The Dalehouse murder

“Dear Francis:—

“It will be jolly to see you again. For your partner in the mixed I have only missed the most perfect peach by the skin of the pips. (Do peaches have pips, I wonder? See how poor we are!) However, Margaret Hunter, the girl you are to play with, is really very nice, and—let me warn you in time—has a devastating attraction for men. She is a Merchester girl, but has been away for some time teaching in Sheffield, and as the aunt with whom she lives is away, she is staying with us for the tournament week. I have reported fully on your great personal charm—so beware!

“The girl I just missed for you is Stella Palfreeman—one of the prettiest girls I ever set eyes on. I met her at the Camford Tournament last week. She is to stay with us too. Then there will be Kenneth and of course Ralph Bennett, who, by the way, were articled to the same solicitor in Sheffield—a regular house-party for the event.

“Daddy has had a sort of nervous breakdown and has gone to Folkestone with mother. They are to be there for a month and The Tundish is looking after the practise. I wish daddy could get him for keeps—he needs some one badly.

“You’ve never met The Tundish, have you? I wonder how he will strike you. He is quite old—older than you by a year or two, I should think—but like you, jolly in spite of his age and graying hair. He can tell the most thrilling yarns about his experiences in China.

“So you see I shall be acting as hostess and I can tell you we are going to make things buzz.

“Yours ever, “Ethel.

“P. S.—Can you come on Saturday? All the others will be here then excepting Stella, who hails from London and will not arrive until midday on Monday.”

It was Monday, June the fifteenth—the opening day of the Merchester Lawn Tennis Club’s annual open tournament at which I had played regularly for the past few years. My sister Brenda and I were finishing an early breakfast and I was rereading Ethel Hanson’s letter.

I should explain that I am chief engineer to a firm in the little Midland town of Millingham, where, since our father’s death, my sister and I have lived happily together. Wisely, we spend our holidays apart, and I, when I can, take mine in small doses. It suits my business arrangements to do so, and I spend such periods of leisure as I can snatch from my work in playing in the lawn tennis tournaments at the neighboring small towns. Given kindly weather, I challenge any one to name a more enjoyable little holiday.

It is five years since I first went to Merchester, and my friendship with the Hansons dates from then. Ethel, I remember, had not left school, but had obtained a special holiday for the event. You will see that in her letter she refers to my age and gray hairs, but she is one of those intensely young things to whom anything over thirty is well on the downward slope. I am thirty-eight, moderately good at my work, and hardly that at games. I know that I am quiet, and I believe that my friends count me dull. Indeed, I can lay claim to only one exceptional quality of any kind whatever, and that, my remarkably acute sense of hearing, is nothing but an accident of birth.

At times, though, I am almost uncanny, and when playing tennis I can generally hear most of my opponent’s private comments. “Play everything on to Jeffcock and we shall be sure to win,” is the sort of remark I hear more often than I like.

The summer was one of the hottest on record, and no drop of rain had fallen since the latter end of April. Day after day the sun shone unclouded. Grass and gardens were scorched and brown, and even the larger shrubs and trees began to droop and wilt.

Nearly every one was feeling the unusual heat, and on Thursday I had caught a chill and had had to give up all idea of accepting Ethel’s invitation for Saturday. But when Monday came I decided that I was well enough to risk it, though Brenda did her best to alter my decision. Had I known then of what the week held in store for me, I think I should have needed no persuasion of hers to make me stay away.

Brenda—dear good soul that she is—had got the car round before we sat down to breakfast, and shortly after half past eight I started out on my forty-mile run. It was scorching hot before I finished my journey, and having made good time I drew in to the side of the road under the shade of a tree, in order to light my pipe.

A slight rise in the ground gave me a wonderful view of Merchester Cathedral from where I sat. It is built of a pale red sandstone that seems able to reflect every shade of light and color. That morning it looked as though it were wrought in pale gold; with the windows ablaze as they flashed back the sun, and the lower part of the building and the top of the hill on which it stands hidden by a summer morning haze, it might have been some fairy structure floating in the air. It seemed to dominate the whole countryside.

The city lies huddled round the base of the hill on which the great cathedral and the close are grouped, odd streets straggling out—like the roots of some great tree—into the surrounding flats. I imagine there can hardly be a point in the whole city from which the cathedral can not be seen towering up above, and at the hour and at the quarters, every street reverberates with the boom of the chimes from the central tower.

