you can go straight home,' smiled Sir William, soberly.

'Go home be damned! I want some dinner, anyhow. But what a cowhouse of a room!'

* * *

‘NOW just sit down there, Stone, and listen. We have not very much time before the arrival of . . . our third guest.' There was a pause, then Sir William continued in that rather emotionless voice of his: 'Perhaps you may remember a murder which took place in this suburb some time ago? It was called the Sydenham Murder, and caused considerable comment at the time because there was no arrest.'

Stone broke in. 'But it was perfectly obvious. I knew from the first who did it. The nephew.'

Sir William smiled. 'The police knew it, too.'

'Then why the hell . . .'

'Exactly. That was the common question. Unfortunately, the nephew had an absolute, an unimpeachable alibi. To have arrested him would have meant merely a waste of time and money, and a release in the end. Besides, a man discharged can never be arrested on the same murder charge. Anyway, I persuaded the people at the Yard to leave the matter to me and give me all the time I wanted. Tonight, gentlemen, you are to see the last act in the — may I be permitted to say drama? You see,' he added quietly, 'it was in this house that the murder took place. But let me,' he hurried on as he saw my astonishment was about to cause an interruption, 'recall the circumstances to you.

* * *

ON November 17 last year— that is a year ago today — old Miss Fergusson, whose habits were as eccentric as any old lady's might be expected to be when she inhabits a house like this in solitude, gave her one maid the customary evening out, and sat down alone to dinner in this room. She was a thin, sallow old lady with those soft little reefs of old flesh which hang sometimes about the neck and cheeks of people of her age — sixty odd. She would sit very straight in that chair eating the cold meal which she had always in the evening, read for an hour or two, then go to sleep in an Arabian bedstead in the room over this. But on that night, when her servant returned, she found her mistress strangled.

'There seemed no doubt, at first, of the nephew's guilt. He was the old lady's sole heir; he was heavily in debt; he had a latchkey of the house; he had even been heard to threaten her on previous occasions. But when he was questioned, the result was a perfect alibi. It was one of those rare cases in which the police know their man, but are powerless.'

Sir William paused and lit another cigarette. 'After my retirement, I had every opportunity to think over the case, and at last I thought I saw a means by which, with infinite patience and devotion of time to the matter, I might bring the fellow to book.'

I SHUDDERED a little at the 'infinite patience.' To think of this solid-looking Englishman with the queer kink in his nature, setting unhurriedly about drawing his rat into the trap, had an aspect of the gruesome.

'Luck has favored me,' he continued suavely. 'For instance, Bedford (the nephew) decided to let this house furnished soon after the event. It was in taking it that I got to know him, and it was to my interests that the acquaintance should be fostered into a — friendship. He is a vain man, and can see nothing in congruous in my desire for his company. But it was another quality of his which led me to the plan I have adopted — his superstition.' Sir William laughed. 'It is a fault shared, almost without exception, by all criminals. Tonight is the anniversary of the murder. And tonight Mr. John Bedford will dine with us.'

'Well?' said Stone, impatiently.

'I have enlisted the aid of Miss May Dacklethorpe,' said Sir William, 'undoubtedly our best tragic actress. During dinner she will enter the room in the precise likeness of the murdered woman. We, of course, shall remain outwardly unconscious of her presence — only Bedford will be aware of her presence. In this way I hope to wring some sort of confession, from the man. You remember Macbeth and the ghost of Banquo?'

'But do you really iinagine,' said little Stone, not without excitement, 'that he will come here on this night, in the circumstances?'

'Most certainly,' said Sir William. 'He has already dined with me four or five times, and tonight there is a special inducement — he is to meet you, Stone. His vanity is touched by the opportunity. There are one or two other points I must explain before he arrives — I 'have a number of police in the house, though, somehow I do not anticipate violence. And during dinner the electric light will be switched off at the main and candles will be lit. We must have the correct, atmosphere. Understand?'

Even before we had time to agree that we did Lane announced Mr. John Bedford.

A man in his late thirties hurried into the room, a tallish man, prematurely bald, with a weak droop to the corners of the mouth, and yet a curiously hard look in the eyes. A face which at first sight seemed precise, appeared on scrutiny to be vicious.

We sat down almost at once to dinner, hurrying over the introductions to do so.

'How is the weather now?' asked Sir William, when an excellent soup was before us.

'A beastly night,' said Bedford, 'but really, Sir William, you must allow me to congratulate you on

your cook. This soup is a master piece.'

Unwittingly Bedford had given his host a cue. 'Ah, yes,' he answered in his chill voice. 'And thereby hangs a tale. My old cook has been with me twenty years. But she absolutely refused to stay in this house. She said it was haunted. Stone, this sort of thing amuses you: I should like you to have seen the silly old body giving me notice because she had seen the figure of an elderly lady with a scar on her neck walking about the passages! But it did no harm in a way — my new cook is an artist. Why, Bedford, my dear chap, you don't look well. I expect you're a bit fagged out. It's a rotten journey down here.'

