CHAPTER VII

Butterworth Is Apprehensive of the Future

For the second time on that eventful morning Sergeant Clegg felt at loggerheads with circumstances. For the second time he felt that the Law had received a set-back—that he, its accredited representative, had been flouted!

Charles Stewart looked at him somewhat anxiously. How was he going to take this feminine outburst? Stewart attempted to smooth things over. “A trifle hysterical, I fancy, Sergeant, and it’s scarcely to be wondered at. She’s had a trying time—I know what it’s been like to me—it must be a thousand times worse for her.”

Clegg nodded. “H’m. Now that’s most extraordinary. There’s an ‘M. L.’ on the paper under your father’s hand—then there turns up a ‘Morgan Llewellyn’—then I find a ‘Marjorie Lennox’ and a——” he pulled himself up. He would keep the handkerchief incident absolutely to himself. “And to crown all—one of the ‘M. L.’s’ finishes up by accusing the other ‘M. L.’” He sighed and then gave expression to the point that had been his constant worry since his arrival. “What was the weapon the murderer used?”

Stewart broke in upon him. “With all deference, Sergeant, I shouldn’t place any reliance at all on what Miss Lennox said. She’s distraught.”

“She’s not, Mr. Stewart. She’s not the kind. She meant _something_—I’ll take my Bible oath on that.”

Stewart shook his head as though unconvinced. “Women are whimsical, Sergeant.”

“I know. None better. I’ve been married seventeen years and I’m still learning things—but there you are! I’d like to see this butler of yours now—what’s his name, Butterworth?”

“Right! In here?”

“No—in the library. I’ll get along in there again. Bring Butterworth, will you, Mr. Stewart?”

“Well, Potter,” said the Sergeant as he regained the library door, “everything O. K.?”

Potter touched his helmet—satisfaction oozing from his finger-tips. “Yes, Sergeant—nobody’s crossed the threshold since you left, Sergeant. A young lady came across the corridor just now and wanted me to let her pull down the blinds or something—she said the sun ruined the carpet at this time of the day—but I explained as genteelly as I could about orders being orders.” He beamed at this account of his devotion to duty. Clegg scratched his chin. The plot was getting thicker!

“What sort of a young lady, Potter?”

“On the small side, Sergeant. A regular dainty piece she was and no mistake!”

“How long ago was this?”

“Only a few minutes, Sergeant. You only just missed her.”

“Now what does she want in here,” thought Clegg as he entered. Her handkerchief? Something else? Or both? His musings were cut abruptly short by the entrance of Stewart with the butler. Butterworth was a man with a presence. Tall and well set-up, he carried his sixty odd years with impressive dignity. When he had left the service of Sir Julian Kennedy for that of the man whom they were now mourning, it had not been without a certain amount of misgiving. After all, as he was fond of relating to a carefully chosen circle, the British aristocracy was a thing apart. Sir Julian had been a diplomat of the old school, and in the words of Butterworth, “we were ‘looked up to’ by the ‘élite’ of Washington.” He had accepted Stewart’s offer of employment with a certain suggestion of condescension—and after he had turned down two less remunerative offers, it was a tribute to his strength of character that this apparent condescension still remained obvious in the manner of his acceptance. Certainly it was sufficiently manifest to impress Laurence Stewart. But the Butterworth of this morning was not the Butterworth that had lamented Sir Julian Kennedy. Fifteen years had made a considerable difference in him, and a man who has turned sixty, fears the “menace of the years” more than the man turned forty. He had hoped to finish his days with this rich American. Last night’s tragedy had definitely closured that idea. Butterworth loved England—the English countryside; he loved “breathing English air” and “suns of home,” and it was extremely improbable that Charles Stewart would continue the establishment on his father’s lines. The boy had spent most of his life in America and in all probability he would return there. Therefore Butterworth was not free from anxiety this morning. He was face to face with upheaval—and he disliked change exceedingly.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said, on his entrance. “I understand you wish to speak to me.”

Clegg was visibly impressed. He realized that he was in close touch with a “personage.” Butterworth had intended that he should.

“Yes—Mr.—Butterworth. It would help me considerably in my investigations”—Clegg was at pains to do at least some share of the “impressing” business—“if you could tell me for certain when you last saw Mr. Stewart alive.”

“I can do that without any difficulty. I showed Colonel Leach-Fletcher out a few minutes after ten. My master told me that it was not his intention to sit up late—would I lock up at half-past ten. At ten-thirty precisely I came in here, as was my usual practice, Sergeant Clegg, to lock up for the night. My master had retired, as he had previously said that he should. I bolted the French doors—replaced the tantalus—and locked the library door. I then attended to the other living rooms down here, and shortly afterwards retired to rest myself. It was Mr. Stewart’s special orders that I should always personally perform the locking up duty every night. He was extremely particular with regard to it.”

Clegg nodded gravely to express his complete understanding.

“How long did it take you?” he asked, knitting his brows.

“I was in bed by ten-forty and asleep almost immediately. I am a sound sleeper, Sergeant.”

“And nothing awakened you?”

