This House to Let

Le Queux William

This House to Let

Prologue

Very early on a July morning in 1919 Constable Brown was on his beat in Kensington, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cathcart Square.

Cathcart Square was an old-fashioned backwater of this highly respectable suburb. It had not been built on any regular lines. Small, narrow houses nestled comfortably by the side of what might be called mansions. At the entrance to the Square itself, a narrow-fronted milk-shop stood next door to a palatial residence. The dairy was very old, and the Square, with its strange agglomeration of houses, had been built round it.

Constable Brown, a tall, strapping young fellow, took his duties easily. He was quite contented with his lot, and not thirsting for promotion; he had no overweening sense of his own abilities. He was friendly with all the cooks on his beat, and from them he received very choice tit-bits. In his case, the policeman’s lot was a fairly happy one.

The morning was a very bright one, a somewhat powerful summer sun had just risen, and flooded the streets with light.

He had no need of his lantern, early in the morning as it was. He strolled slowly round the Square, turning observant eyes on all the houses. In his patrol, he met nobody. The busy world of commerce was not yet astir. Only from afar he heard the distant rumbling of market-carts on their way to Covent Garden, market-carts laden with fruit and vegetables.

The Square was sleeping. In a few more hours it would wake to vigorous life. The dairy shop would take down its shutters, and show signs of animation. And when the dairy shop took down its shutters, Constable Brown would be relieved, and go home to enjoy his well-earned rest.

All was quiet in the Square. Brown had patrolled it several times in his nightly vigil, and had discovered no signs of marauders.

He paused opposite Number 10, one of the few big houses. He looked contemplatively at the board announcing in large type – THIS HOUSE TO LET: FURNISHED – with the agent’s name displayed prominently at the foot of the bill.

“Only house to let in the Square,” ruminated Brown, as he stood reading the bill for perhaps the hundredth time. “It’s been empty now for over three months. It ought to have been snapped up long ago.”

He was right. Houses in Cathcart Square did not wait long for tenants. Mr Brown ruminated further, and provided his own solution.

“Old Miles, the caretaker, has got too comfortable quarters, he doesn’t want to flit. When people come to view, he talks to them about damp, or ghosts or beetles, and chokes them off. Artful old devil, Miles, and a bit too fond of drink.”

Having finished his patrol of the Square itself, he passed along the backs, abutting on a somewhat mean street, for a rather undesirable neighbourhood had built itself around these somewhat stately houses.

His perambulations brought him to the back of Number 10, the house to let. His trained eye, accustomed to take in the smallest details, noticed a broken pane of glass in the scullery window. He climbed over the low railing which shut off the back premises from the mean street on which they looked, and peered at the broken window-pane. From a general point of view there was not much in it. Window-panes are broken every day. But this was an empty house, looked after by a somewhat bibulous caretaker of the name of Miles. A hundred chances to one that Miles had stumbled against it, and broken it with his elbow.

But although Constable Brown was not very brilliant, he was painstaking and methodical; his mind was slow but tenacious. He did not accept facts at their face value.

After peering through the broken pane, he proceeded to further experiments. He lifted the window, and it went up easily. He drew his deductions swiftly. Somebody had entered the empty house. That somebody had smashed the pane in order to get at the latch, had entered the house, later emerged through the window and forgotten to fasten it.

But why enter an empty house, where there was nothing to steal except the heavy furniture left by the late tenant, a Mr Washington, who was abroad? Brown knew for a fact from the caretaker that all silver and plate had been lodged at Mr Washington’s bank. It was a puzzle.

One thing was clear: his duty lay straight before him. He must go over that empty house. A careful examination might reveal something or nothing.

But he was a very cautious man, and with no great belief in his own powers. He would not make the examination alone. He blew his whistle for further assistance.

In a few seconds, a fellow constable, a smart young fellow, hurried up to him. Brown pointed to the broken pane, the uplifted window. The smart young man projected himself through the open space. Brown followed, explaining as he went.

They searched the basement, the ground floor, and the floor above – with no result.

