of course, is a very rapid operation; a couple of seconds would do the whole thing. A skilful man would hold the wax in the palm of his hand, “palmed” as the conjurers call it, and the key could be pressed into it in so natural a way that no unsuspecting person would be any the wiser. Now I want you to think again very carefully. If no one but Mr Gething handled the key, he must have taken the impression. There is no other way out. I would like you, then, to be sure that no one else ever did get his hands upon it, even for a moment. You see my point?’
‘Of course I see it,’ Mr Duke returned a trifle testily, ‘but, unanswerable as it seems, I don’t believe Gething ever did anything of the kind. It would seem the likely thing to you, Inspector, because you didn’t know the man. But I’ve known him too long to doubt him. Someone else must have got hold of the key, but I confess I can’t imagine who.’
‘Someone at night, while you were asleep?’
Mr Duke shrugged his shoulders.
‘I can only say, it is unlikely.’
‘Well, consider the possibilities at all events. I must go back to headquarters.’
‘And I to the Gethings,’ Mr Duke returned. ‘I hear the wife is very ill. The shock has completely broken her down. You’ll let me know how things go on?’
‘Certainly, sir. Immediately I have anything to report, you shall hear it.’
The police station was not far away, and soon French was bending over all that was mortal of Charles Gething. He was not concerned with the actual remains, except to take prints from the dead fingers, to compare with those found in the office. But he went through the contents of the pockets, among which he had hoped to gain some clue as to the nature of the business which had brought the dead man to the office. Unfortunately there was nothing to give the slightest indication.
The inquest had been fixed for five o’clock that evening, and French spent some time with the superintendent going over the evidence which was to be put forward by the police. Of the verdict, there could, of course, be no doubt.
Believing that by this time Mr Duke would have left the Gethings, French thought that he might himself call there. The more he could learn about the old man the better.
He hailed a taxi, and some fifteen minutes later reached Monkton Street, a narrow and rather depressing side street off the Fulham Road. The door of No. 37 was opened by a brown-haired woman of some five-and-thirty, with a pleasant and kindly, though somewhat worn expression. French took off his hat.
‘Miss Gething?’ he inquired.
‘No, I am Mrs Gamage. But my sister is in, if you wish to see her.’ She spoke with a sort of plaintive softness which French found rather attractive.
‘I’m afraid I must trouble you both,’ he answered with his kindly smile, as he introduced himself and stated his business.
Mrs Gamage stepped back into the narrow passage.
‘Come in,’ she invited. ‘We are naturally anxious to help you. Besides, the police have been very kind. Nothing could have been kinder than that constable who came round last night with the news. Indeed everyone has been more than good. Mr Duke has just been round himself to inquire. A time like this shows what people are.’
‘I was sorry to hear that Mrs Gething is so unwell,’ French observed, and he followed his guide into the tiny front parlour. He was surprised to find the house far from comfortably furnished. Everything, indeed, bore the stamp of an almost desperate attempt to preserve decency and self-respect in the face of a grinding poverty. The threadbare carpet was worn into holes and had been neatly darned, and so had the upholstery of the two rather upright easy chairs. The leg of the third chair was broken and had been mended with nails and wire. Everything was shabby, though spotlessly clean and evidently looked after with the utmost care. Though the day was bitter, no spark of fire burned in the grate. Here, the inspector thought, was certainly a matter to be inquired into. If Gething was really as poor a man as this furniture seemed to indicate, it undoubtedly would have a bearing on the problem.
‘My mother has been an invalid for many years,’ Mrs Gamage answered, unconsciously supplying the explanation French wanted. ‘She suffers from a diseased hip bone and will never be well. My poor father spent a small fortune on doctors and treatment for her, but I don’t think any of them did her much good. Now this news has broken her down altogether. She is practically unconscious, and we fear the end at any time.’
‘Allow me to express my sympathy,’ French murmured, and his voice seemed to convey quite genuine sorrow. ‘What you tell me makes me doubly regret having to force my unpleasant business on your notice. But I cannot help myself.’
‘Of course I understand.’ Mrs Gamage smiled gently. ‘Ask what you want and I shall try to answer, and when you have finished with me I’ll relieve Esther with mother and send her down.’
But there was not a great deal that Mrs Gamage could tell. Since her marriage some four years previously she had seen comparatively little of her father. That she idolised him was obvious, but the cares of her own establishment prevented her paying more than an occasional visit to her old home. French therefore soon thanked her for her help, and asked her to send her sister down to him.
Esther Gething was evidently the younger of the two. She was like Mrs Gamage, but better looking. Indeed, she was pretty in a mild, unobstrusive way. She had the same brown eyes, but so steadfast and truthful that even French felt satisfied that she was one to be trusted. Her expression was equally kindly, but she gave the impression of greater competence than her sister. He could imagine how her parents leaned on her. A good woman, he thought, using an adjective he did not often apply to the sex, and the phrase, in its fullest significance, seemed only just adequate.
Under the inspector’s skilful lead she described the somewhat humdrum existence which she and her parents had led for some years past. Her mother’s illness seemed to have been the ruling factor in their lives, everything being subordinated to the sufferer’s welfare, and the expenses in connection with it forming a heavy drain on the family exchequer. From Mr Duke’s records, French had learned that the dead man’s salary had been about £400 per annum, though quite recently it had been increased to £450, following a visit the merchant had paid to the house during a short illness of his head clerk. Mr Duke, Miss Gething said, had always acted as a considerate employer.
Asked if her father had continued in his usual health and spirits up to the end, she said no, that for some three weeks past he had seemed depressed and worried. On different occasions she had tried to find out the cause, but he had not enlightened her except to say that he had been having some trouble at the office. Once, however, he dropped a phrase which set her thinking, though she was unable to discover his meaning, and he had refused to explain. He had asked her did she believe that a man could ever be right in doing evil that good might come, and when she had answered that she could not tell, he had sighed and said, ‘Pray God you may never be called on to decide.’
On the evening of his death it had been arranged that he would sit with Mrs Gething, in order to allow his daughter to attend a social connected with the choir of the church to which she belonged. But that evening he came home more worried and upset than she had ever seen him, and he had told her with many expressions of regret that some unexpected work which had just come in would require his presence that evening in the office, and that unless she was able to get someone else to look after her mother, she would have to give up her social. He had been too nervous and ill at ease to make a good meal, and had gone off about eight o’clock, saying he did not know at what hour he would be back. That was the last time she had
