The QUEEN’S HALL MURDER

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 642, 21 December 1932, Page 14

The QUEEN’S HALL MURDER

By

ADAM BROOME.

Author of ** Crowner’i Queat,” etc.

CHAPTER XVlll.—(Continued.) Again Grigson nodded. *'l suppose you collected the parcel from Swans ton's that the strings came "Indeed I did. I’ve got it.” He made a movement, hut Taunton made a protesting gesture. "Don’t bother—not yet. There’s something I want to say first. I suppose these commissioner chaps are always more or less up against somebody or other, and natives are supposed to bo rather dabs at poisoning. It’s a convenient way—anywhere—of ‘bumping off’ people you’ve got a grudge against. I suppose, by any chance, that the curare bush or tree or whatever it is, isn’t grown out here?” Grigson shook his head. “I can tell you, quite definitely, that it isn’t produced here. Of course, as you say. there are lots of people—mainly natives naturally—who must, in the nature of things, have complaints against the D.C. But on the whole, Westcott’s decisions were pretty popular, and I can say, having investigated the case myself pretty thoroughly, that there’s no evidence that anyone, white or black, was sufficiently worked up about him to want to ‘bump him off.’ ” tTaunton began to puff meditatively "Well, now,” he said, at last, “I take it as you say, that there’s no one you suspected that would have tried to* do the fellow in. But you admit that people in his position often have got, if not” personal enemies, yet somebody who’s got a grudge against them, and somebody who, from white man’s reasoning, wouldn’t have a very good excuse. The Cargill case you mentioned—l do remember it now—was a case in point. »So the possibility that Westeott’s murderer was some bod v local can’t altogether be ruled out.” The Commissioner of Police agreed. "Now the next thing is—could anyone manage to get hold of curare out here; any unqualified, unauthorised person?” This was easy to answer, yet the answer could not be entirely conclusive. "The only place where any’s kept — it’s not on sale here at all —is at the Colonial Hospital here in Edwardsville. And the P.M.O. reported the stock quite intact. He showed me the safe and the t stuff. There’s never been any shortage, ! for years back, when the poison stock j has been checked. And that’s always done by a board of doctors; not by any | means an ordinary board of surveyors on ' stores to be condemned.” He laughed. He remembered some of those boards over which he had presided or of which ' he had been a member. "But you’re up against the same difficulty you had at home. You might check every grain—or however it is they mea- ; sure it—in the whole country. And yet j quite enough to do the trick might be brought in—smuggled in—by someone from abroad. In South America, where I believe the stuff comes from, they’re not quite so strict about exports, and so on, as we are in Europe.” ‘‘Well, then,” said Taunton, who was perspiring pretty freely and feeling a little uncomfortable, and wondering whether, after all, his first opinion of Old Guinea mightn’t need a little revision, "we come to my point. Some fellow out here —who has got some grudge —we do not know what—against Westcott —has got some of the stuff from somewhere. He gets the packet opened in the post—or after it has left the p6st office—sticks the stuff in—fixes up the parcel again and gets the job done. How about that?” "I’ll soon convince you on that point.” Grigson produced from his safe a small, square glass box and handed it to Taunton. "I must say I like the way you’ve kept these things.” "I'm afraid,” said Grigson, pleased at the commendation, "that by the time it got into our hands it’d been pawed bv a good many people, so there wouldn’t be much chance of any of the original fingerprints surviving. In any case, I can’t sec that they’d have helped much if they had. But I wasn't taking any chances all the same.” The little glass box contained a piece of folded brown paper, some tissue paper and two or three waxed paper envelopes containing ’cello strings. ‘•You can see that the seals with the music shop people’s name are not broken even now; Westcott must have torn the paper in between them. And his assistant, young Weeks, who looked at the packet pretty closely as the D.C. held it —he was rather surprised and interested at finding his boss was a musician —said there didn’t seem to he any sign of tampering. And here is the thing — that 1 had in my safe —that actually caused the death.” He handed to the other a little glasstopped pillbox and a magnifying glass. Taunton was really interested now. Inside the box was a glass-headed draw-ing-pin with a long point, and a small piece of crumpled tissue paper. "That must have been in amongst the strings, for the doctor found it gripped in Westeott’s hand with one of the string envelopes. It was wrapped in tissue paper. There’s practically no trace of the curare on it now. They had a go at it in the lab. here, and the principal medical officer said there was undoubtedly (I forgot the exact amount) enough of the stuff to kill more than one man.” "H’m.” grunted Taunton, when he had finished with the magnifying glass. ‘‘Doesn’t get us much further, as you sav. As a guess—the person who bought the strings in Brightmouth popped this in—wrapped in tissue paper —before the parcel was done up for the post. Well —and what’s the rest you’ve got to show me?” "It's a trunk I am having nent up to mv bungalow—rather, a tin uniform case of Westcott’s. It’s full mostly of papers which we mean to send home when the Colonial Office give us the word that they’ve found some relative who wants them. I’ve had a look through them myself, but I must say J couldn’t find anything that seemed of the least use in clearing up the mystery.” "Can’t say that there’s anything much there that I think’s any good.” In the comfort of Grigs on’s bungalow, the two had spent the time between tea and drinks time—about 0 o’clock—in going through a mass of letters and books contained in the dead D.C.’s tin trunk. There were no letters which dated back more than a year—the beginning of Westcott’e final tour of service, and there were very few at all. Most of the envelopes contained merely receipts for hills incurred at home or in the colony, chiefly for necessities of life, hut others for ’cello strings and accessories—ordered from a London shop —and for books and papers dealing mainly with musical subjects. There