'Not — not a bit. Only, if you'll forgive me saying so, I find this room confoundedly hot.'

'Ah, I'm sorry. I had not noticed it at all. Lane, open a window, will you?'

* * *

AS Lane threw open the window the noise of rain and wind was plainly audible outside. 'Is not our climate vile?' remarked Stone. 'Really, I don't know why we stay in England for the winter. This time last year I was on the Riviera.'

'And I was in the East,' I added, feeling that I must add something to the conversation.

'Ah!' Sir William was thoughtful. 'Let me see. November 17. Yes'. . . This time last year I was in London, following the news . . . watching the course of events. Lane, give Mr. Bedford some more wine.'

The situation, even for me, was becoming intolerable. Bedford was mopping his brow. Then there was a flicker and our guest was shut out from our sight.

'Lane!' called Sir William sharply, 'what on earth is wrong with the lights''

'I will ascertain, sir,' said the butler, and hurried out.

* * *

FOR a moment we were left in complete darkness, during which I think most of us drank; then Lane appeared with candles. 'The electric light is out of order, sir,' he said, 'and none of us understands it'

'Then get the chauffeur in at once.' said Sir William.

Suddenly, as he spoke, I became awake of another figure in the room. Behind Sir William's chair was the image of an old lady with great suffering apparent in her forlorn face. I had seen May Dacklethorpe in some of her greatest successes, but this make-up I thought was a masterpiece. It gave the impression of a lurid unreality. I scarcely dared look at the man opposite to me, to see what impression the figure had made on his already distraught mind. But apparently he had not seen it. I turned to the food on my plate, and s I did so I heard a low cry from Bedford. '

'Why,' smiled Sir William, 'what's the matter, my dear chap?'

'Nothing, nothing. I wish we could have some light, Sir William. Half-darkness invariably gets on my nerves.'

'I can't say how sorry I am that this should have happened,' said Brent. 'But no doubt the chauffeur won't be long in setting the lights right. Meanwhile, another glass of champagne?'

'Thanks— thanks!'

He drank hurriedly, and then, setting down his glass with a crash, he burst out: 'Don't any of you see anything? You must! You must!'

'My dear Bedford!' Brent was all solicitation. 'You're unwell. Sit down. Is there anything I can do for you?'

It was painful to watch the effort Bedford took to get a grip on himself. 'I'm well enough, thanks,' he said, and I saw that his eyes were half-closed, and he was trying to rivet them on his plate.

The strain was affecting us all.

Conversation had dropped entirely. Then, very slowly, the woman whom we could not watch, except secretly, began to move towards him. That was too much. Consciousness of our presence, self-control, everything left him but fear. He became pitiably hysterical, tried to rise from his seat.

'Let me by!' he shouted. The figure stood between him and the door. ‘Out of my way! Let me out of here.' One step more towards him the figure took, and he screamed with a shrillness of which his voice was ordinarily incapable. 'I'll do it again,' he shouted. 'I'll do it again! Let me get by.'

We held our breath, not daring by the least word to call him back to actualities. 'I'll murder you again, you bitch!' he shrieked. 'I did it once, and I'll do it again, if you don't get out of my way.'

It was over. Sir William rose from his chair and rang a small pear-shaped electric bell which rung among the candelabra before him. Two police officials were in the room at once. 'I think you can arrest that man,' said Sir William. 'You have heard his confession.'

* * *

BEDFORD had sunk limply into his chair and was sobbing dementedly. The police almost lifted him from it as they handcuffed him, but he said nothing more as they led him from the room. I don't think he yet realised what had happened.

Stone was the first to break the silence. He spoke in a way which made me understand. 'Satisfied?' he said, almost sneering.

'Quite,' said Sir William. 'It has been a long job, but it has ended as I knew it would. I'm most grateful to you both. We'll continue our interrupted dinner.'

'I thought it was a pretty grim affair,' said Stone, savagely. 'Your third degree methods repel me, Brent. But I suppose you know your job. Certainly May Dacklethorpe did. Her acting was superb.'

'And her make-up incredibly good,' I said.

'We must congratulate her,' Sir William agreed. 'I wonder where she has gone? Upstairs, perhaps. I had a room arranged for her. Lane!'

'Sir!'

'Just see where Miss Dacklethorpe is.'

'Miss Dacklethorpe, sir?'

'The lady who has been assisting us this evening.'

'I have not seen her, but I will inquire.'

'Thank you. There were two policemen stationed at the door, Lane. They will know if she left.'

* * *

LANE left the room. He returned almost immediately with a salver in his hand. ‘I have questioned the police, sir,' he said, 'but they know only of the arrival of Mr. Stone and your friend. No lady has entered the house.' He paused. 'This telegram has arrived for you sir.'

Brent tore open the envelope and read, and for the first time I saw Sir William Brent crumple up.

'Good God!' he whispered. 'Read it!'

We did.

'Extremely sorry severe influenza quite unable to leave bed. May Dacklethorpe,' the wire said.

1938

Content

Banquo’s Chair
by Rupert Croft-Cooke