The Chimneys

The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. Chimneys

X. Chimneys

Inspector Badgworthy in his office. Time, 8.30 a.m. A tall portly man, Inspector Badgworthy, with a heavy regulation tread. Inclined to breathe hard in moments of professional strain. In attendance Constable Johnson, very new to the Force, with a downy unfledged look about him, like a human chicken.

The telephone on the table rang sharply, and the inspector took it up with his usual portentous gravity of action.

“Yes. Police station Market Basing. Inspector Badgworthy speaking. What?”

Slight alteration in the inspector’s manner. As he is greater than Johnson, so others are greater than Inspector Badgworthy.

“Speaking, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord? I didn’t quite hear what you said?”

Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he lays down the receiver, after a brief “At once, my lord.”

He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance.

“From his lordship—at Chimneys—Murder.”

“Murder,” echoed Johnson, suitably impressed.

“Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction.

“Why, there’s never been a murder here—not that I’ve ever heard of—except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.”

“And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,” said the inspector, deprecatingly.

“He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the real thing, is it, sir?”

“It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman, discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.”

“I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret.

It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to be shot.

“His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We’ll get hold of Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no one will get messing with those footprints.”

Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.

“That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard doesn’t come butting in.”

The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to happen under the circumstances.

They stopped at Dr. Cartwright’s, and the doctor, who was a comparatively young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was almost exactly that of Johnson.

“Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t had a murder here since the time of Tom Pearse.”

All three of them got into the doctor’s little car, and started off briskly for Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, The Jolly Cricketers, the doctor noticed a man standing in the doorway.

“Stranger,” he remarked. “Rather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long he’s been here, and what he’s doing staying at the Cricketers? I haven’t seen him about at all. He must have arrived last night.”

“He didn’t come by train,” said Johnson.

Johnson’s brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was therefore always well up in arrivals and departures.

“Who was there for Chimneys yesterday?” asked the inspector.

“Lady Eileen, she come down by the 3.40, and two gentlemen with her, an American gent, and a young Army chap—neither of them with valets. His lordship come down with a foreign gentleman, the one that’s been shot as likely as not, by the 5.40, and the foreign gentleman’s valet. Mr. Eversleigh come by the same train. Mrs. Revel came by the 7.25, and another foreign-looking gentleman came by it too, one with a bald head and a hook nose. Mrs. Revel’s maid came by the 8.56.”

Johnson paused, out of breath.

“And there was no one for the Cricketers?”

Johnson shook his head.

“He must have come by car then,” said the inspector. “Johnson, make a note to institute inquiries at the Cricketers on your way back. We want to know all about any strangers. He was very sunburnt, that gentleman. Likely as not, he’s come from foreign parts too.”

The inspector nodded his head with great sagacity, as though to imply that that was the sort of wide-awake man he was—not to be caught napping under any consideration.

The car passed in through the Park gates of Chimneys. Descriptions of that historic place can be found in any guide book. It is also No. 3 in Historic Homes of England, price 21s. On Thursdays, chars-à-bancs come over from Middlingham and view those portions of it which are open to the public. In view of all these facilities, to describe Chimneys would be superfluous.

They were received at the door by a white-headed butler whose demeanour was perfect.

“We are not accustomed,” it seemed to say, “to having murder committed within these walls. But these are evil days. Let us meet disaster with perfect calm, and pretend with our dying breath that nothing out of the usual has occurred.”

“His lordship,” said the butler, “is expecting you. This way, if you please.”

He led them to a small cosy room which was Lord Caterham’s refuge from the magnificence elsewhere, and announced them.

“The police, my lord, and Dr. Cartwright.”

Lord Caterham was pacing up and down in a visibly agitated state.

“Ha! inspector, you’ve turned up at last. I’m thankful for that. How are you, Cartwright? This is the very devil of a business, you know. The very devil of a business.”

And Lord Caterham, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied fashion until it stood upright in little tufts, looked even less like a peer of the realm than usual.

“Where’s the body?” asked the doctor, in curt business-like fashion.

Lord Caterham turned to him as though relieved at being asked a direct question.

“In the council chamber—just where it was found—I wouldn’t have it touched. I believed—er—that that was the correct thing to do.”

“Quite right, my lord,” said the inspector approvingly.

He produced a notebook and pencil.

“And who discovered the body? Did you?”

“Good Lord, no,” said Lord Caterham. “You don’t think I usually get up at this unearthly hour in the morning, do you? No, a housemaid found it. She screamed a good deal, I believe. I didn’t hear her myself. Then they came to me about it, and of course I got up and came down—and there it was, you know.”

“You recognized the body as that of one of your guests?”

“That’s right, inspector.”

“By name?”

This perfectly simple question seemed to upset Lord Caterham. He opened his mouth once or twice, and then shut it again. Finally he asked feebly.

“Do you mean—do you mean—what was his name?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well,” said Lord Caterham, looking slowly round the room, as though hoping to gain inspiration. “His name was—I should say it was—yes, decidedly so—Count Stanislaus.”

