Inspector Alan Grant of Scotland Yard MEGAPACK®. Josephine Tey
nearer a solution. That a man in Sorrell’s position had been willing to pay thirty guineas for an ornament argued infatuation of an extreme type. He had not presented it to the object of his devotion up to the time of his departure. That meant that it could be presented only after he had left Britain. It was packed deep in his trunk. He had no friends in America that any one knew of. But—Margaret Ratcliffe was going out by the same boat. That woman! How she came into things! And her entry, instead of making things clearer, merely made the muddle worse than before. For muddle Grant was now convinced there was.
It was nearly lunchtime, but he went back to the Yard because he was expecting a message from the post office. It was there waiting for him. On the morning of the 14th (Wednesday) a telegram had been handed in at Brixton High Street post office addressed to Albert Sorrell on board the Queen of Arabia, and reading “Sorry.—JERRY.” It had presumably been delivered, since there had been no word to the contrary, but it was not unlikely that, in the shoal of telegrams attending the departure of a big liner, if it had not been claimed, it might have been mislaid.
“So that’s that!” said Grant aloud; and Williams, who was in attendance, said, “Yes, sir,” accommodatingly.
And now what? He wanted to see Mrs. Ratcliffe, but he did not know whether she had returned home. If he rang to inquire, she would be forewarned of his renewed interest in her. He would have to send Simpson again. Mrs. Ratcliffe would have to wait for the moment. He would go and see Mrs. Everett instead. He gave Simpson his instructions, and after lunch went down to Fulham.
Mrs. Everett opened the door to him, with no sign of fear or embarrassment. From the expression of her eyes, her hostility was too great to permit of her harbouring any other emotion. What line should he take with her? The stern official one would be useless both from the point of impressing her and from the point of extracting information; the dead man had done well to call her Lady Macbeth. And a magnanimous overlooking of the part she had played in Lamont’s escape would also have no effect. Flattery would earn nothing but her scorn. It occurred to him that the only method of dealing with her to any advantage was to tell her the truth.
“Mrs. Everett,” he said, when she had led him in, “we have a case that will hang Gerald Lamont, but I’m not satisfied myself with the evidence. So far, I haven’t caught Lamont out in a misstatement, and there is just the faintest possibility that his story is true. But no jury will believe it. It is a very thin tale, and, told baldly in a court of law, would be beyond belief. But I feel that a little more information will tip the scales one way or another—either prove Lamont’s guilt beyond a doubt or acquit him. So I’ve come to you. If he’s innocent, then the chances are that the extra information will go to prove that, and not his guilt. And so I’ve come to you for the information.”
She examined him in silence, trying to read his motive through the camouflage of his words.
“I’ve told you the truth,” he said, “and you can take it or leave it. It isn’t any softness for Gerald Lamont that has brought me here, I assure you. It’s a matter of my own professional pride. If there’s any possibility of a mistake, then I’ve got to worry at the case until I’m sure I’ve got the right man.”
“What do you want to know?” she said, and it sounded like a capitulation. At least it was a compromise.
“In the first place, what letters habitually came for Sorrell, and where did they come from?”
“He got very few letters altogether. He had not many friends on these terms.”
“Did you ever know letters addressed in a woman’s hand come for him?”
“Yes; occasionally.”
“Where were they posted?”
“In London, I think.”
“What was the writing like?”
“Very round and regular and rather large.”
“Do you know who the woman was?”
“No.”
“How long had the letters been coming for him?”
“Oh, for years! I don’t remember how long.”
“And in all these years you never found out who his correspondent was?”
“No.”
“Did no woman ever come to see him here?”
“No.”
“How often did the letters come?”
“Oh, not often! About once in six weeks, perhaps, or a little oftener.”
“Lamont has said that Sorrell was secretive. Is that so?”
“No, not secretive. But he was jealous. I mean jealous of the things he liked. When he cared very much about a thing he would—hug it to himself, if you know what I mean.”
“Did the arrival of the letters make any difference to him—make him pleased or otherwise?”
“No; he didn’t show any feeling that way. He was very quiet, you know.”
“Tell me,” said Grant, and produced the velvet case, “have you ever seen that before?” He snapped it open to her gaze.
“M. R.,” she said slowly, just as Grant had done. “No; I never saw it before. What has that got to do with Bertie?”
“That was found in the pocket of a coat in Sorrell’s trunk.”
She put her worn hand out for it, looked at it with curiosity, and gave it back to him.
“Can you suggest any reason why Sorrell should commit suicide?”
“No, I can’t. But I can tell you that about a week before he left to go—left here—a small parcel came by post for him. It was waiting for him when he came home one evening. He came home that night before Jerry—Mr. Lamont.”
“Do you mean as small a parcel as this?”
“Not quite, but as big as that would be with wrapping round it.”
But the man in Gallio & Stein’s had said that Sorrell had taken the brooch away with him. “Can you remember what day that was?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think it was the Thursday before he left.”
On Tuesday, Sorrell had taken the little parcel from the jeweller, and on Thursday evening the little parcel had been delivered at Sorrell’s rooms. The inference was obvious. The woman had refused his offering.
“What was the writing on the parcel like?”
“It was addressed only on the label, and the address was printed.”
“Did Sorrell show any emotion on opening it?”
“I wasn’t there when he opened it.”
“Then afterwards?”
“No; I don’t think so. He was very quiet. But then he was always quiet.”
“I see. When did Lamont come and tell you what had happened?”
“On Saturday.”
“You knew before then that the man in the queue was Sorrell?”
“No; the description of the man wasn’t published in full until Thursday, and I naturally thought that Bert had sailed on Wednesday. I knew that Jerry would have been with him up to the last minute, so I didn’t worry. It was only when I saw the description of the man the police wanted that I put the two descriptions together and began to wonder. That was on Saturday.”
“And what did you think then?”
“I thought, as I think now, that there was a very bad mistake somewhere.”
“Will you tell me what Lamont told you? He has made a statement to us already.”
She