“Now for the caretaker,” said the younger and the more quick-witted of the two policemen.

“He sleeps up at the top,” answered Brown. “He generally comes home half-seas over. If a regiment was hammering at the door he would not wake till his sleep was done.”

They went up to the caretaker’s room on the top floor. The bed was empty. Miles had evidently taken a holiday.

The young constable grunted. “Seems a reliable sort of chap, doesn’t he? I wonder how long he has been away? The house agents can tell us if they have sent any clients to view the house during the last twenty-four hours, and whether they have been able to get in or not. Anyway, for the present, he seems out of this job.”

Brown assented. He did not talk as much as his quicker-witted colleague, but his rather slow mind was working at its normal speed.

“We’ve got to examine the other floors, you know. I’ve made up my mind to one thing – whoever came in here, robbery wasn’t the object.”

“There I quite agree,” remarked the younger man.

They made their way down from the top floor, which consisted of three attics. On the floor beneath this, they searched every room and found nothing.

But on the floor underneath their search was rewarded. In a small dressing-room, leading off the bedroom which fronted the square, they found a gruesome sight – the lifeless body of a man, comparatively young, somewhere about thirty-five or so, a deep gash in his throat, in his stiffened hand a razor.

The two men gazed, horrified. It was an early summer morning, the sun was shining through the windows, the birds were twittering in the trees. Shortly the whole world would be astir. And here, in the small room, lay the senseless clay, oblivious of all these signs of awakening life and vigour.

Brown was the first to speak. “Suicide!” he said hoarsely. “The poor devil wanted to make an end of it, and crept in here, knowing it was an empty house.”

The younger man spoke less convincingly. “It looks like it. Suicide, as you say.” He paused a moment, and then spoke slowly: “I think it’s suicide, but it might be – mind you, I only say might be – a very carefully planned murder. And now, let us overhaul his pockets, we may find something to establish identification.”

Together they bent down, and rummaged the dead man’s pockets. They found plenty of material for identification.

As they were engaged in their gruesome task, they heard the sound of a latch-key being put in the front-door. They heard the door banged to, and heavy footsteps ascended the staircase.

“Miles come back after his spree,” whispered Constable Brown to the younger man.

Miles, all unsuspecting of what had taken place during his absence, came heavily up the stairs. It could not be said that he was by any means drunk, but he was not absolutely sober. He was slowly recovering from the previous night’s debauch.

Arrived on the floor where the two policemen were conducting their investigations, absolute sobriety came back to him. He saw the open door of the dressing-room, two men in uniform kneeling by the side of an inanimate object. His brain cleared as if by magic. He recognised in one of the kneeling constables his old friend Brown.

He indulged in a little profanity, born of his emotion, which need not be set down here. Shorn of certain expletives, natural to a man of his class, he inquired of Brown what was the matter.

Brown on his side was cool and explicit, and instead of answering the caretaker’s questions, he preferred to put a few of his own.

“Nice sort of caretaker you are,” he said in a contemptuous voice. “You’re paid to look after this house, aren’t you? Where were you all last night I should like to know? You can see what has happened. Somebody has got in through the back, either to commit suicide, or with a companion who brought him here to murder him. That’s got to be found out before the Coroner.”

Miles pulled himself together. He was by no means a fool when sober, and in sight of this ghastly object the fumes of last night’s intoxication had absolutely cleared.

“I can show an alibi right enough,” he said doggedly.

The younger and readier-witted of the two constables looked up and spoke sharply. “So far, my friend, we have not accused you, but you may as well tell us the details of your alibi.”

Miles’s explanation, delivered in the somewhat halting way of his class, bore the ring of truth. An old acquaintance of his, whose name and address he gave, had looked him up the day before and asked him to spend a day with him at Shepperton, where the said acquaintance kept a small shop. Miles had succumbed to the temptation.

“It drives a man fair off his blooming chump to be tied by the leg in a hole like this,” he interpolated in the midst of his narrative, “waiting for would-be tenants who never call. I daresay you chaps do your eight or ten hours a day, but you’re out in the open air, not looking on four walls. You see a bit of life, I don’t.”