There was something so odd about Lord Caterham’s manner, that the inspector ceased using his pencil and stared at him instead. But at that moment a diversion occurred which seemed highly welcome to the embarrassed peer.

The door opened and a girl came into the room. She was tall, slim and dark, with an attractive boyish face, and a very determined manner. This was Lady Eileen Brent, commonly known as Bundle, Lord Caterham’s eldest daughter. She nodded to the others, and addressed her father directly.

“I’ve got him,” she announced.

For a moment the inspector was on the point of starting forward under the impression that the young lady had captured the murderer red-handed, but almost immediately he realized that her meaning was quite different.

Lord Caterham uttered a sigh of relief.

“That’s a good job. What did he say?”

“He’s coming over at once. We are to ‘use the utmost discretion.’”

Her father made a sound of annoyance.

“That’s just the sort of idiotic thing George Lomax would say. However, once he comes, I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”

He appeared to cheer up a little at the prospect.

“And the name of the murdered man was Count Stanislaus?” queried the doctor.

A lightning glance passed between father and daughter, and then the former said with some dignity:

“Certainly. I said so just now.”

“I asked because you didn’t seem quite sure about it before,” explained Cartwright.

There was a faint twinkle in his eye, and Lord Caterham looked at him reproachfully.

“I’ll take you to the Council Chamber,” he said more briskly.

They followed him, the inspector bringing up the rear, and darting sharp glances all around him as he went, much as though he expected to find a clue in a picture frame, or behind a door.

Lord Caterham took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, flinging it open. They all passed into a big room panelled in oak, with three long windows giving on the terrace. There was a long refectory table and a good many oak chests, and some beautiful old chairs. On the walls were various paintings of dead and gone Caterhams and others.

Near the left-hand wall, about half-way between the door and the window, a man was lying on his back, his arms flung wide.

Dr. Cartwright went over and knelt down by the body. The inspector strode across to the windows, and examined them in turn. The centre one was closed, but not fastened. On the steps outside were footprints leading up to the window, and a second set going away again.

“Clear enough,” said the inspector, with a nod. “But there ought to be footprints on the inside as well. They’d show up plain on this parquet floor.”

“I think I can explain that,” interposed Bundle. “The housemaid had polished half the floor this morning before she saw the body. You see, it was dark when she came in here. She went straight across to the windows, drew the curtains, and began on the floor, and naturally didn’t see the body which is hidden from that side of the room by the table. She didn’t see it until she came right on top of it.”

The inspector nodded.

“Well,” said Lord Caterham, eager to escape. “I’ll leave you here, inspector. You’ll be able to find me if you—er—want me. But Mr. George Lomax is coming over from Wyverne Abbey shortly, and he’ll be able to tell you far more than I could. It’s his business really. I can’t explain, but he will when he comes.”

Lord Caterham beat a precipitate retreat without waiting for a reply.

“Too bad for Lomax,” he complained. “Letting me in for this. What’s the matter, Tredwell?”

The white-haired butler was hovering deferentially at his elbow.

“I have taken the liberty, my lord, of advancing the breakfast hour as far as you are concerned. Everything is ready in the dining-room.”

“I don’t suppose for a minute I can eat anything,” said Lord Caterham gloomily, turning his footsteps in that direction. “Not for a moment.”

Bundle slipped her hand through his arm, and they entered the dining-room together. On the sideboard were half a score of heavy silver dishes, ingeniously kept hot by patent arrangements.

“Omelet,” said Lord Caterham, lifting each lid in turn. “Eggs and bacon, kidneys, devilled bird, haddock, cold ham, cold pheasant. I don’t like any of these things, Tredwell, ask the cook to poach me an egg, will you?”

“Very good, my lord.”

Tredwell withdrew. Lord Caterham, in an absent-minded fashion, helped himself plentifully to kidneys and bacon, poured himself out a cup of coffee, and sat down at the long table. Bundle was already busy with a plateful of eggs and bacon.

“I’m damned hungry,” said Bundle with her mouth full. “It must be the excitement.”

“It’s all very well for you,” complained her father. “You young people like excitement. But I’m in a very delicate state of health. Avoid all worry, that’s what Sir Abner Willis said—avoid all worry. So easy for a man sitting in his consulting-room in Harley Street to say that. How can I avoid worry when that ass Lomax lands me with a thing like this? I ought to have been firm at the time. I ought to have put my foot down.”

With a sad shake of the head, Lord Caterham rose and carved himself a plate of ham.

“Codders has certainly done it this time,” observed Bundle cheerfully. “He was almost incoherent over the telephone. He’ll be here in a minute or two, spluttering nineteen to the dozen about discretion and hushing it up.”

Lord Caterham groaned at the prospect.

“Was he up?” he asked.

“He told me,” replied Bundle, “that he had been up and dictating letters and memoranda ever since seven o’clock.”

