Trent’s Own Case. E. C. Bentley

most of the time. Besides me, there’s only a woman, Mrs Barley, to look after this place. She has a door-key and her job is to keep the place tidy, all the year round. Mr Randolph liked to have it kept so that he could come to London any time without notice, and find it ready for occupation. So long as he did find it ready—which I must say he always did—Mrs Barley could arrange her time to suit herself. When we were here, I used always to get the breakfast and do the bedrooms myself.’

      Mr Bligh, still bending on Raught a gaze which he continued to avoid meeting, said gently: ‘It isn’t exactly your place as valet, is it, to do that sort of thing?’

      ‘I didn’t consider that, sir—not in dealing with Mr Randolph,’ Raught said. He swallowed nervously, and went on: ‘I didn’t mind what I did for him, owing everything to him, as you might say.’

      The inspector grunted sceptically. ‘What about this Mrs Barley?’ he asked. ‘Oughtn’t she to be here this morning?’

      ‘I don’t know when she’ll be coming in, sir,’ Raught declared. ‘She had been here when we got down from Yorkshire day before yesterday, and she was here yesterday morning for an hour. But as soon as she hears of what’s happened, she’ll be along quick enough, you may be sure of that.’

      ‘What do you know about her?’

      ‘She’s a perfectly respectable woman, sir, I need ’ardly say. Before her husband died—a carpenter, I believe he was—they rented one of Mr Randolph’s cottages in Humberstone. I have ’eard that Barley got into bad company, sir, and got himself into some sort of trouble, which Mr Randolph ’elped him out of; but there was never anything against Mrs Barley. Since he died, she’s been living with her sister, who keeps a boarding-house used by foreigners mostly, I’ve been told—in Bayswater it is, Oldbury Terrace, I forget the number.’

      The inspector took down these particulars in his notebook; then referred to an earlier entry.

      ‘When you were first questioned this morning, you mentioned a secretary.’

      ‘Mr Verney; yes, sir. He’s the gentleman that had the management of all Mr Randolph’s charities and that—his good works, as you may say. When Mr Randolph was staying here—’

      ‘When did he stay here? How much time did he spend here?’

      ‘There was nothing regular about it, sir. Every few weeks—I couldn’t put it any nearer than that; sometimes it was more frequent—we would come down for two or three days. Or we might go back to Brinton the next day. This time we came the day before yesterday, the Tuesday.’

      ‘Well, now about Mr Verney.’

      ‘He was often up at Brinton, sir, the place in Yorkshire; but he didn’t live there. He had rooms here in London, in Purvis Crescent, No. 36—off Willesley Road; I believe he spends a lot of time running the Randolph Institute, sir, in Kilburn—a sort of club, that is, for young men and boys. Whenever we were here, Mr Verney would come in, having his own door-key, to talk business. I should have expected to see him here before this, sir.’

      Mr Bligh took another note; then once more he fixed the man before him with an intimidating eye.

      ‘And where do you say you were last night, when your employer was murdered?’

      Raught repeated the account of his movements of which the inspector had already learned the substance. It had been the valet’s half day off, as it always was on Wednesdays. He had not gone out until a little before 6:30, when he had done so after laying out Mr Randolph’s clothes for a dinner which he was to have attended. Raught, on leaving, had gone straight to the Three Tuns in Rowington Street, where he had spent some time, and had afterwards visited the Running Stag in Gooch Street. He had often ‘used’ both places while in London, and was well known. Miss Whicker at the Tuns and Archie at the Stag could bear out his statement. Raught had then joined his sister, Mrs Livings, and her husband at the Pilatus restaurant in Warsaw Street at 7:30. After dinner they had gone on to Battersea, where his relations lived, and had visited the Parthenon Cinema, where a film called ‘The Two-Gun Terror’ was being shown. After that he had had a drink at his brother-in-law’s place, and come back to Newbury Place just before twelve o’clock. He was not expected to be back, he explained, before midnight, Mr Randolph being ‘very human’ in that respect.

      ‘And then?’ Mr Bligh inquired in his uncomfortably colourless tone.

      Raught had gone upstairs to see if his master had returned. He had found the bedroom door wide open, the lights on, and his master lying dead on the floor before the dressing-table; it had given him ‘such a turn, sir, as I never had in my life.’ He had ‘felt’ at once that Mr Randolph was dead. There couldn’t be any mistake about it, the valet said, looking at him as he lay ‘all of a heap.’ He had, therefore, rung up the police immediately, being careful to leave everything just as it was. He had seen, when he came in, no signs of any stranger having been about the place. In reply to a question, Raught declared that he had not touched the body, or even examined it closely, his nerves being ‘all to pieces.’ Then how had he known that it was murder, and a case for calling in the police? Raught had not known; he had only ‘supposed it must be that.’

      Inspector Bligh now resumed his silent study of Raught’s unprepossessing face. The valet, his eyes wandering in all directions, pulled out a handkerchief and squeezed it between his palms. Suddenly the question was shot at him:

      ‘Weren’t you in trouble a few years ago?’

      ‘Well, sir,’ Raught said with that shade of candour peculiar to those found out, ‘there was a small matter of false pretences—’

      ‘Blackmail, don’t you mean?’ the inspector asked grimly. ‘I thought I remembered your face—it’s a kind I see a lot of.’

      Raught licked his lips and took on an injured expression. ‘Truly, sir, it wasn’t blackmail. What would be the use of my telling you a lie? I was in a bit of a ’ole, sir—through betting, it was. I was in Mr Randolph’s service at that time, and with your memory, sir, you may recollect he gave evidence of my good character while I was with him—no man could have acted kinder. I got six months, and when I came out he took me into his service again. Not many gentlemen would have done as much—saving me from drifting from bad to worse, as you may say. I would have given my life for him, sir.’

      Raught’s cry from the heart did not impress the inspector, to whose accustomed ear it had not a genuine ring. Nor did he think much of the man’s alibi. The police surgeon had thought it probable that Randolph’s death had taken place not earlier than seven o’clock and not later than ten. Unless both Miss Whicker and Archie should prove able to time their customer’s coming and going with some accuracy, there was room enough in Raught’s tale for him to move about in, before keeping his verifiable appointment in Warsaw Street.

      Setting that matter aside for the time being, the inspector opened another line.

      ‘Do you know anything about any person having an appointment to see your master yesterday evening, or any person who might have been coming here that evening for any reason?’

      ‘Well, sir, the only appointment Mr Randolph had made—to my knowledge, that is—was at six o’clock, with Mr Trent, the artist, who had been at Brinton painting his portrait some time ago.’

      The inspector smiled faintly. ‘Ha! So Mr Trent, the artist, had an appointment at six. Why? Wasn’t Mr Randolph satisfied with the portrait done by Mr Trent, the artist?’

      ‘Oh! It wasn’t that at all, sir—quite the contrary. Everyone thought highly of the portrait, and I believe Mr Randolph’s intention in asking Mr Trent to call was to arrange about having another portrait done, or I should say a copy, like, of the first one. It was to be hung in the hall of the Institute, sir, the place I mentioned just now. Mr Verney was very keen about it, and though Mr Randolph was not so at first, he came to approve of the idea, sir.’

      ‘Hm! Very natural he should.’ Mr Bligh gazed thoughtfully out of the window. ‘It was to be a copy, yes? For the Institute—I