Constable Brown cut across his narrative swiftly.

“Never mind your grievances, Miles. If you could get a better job, I guess you would take it. Where did you spend the night?”

“At the same old show, down at Shepperton,” replied the unabashed Miles. “My old pal’s a sport, I can tell you. When he shut up his shop, he plied me with some of the best. I wasn’t backward, I admit. I missed the last train back, and slept on the sofa in the back room. When I woke, I remembered things a bit, and got an early train home. Here I am. My old pal Jack will tell you I’m speaking gospel truth.”

Neither of the two men listening to him had any doubt that his narrative was a true one. He was a poor, weak, bibulous creature, but by no stretch of the imagination could he be an accessory to the gruesome happenings at Number 10.

Even had he been at his post, as he should have been on this particular night, he would have been sunk in a stertorous sleep, and have heard nothing.

But to make everything sure, Constable Brown pulled him along and forced him to look at the dead man.

“You have never seen him before, Miles? I mean he has not called to look over the house or anything?”

“No.” Miles, looking shudderingly at the ghastly sight, was ready to swear he had never seen him before.

He turned his frightened gaze away: “It will be all over the town to-night,” he said ruefully. “We shall never let the house after this.”

“It will still be a soft job for you, Miles,” retorted Brown, a little spitefully. “You won’t have to play up the damp and the beetles. You are here for life, old man.”

“I know,” said Miles in a gloomy tone. “But I shall see him staring at me every minute of the day and night.”

The body was removed to the mortuary. The evening newspapers had flaring headlines: “Gruesome Discovery in Number 1 °Cathcart Square.” An enterprising journalist had got hold of Miles, and speedily discovering his weakness, had taken him to the nearest public-house, and plied him plentifully with liquor, with a view to a sensational article.

The enterprising reporter made the best of his material, but it did not amount to much. The caretaker knew nothing about the dead man, he was armed at all points with his alibi. As regards the house itself, invested with so much tragedy, the present tenant was a Mr Washington, a man of considerable means, now abroad. Mr Washington was prepared to let it furnished. The furniture was very valuable.

To a public greedily anxious for the smallest details, the astute journalist served up a nice little article, describing the expensive furniture, and adding a short life-history of Mr Washington, as supplied by the reminiscent Miles. The public swallowed this article eagerly and awaited further developments.

These came with the inquest, and there was a somewhat tame ending to what had promised to be a very sensational case.

Some three months previously, a certain man named Reginald Davis had been suspected of committing a murder while driving a motor-car in Cornwall. The evidence, although circumstantial, had been very convincing. The police had been on his track, but not quickly enough. The man had eluded their vigilance, and rim to earth somewhere.

On the body of the dead man in Cathcart Square, the two constables had found three letters addressed to Reginald Davis. Also a letter, signed Reginald Davis, addressed to the Coroner in which he avowed his intention of committing suicide at the earliest opportunity.

It was fairly evident from this that the wretched man, hunted by the police, and recognising that capture was imminent in the course of a few days, had resolved upon the fatal step, had effected his entrance into the lonely house in Cathcart Square, had found it even more deserted than he imagined, and in that little dressing-room cheated the law.

But, in addition to this overpowering evidence, there was added the fact of identification.

A tall, handsome young woman, giving the name of Caroline Masters, had been to the mortuary, and identified the body as that of her brother, Reginald Davis.

She gave her evidence before the Coroner with commendable composure, broken now and again with a little natural grief. Her disclosures were briefly as follows.

Reginald had always been the black sheep of the family, not naturally vicious, but impetuous, fiery-tempered and ungovernable. If he was guilty of the murder in Cornwall, it had been due to no natural criminal instinct, but to a fit of unbridled passion. Her theory was that remorse had weighed upon him for this unpremeditated crime, and that, through remorse and the fear of justice overtaking him, he had crept into this lonely house and passed sentence on himself.