were no letters at all from women. Mr. Westcott was nothing of a ladies’ man, and the crime passioncl could clearly be discounted here. "Well —what about a spot of rest—and a little of this ?” Taunton’s host tapped a whisky decanter, which, with a tray of glasses, a soft-footed white-gowned native servant had brought in, switching on as he did. so the softly-shaded electric table lamp on a tabic in the middle of the verandah. The summons was not unwelcome. "Thanks—l don’t mind if I do.” Many times in his life had he spoken the magic formula; but never with more truth and conviction than on this first evening, after a thirsty afternoon’s labour, in the hot, parching climate of West Africa. "Think I'll turn in now, if you don't mind. Feel a bit tired. First time in the tropics, I suppose; not used to it, you know.” ‘‘And it was pretty tiring work going through all those letters and things in that box this afternoon.” "It was,” answered Taunton feelingly. "And for all the good that it's likely to do, we might just as well never have touched the stuff. But there’s just one thing here that might or might not help, and that’s this queer old cliary that seems to have belonged to Westeott’s father.” Grigson smiled. "Oil, that,” he said. "I had a run through it myself. But I don’t think you’ll find anything that's of much use in that. Seems mostly to do with the old boy’s accounts at his musical seminary, as he called it. at Brightmouth.” Taunton gave a weary smile. "I know; but I’ll just take it to bed with me and have a squint at it before I go to sleep. . I’ve got to make some sort of report on something to the Commissioner when I get back to London."’ The mosquito net was a bit annoying at first; seemed to keep out any breeze that there was that found its way through the wide-open windows of the room. But the bed was comfortable enough, and the green-shaded electric lamp on the little table beside it was satisfactory.

He became gradually accustomed to the sound of the crickets outside, the occasional hoot of a tug coaling some steamer in the harbour, and the roar oft a car as it tore up the road in front of the bungalow with some party of late revellers bound for the white men's residential cantonment up on the hill behind the town. When he was at last comfortably settled, he began to turn the pages of the little book. They were ruled in blue, with a narrow red margin, and the ink in which the entries were made were faded to a rusty brown. The character of the script was neat and old-fashioned, and the contents were diffuse. Taunton opened the hook with some interest, but with little hope of finding anything in it that would be of much service to him in the investigation which he had in hand. From a cursory glance he could see that the diary covered a period of ten years or so in the ’sixties and ’seventies. It was an informal kind of journal. For days there would be no entry at all. Then several pages would be filled, in the neat, old-fashioned writing of the dead District Commissioner’s once famous musical father, recording some event or happenings which seemed to him, at the time he wrote, to be of some particular moment. On the fly-leaf, in characters as good as those of any copperplate engraver, was the owner’s name and address: "John Octavius Westcott, Pier Street, Brightmouth Orpheus Musical Seminary.” There did not seem to be much order of coherence about the entries which followed. Some concerned the enrolment of new pupils. June 5, 1869. Misses Lavinia and Cordelia Wood, daughters of S. Wood, M.D., for course of finishing lessons—violin. Preliminary examination reveals little talent and but poor execution. Father well-off* know lie’s one of the most prosperous physicians in the town. Suggest fees on higher scale and see how he reacts.” There was no further record of the Misses Wood. Perhaps the worthy doctor found a course of crewelwork oY macrame more economical and no less genteel. There was a distinct increase in the critical vehemence of the long-dead musician. Even the gentler sex. despite the violinist’s Victorian chivalry, did not escape unscathed. "March 12, 1871.—Who is this Miss Victoria Preston? I seem to remember returning a song of hers before, though I can find no note of it. There .was a good pretext that time, as she had omitted to enclose any sort of lee or

reward. I suppose I cannot have made my meaning plain enough. The present composition, ‘Ode to a Thrush’ —she pleads guilty to authorship of words and music—is too dreadful. One of those persons who will never realise that they never can be really musical. Must note her address, in case she ever chances to send me any more of her stuff. Cannot be too offensive to a lady, so my letter may not be sufficient to stave her off. It is 73, The Drive, Leamingson Spa, lest I be unwarily entrapped once more.” There was much in the same strain about other budding musicians, and a few references, very scanty, at the end of the book to Parelli’s concerts, which, when the maestro was a youth, he had once or twice attended on the Continent. From an extract rather longer than the rest it was clear that the elder Westcott had a great admiration for the Italian’s genius, though Parelli must have been by very many years his junior. There were a good many references to accounts and fees which were amusing ill their candour. But of practical interest for the detective they could have He sighed, put down the little book on the table beside the bed, and composed himself for his first night's sleep in the tropics. So this scheme of Berwick’s was going, as he had fully expected—had hinted very plainly to the commissioner—to prove a wildgoose chase —and a pretty costly one, after all. "Good morning, Taunton. Slept well?” The inspector seemed very cheerful. "Thanks —had a topping night. Tried reading through that diary of Westcott’s. Funny old book; rather interesting in some ways. But didn’t seem to give much help. And then, when I was asleep, the thing somehow got mixed up in my dreams —and —most extraordinary of all—it suggested a clue.” Grigson was astonished to hear such a statement from the lips of the matter-of-fact detective. "I’m as hungry as a hunter, too. But, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll dash out for a minute or two before breakfast. Sounds quite mad, I know. But don’t wait for me, and this may be very important. It's either the best clue that's yet cropped up in these cases, or else I stand the chance of being ticked off as a raving lunatic and dismissed the force with ignominy. And now—would you mind telling me the shortest cut to the cable office ?” ITo be continued dailvA