“Nothing whatever! The first intimation that I had that anything unusual had occurred was early this morning. Barton—one of the maids—was unable to gain admission to the library. She referred the matter to me—I came and tried the door—it was locked and the key gone. I went to Mr. Charles at once. We got Mr. Llewellyn and came down here together. We eventually burst the door open.”

“One moment, Butterworth! Are you perfectly certain that the key was in the lock on the _inside_ and that the French doors were bolted when you entered?”

Butterworth paused for a brief moment to assimilate thoroughly the full significance of the question. Then he nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I am. Mr. Charles called our attention to the key, and I can swear to the bolts on the French doors having been shot tight. I saw them—you can rely on both those facts.”

Charles Stewart interposed. “I can vouch for that too, Clegg! Also Llewellyn. Rest easy on that point.” Clegg stroked his chin between thumb and forefinger, seemingly disinclined to accept this piece of soothing advice. There was no denying, however, the vital importance of what the butler had stated.

“Anything else, Butterworth?”

“We found my master dead, Mr. Clegg. Exactly as I can see him sitting now.” His voice broke. “It was a great blow to me. For all of us, no doubt; but one describes one’s own feelings best. No servant ever worked for a better master. I loved Mr. Stewart and I’m pleased and proud to think that he had a little affection for me. I don’t quite know what will happen to me now—I’m not a young man——”

Charles Stewart put a hand on his shoulder. “There is no need to worry, Butterworth. I should be sorry to fail _one_ of my father’s servants.”

Butterworth’s eyes clouded with sorrow. “Thank you, Mr. Charles—thank you.”

He rose from the chair he had been occupying. Then turned with unmistakable dignity to Clegg. “Is there anything further you want of me?” he said.

“You haven’t any idea, Butterworth, I suppose, of anybody likely to have done this?”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“I mean this.” Clegg breathed heavily in his desire to do justice to the dignity and importance of the Law. “Did Mr. Stewart have any enemies?”

“If he had, I didn’t know them. He never confided such an idea to me.”

“How was Mr. Stewart when you last saw him? Bright and cheery like?”

“Just as usual. Nothing different from the ordinary.”

“Didn’t appear to have anything on his mind?” asked Clegg.

“Not to worry him. I think he was a bit eager about the sale that was taking place.”

“Sale?” Clegg seemed momentarily at a loss.

“I told you, Sergeant,” Charles interposed. “My father intended to purchase some——”

“Quite right, sir,” apologized the Sergeant. “It was the use of the word ‘sale’ that sent me astray for the moment. He seemed ‘eager’—you say?”

“That is the word. It describes my master’s feelings exactly—that is, if I am any judge. Anything fresh towards a gratification of his hobby always made him like a schoolboy on a half-holiday.”

The Sergeant understood perfectly. But Charles Stewart, as though in doubt about this, stepped forward with an offer of assistance. “You can have access to all the correspondence relative to the intended purchases, Sergeant—with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Llewellyn will let you see it—I will instruct him to do so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Charles! I should certainly like to glance over it.”

“You shall. Do you want Butterworth any more?”

Clegg considered the matter. It was evidently a weighty one, for it occasioned much frowning and facial contortion. At last a reply was forthcoming.

“The servants, Butterworth; the other servants here—anything suspicious about any of them?” he said slowly.

“Nothing, Sergeant Clegg! There’s my wife, who acts as housekeeper—I can speak for her—I’ve been married thirty-seven years and I’m perfectly satisfied. There are four maids, Barton, Regan, Evans and Winter—the cook, Mrs. Briggs—and Maidment the gardener. Then there’s O’Connor—he assists the gardener—does odd jobs. We call him the boot-boy. Of course the last two—O’Connor and Maidment—don’t sleep here—they live in the village.”

Clegg noted the personnel and the additional information thereto with becoming solemnity. Then he deliberately closed his note-book. The gesture seemed to convey to his two companions that the preliminary investigation was finished. A nod from the Sergeant confirmed this conviction and Butterworth withdrew—gravely and silently—the perfect butler to the last.

“I’m going to get another ’phone message through to London, Sergeant,” exclaimed Charles Stewart. Clegg detected a note of anxiety in his tone. He scanned the young man’s face interrogatively. Stewart flushed, but quickly came to the point. “Look here, Sergeant Clegg—frankly I think we’re up against it. There seems to me to be some dark mystery here that will need the best brains of your profession to solve. I’m not slighting you—in any way, when I say that, either.”

Clegg sucked his pencil. “I wouldn’t say that you weren’t right. Still—we’ll be doing our best.”

He walked to the door—then turned. “I’ll make arrangements about your father”—he nodded towards the body—“and then get down to make my report. Good morning, sir! I’m very sorry, sir.”

He stepped into the corridor—then started. Butterworth was waiting there and caught him by the arm. He seemed to be laboring under some tremendous excitement. “Something I didn’t tell you, Sergeant, I _last saw_ Mr. Stewart at _ten o’clock_, but I _heard_ his _voice_ about _ten minutes after that—in that room_!” He stabbed with his finger at the library. “And I heard another voice, too! I heard the voice of Miss Lennox, I’m _certain_!”