She made a very great impression on the Court by the calm and dignified way in which she gave her evidence. The Coroner put to her a few questions. She was quite certain that the body was that of her brother, Reginald Davis? Were there any other members of the family who could support her in her identification?

No, there were no other members of the family alive. There was another brother dead, and a sister of whose whereabouts she knew nothing. Her father had been a strange man, he had quarrelled with all the members of his family, and she had never known one of them. Her mother had died some years ago. Her voice broke a little as she related these touching circumstances of her domestic life, more especially when she added she was a widow, her husband having been killed in the Great War.

There seemed but one possible verdict. The dead man, it was clearly established, was Reginald Davis, first by the letters found upon him, secondly by his sister’s identification.

It was also clear that Reginald Davis, hunted by the police, and knowing that it was only a question of days or weeks before he would be rim to earth, had considered the two alternatives of self-destruction or the extreme penalty of the law – and that he had chosen the former.

The verdict was recorded. Mrs Masters was complimented on the way in which she had given her evidence. The Coroner assured her that the sympathy of the Court was with her. The tears welled into her eyes as she listened to the Coroner’s well-chosen phrases. She bowed her grateful thanks.

Constable Brown was waiting in the corridor as she came out. Beside him stood the younger policeman who had assisted him on that very well-remembered night in Cathcart Square.

Brown touched his helmet. “A very trying time for you, ma’am,” he said, “a very trying time. You went through it bravely.”

She smiled wanly. “My poor brother! He had so many good points. But it is better as it is. I shudder to think of what might have been, if he had not done this dreadful thing.”

“Much the best way, ma’am, much the best way,” corroborated Brown.

She went out, a graceful figure, and Brown turned to his younger colleague.

“A remarkable case, old chap. As we said all along, suicide.”

The younger man paused a little before he replied. It may be mentioned that a few months later he was promoted to the detective force in consequence of some rather clever work connected with a gang of coiners in an obscure corner of the West End.

“It looks like it, but I’m not quite as sure as you are,” he said laconically.

Brown stared, but made no comment. A verdict was a verdict. His young colleague had the inexperience and the vanity of youth, and thought he was more clever than other people, perhaps!

But on one thing the young constable had made up his mind, and that was that Miles, the bibulous caretaker, had not told the truth when in the witness-box. He came to this conclusion from his demeanour. Miles swore that he had no knowledge of the dead man, but the constable believed this to be a lie.

And with the tame ending of the Coroner’s inquest, the mystery of Number 1 °Cathcart Square ceased to hold the public interest. Plenty of other things came on to attract their attention.

Chapter One

In the year before the Great War, when to all appearance there was not a cloud upon the horizon, when only a few statesmen felt “profoundly uneasy,” the secret of that uneasiness being carefully locked away in their own breasts, and hidden from the general public – in that year of 1913, in the month of March, the Twenty-fifth Lancers were quartered at the town of Blankfield, in Yorkshire.

The Twenty-fifth was a crack regiment. Most of the officers were members of the aristocracy, a few of the plutocracy, that portion of the plutocracy which on account of its wealth had been adopted into a superior world by marriage with its aristocratic daughters.

They were a fine set of clean-minded, healthy living, sporting young fellows. They rode to hounds, they played polo when there was any going, they shot over the coverts of their friends, they made love to all the pretty girls they came across in a gallant and desultory fashion, loving and riding away.

It cannot be said that they took their professional duties in too serious a fashion. But they were brave as lions, and when the time came to prove their mettle, none of their relatives had cause to blush for their record. The memories of most of them were enshrined deeply in the hearts of wailing mothers and weeping sweethearts, when the great holocaust came.

Foremost amongst this band of gay spirits and resolute sportsmen was a certain Captain Murchison, “Hughie,” as he was always called by his intimates.

“Hughie” was not a pure aristocrat. His father, a man of fabulous wealth, was the head of the great brewing firm of Murchison, Delaroyd and Co., the fourth in succession, for the big brewery had been founded over a hundred years ago.