“Proud of it, too,” remarked her father. “Extraordinarily selfish, these public men. They make their wretched secretaries get up at the most unearthly hours in order to dictate rubbish to them. If a law was passed compelling them to stop in bed until eleven, what a benefit it would be to the nation! I wouldn’t mind so much if they didn’t talk such balderdash. Lomax is always talking to me of my ‘position.’ As if I had any. Who wants to be a peer nowadays?”

“Nobody,” said Bundle. “They’d much rather keep a prosperous public house.”

Tredwell reappeared silently with two poached eggs in a little silver dish which he placed on the table in front of Lord Caterham.

“What’s that, Tredwell?” said the latter, looking at them with faint distaste.

“Poached eggs, my lord.”

“I hate poached eggs,” said Lord Caterham peevishly. “They’re so insipid. I don’t like to look at them even. Take them away, will you, Tredwell?”

“Very good, my lord.”

Tredwell and the poached eggs withdrew as silently as they came.

“Thank God no one gets up early in this house,” remarked Lord Caterham devoutly. “We shall have to break this to them when they do, I suppose.”

He sighed.

“I wonder who murdered him,” said Bundle. “And why?”

“That’s not our business, thank goodness,” said Lord Caterham. “That’s for the police to find out. Not that Badgworthy will ever find out anything. On the whole I rather hope it was Nosystein.”

“Meaning——”

“The All British Syndicate.”

“Why should Mr. Isaacstein murder him when he’d come down here on purpose to meet him?”

“High finance,” said Lord Caterham vaguely. “And that reminds me, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Isaacstein wasn’t an early riser. He may blow in upon us at any minute. It’s a habit in the city. I believe that, however rich you are, you always catch the 9.17.”

The sound of a motor being driven at great speed was heard through the open window.

“Codders,” cried Bundle.

Father and daughter leaned out of the window and hailed the occupant of the car as it drew up before the entrance.

“In here, my dear fellow, in here,” cried Lord Caterham, hastily swallowing his mouthful of ham.

George had no intention of climbing in through the window. He disappeared through the front door, and reappeared ushered in by Tredwell, who withdrew at once.

“Have some breakfast,” said Lord Caterham, shaking him by the hand. “What about a kidney?”

George waved the kidney aside impatiently.

“This is a terrible calamity, terrible, terrible.”

“It is indeed. Some haddock?”

“No, no. It must be hushed up—at all costs it must be hushed up.”

As Bundle had prophesied, George began to splutter.

“I understand your feelings,” said Lord Caterham sympathetically. “Try an egg and bacon, or some haddock.”

“A totally unforeseen contingency—national calamity—concessions jeopardized——”

“Take time,” said Lord Caterham. “And take some food. What you need is some food, to pull you together. Poached eggs now? There were some poached eggs here a minute or two ago.”

“I don’t want any food,” said George. “I’ve had breakfast, and even if I hadn’t had any I shouldn’t want it. We must think what is to be done. You have told no one as yet?”

“Well, there’s Bundle and myself. And the local police. And Cartwright. And all the servants of course.”

George groaned.

“Pull yourself together, my dear fellow,” said Lord Caterham kindly. “(I wish you’d have some breakfast.) You don’t seem to realize that you can’t hush up a dead body. It’s got be buried and all that sort of thing. Very unfortunate, but there it is.”

George became suddenly calm.

“You are right, Caterham. You have called in the local police, you say? That will not do. We must have Battle.”

“Battle, murder and sudden death,” inquired Lord Caterham, with a puzzled face.

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I referred to Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. A man of the utmost discretion. He worked with us in that deplorable business of the Party Funds.”

“What was that?” asked Lord Caterham, with some interest.

But George’s eye had fallen upon Bundle, as she sat half in and half out of the window, and he remembered discretion just in time. He rose.

“We must waste no time. I must send off some wires at once.”

“If you write them out, Bundle will send them through the telephone.”

George pulled out a fountain pen and began to write with incredible rapidity. He handed the first one to Bundle, who read it with a great deal of interest.

“God! what a name,” she remarked. “Baron How Much?”

“Baron Lolopretjzyl.”

Bundle blinked.

“I’ve got it, but it will take some conveying to the post office.”

George continued to write. Then he handed his labours to Bundle and addressed the master of the house:

“The best thing that you can do, Caterham——”

“Yes,” said Lord Caterham apprehensively.

“Is to leave everything in my hands.”

“Certainly,” said Lord Caterham, with alacrity. “Just what I was thinking myself. You’ll find the police and Dr. Cartwright in the Council Chamber. With the—er—with the body, you know. My dear Lomax, I place Chimneys unreservedly at your disposal. Do anything you like.”

“Thank you,” said George. “If I should want to consult you——”

But Lord Caterham had faded unobtrusively through the farther door. Bundle had observed his retreat with a grim smile.

“I’ll send off those telegrams at once,” she said. “You know your way to the Council Chamber?”

“Thank you, Lady Eileen.”

George hurried from the room.

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This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret of Chimneys. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/65238/pg65238-images.html

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