It is supposed, in the case of self-made men, that it requires three generations to make a gentleman. Anyway, the present Sir Hugh had won his spurs by the fact of belonging to the fourth. And he had further firmly established his position by marrying Lady Gertrude Marchmont, a daughter of the Earl of Mounthaven. The Marchmonts had blue blood in profusion, they were one of the oldest families in the Kingdom, only just being beaten by such superior people as the Howards, the Talbots, and the Nevilles.

Captain Murchison was, therefore, plutocrat on the father’s side, aristocrat of aristocrat on the mother’s. But he did not owe his popularity to these adventitious circumstances. The fact that he was the most popular man in his regiment was due to his own sterling qualities.

In the first place, he was a man of the most unbounded generosity and the most serene good-humour. He had captained the Eleven at Eton, and he was one of the best shots, also one of the best polo-players, in England. Needless to say that he was a man’s man. The fact that he was also equally a Woman’s man can be easily explained. He boasted more than ordinary good looks, and he had a charming, deferential way with Women that captivated them at once.

The Twenty-fifth had a very good time at Blankfield, on the whole. The houses of the “county” were, of course, open to such a distinguished regiment, but perhaps they had a rather jollier time amongst the rather limited circle of rich townsfolk whom they condescended to visit: the people who, at the best, had only a nodding acquaintance with the “county.”

Murchison was a born sportsman. Hunting, polo, shooting, cricket, occupied nearly all his Waking thoughts, except those few that were claimed by his professional duties. Popular as he was with women, not a single member of the weaker and more charming sex had made any real impression on him up to the present.

He had had several flirtations with charming girls, of course: he might have indulged in a few sentimental passages with certain more or less detached, or semi-detached, married women. The latter very rarely, for although by no means a saint he was a very clean-minded young man, and held rather rigid notions as to what might be done, and what ought not to be done. Anyway at this particular moment he was quite heart-whole.

And then, one day, in this rather sleepy town of Blankfield, an adventure befell him. It was not strictly a common or garden adventure, for more than one reason.

The woman, or rather girl, who was concerned in it, for looking at her in a severe light she did not appeal to be more than twenty, bore upon her no marks of the shameless adventuress. It was easy to see that she was not a member of his own World, the World of plutocracy mingled into aristocracy by judicious intermarriage. The “county” would not, of course, open their doors to her. According to her own account, the respectable “villadom” of the sleepy old town had not called upon her, on account of the absence of convincing credentials.

The meeting happened in this way. Hugh found himself with a blank afternoon, an afternoon that had not been filled up. He could call at lots of houses and get tea. But, at this period, he was becoming a little fed-up with the Blankfield teas, the simpering girls, the astute mothers who Wanted to take the heir of the Murchison millions off his guard, and hook him for a son-in-law.

Coming from a long line of successful tradesmen, Hugh had rather less brains than he ought to have acquired by heredity. Still, he was no fool. As long as a proposition was not too complex, he could size it up pretty accurately. And he sized up the Blankfield hospitality at its true worth.

He walked down the High Street, and turned into the first tea-shop. It was a well-known establishment, and the dashing members of the Twenty-fifth were wont to invite hither for tea some of the Blankfield maidens who were not too particular as to chaperonage.

He expected to find here a good few of his brother officers. To his surprise, he did not see one. But the room was very full. To a casual observer, every table seemed occupied. He was about to turn away, when a waitress, who knew him well, touched him on the arm.

“It’s quite all right, Captain Murchison,” – Hugh had arrived at seniority very early: “there’s a table up there at the far end. There’s only a young lady there, and she has very nearly finished her tea.”

The young lady in question was quite young; Hugh decided from the first swift glance at her that she could not be more than twenty. She was exceedingly pretty, with wavy light hair and soft brown eyes. She wore an air of composure remarkable in one so youthful.

The young man knew her well by sight, as did his brother officers. She was frequently to be seen in the High Street, flitting in and out shops, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a rather common-looking person, some ten years her senior. It was said they were brother and sister and their name was Burton.