The doctor’s house stands just at the foot of the hill, and the long garden behind it lies dead level at first and then rises steeply at about half its length. The garage stands on a tiny plateau leveled off at the top of the slope. There is the shortest of wash yards and then a double door leading on to the narrow lane that runs the length of the garden and enters the main road at the side of the house. The narrowness of the lane and the abrupt little hill make a very awkward entry and my old two-seater still bears the scars of my first attempt to negotiate it.

The house itself is built of a dull red brick and is of the Georgian period. There is something in the proportions and the setting of the windows that gives it a quiet air of character and strength. It is far too large for the doctor’s needs, and the attics and some of the upper rooms are never used. At some time or other a one-story wing which is of stone with a flat-topped roof had been built out at the back on the side next the lane. This, Hanson has turned into a private business wing complete with consulting-room, dispensary and waiting-room. A small hall with a door opening on to the little lane—Dalehouse Lane it is called—and another passage connecting it to the house itself, make it a really convenient arrangement.

The strip of garden in front of the house and the large garden behind are alike surrounded by a ten-foot wall, buttressed at intervals, and built of the same red brick as the house. This wall—it must be some eighteen inches thick and is tiled at the top like the roof of a house—has made a very secluded spot of the doctor’s garden, and there is an air of quiet secrecy about the place that in some subtle way is enhanced by the fact that the front door-bell is rung from a door in the outer wall.

Yes, sheltered and shut in is the right description for the old garden, with its red buttressed walls, that lies behind Dalehouse, and when after dinner we used to take our coffee on the lawn—Hanson and I with our pipes and perhaps Mrs. Hanson and Ethel with their sewing and their books—I used to think it must be the most peaceful spot in all the world.

One night on my last year’s visit I particularly called to mind. Hanson and I were alone, and we sat almost silent while the light faded and the moon crept over the top of the wall and up the sky till it cleared the cathedral tower. It was then that he first told me of his friend Dr. Wallace—The Tundish—and I gained the impression that he would not be disappointed or surprised if Ethel and he were to make a match of it together. And now, only a few weeks ago, she had written to tell me that she was engaged to Kenneth Dane. He must have carried her off her feet pretty quickly, for I had seen the Hansons only a month or so before—I know them well—and until I received her letter I had never even heard his name.

As I sat dreaming and wondering what manner of man I should find him, the slight change in angle as the scorching sun moved round had caused the lights in the cathedral windows to flicker and fade away, and the color of the stonework to change from pale gold to a gold of a darker shade. I had dallied long enough, and, starting up my engine, I slipped in the clutch and set out on the few remaining miles that separated me from the end of my journey. The cathedral clock was chiming ten as I rounded the corner from the main road into Dalehouse Lane.

I found Ethel and two of her guests under the old cedar tree that gives grateful summer shade to one side of the lawn. Whatever her faults may be, and I could list several, beginning with a reference to a rather hasty little temper, she is entirely unaffected and honestly cordial. Indeed, I know of no one who can show at once so gaily and sincerely that she is pleased to see her friends, and as she met me I was gratified to feel that in spite of her engagement I still held my old place in her affections. She introduced me to Ralph Bennett and then to Kenneth Dane.

To paint a word picture of any human being is a hazardous undertaking, but in the case of Kenneth Dane I feel that the risk attached to the attempt is a little less than usual, for I summed him up at once, and my later experience proved me correct, as one of those downright souls who carry their character plainly written all over them for each and sundry to read. Black for him, I felt certain, was always black, and white was always white, and that there simply were no intervening shades of gray. No, there could be no subtle grays for Kenneth. Tall, his broad sloping shoulders made him appear of medium height until you stood against him. With fair brown hair of that close crisp wavy kind that it is a thousand pities providence does not keep exclusively for girls, eyes of a rather bright pale blue, a straight aggressive nose and a firm mouth and chin to match, he was a fine example of athletic British manhood. The grip he gave to my hand, nearly making me cry out, and his deep pleasant laugh as he acknowledged my congratulations, were both in keeping with his vigorous appearance.

In Ralph Bennett, his friend, I found an entirely different type. Slim and dark, with rather unusual dark brown eyes, you had only to see the two together—and I soon found that they were almost inseparable—to recognize that while Kenneth might be the better equipped with character and determination, Ralph was more than his match so far as brain power and intelligence were concerned. But he was so quiet and reserved that one almost overlooked him, and later I was often to wonder on what foundation their friendship had been built.

At Merchester play is scheduled to start at ten o’clock, and though they are lenient to a fault about such matters, it was agreed that Ethel and the two boys should go on to the club, leaving me to garage my car, change into flannels and follow them as soon as I could. I understood that Miss Hunter, my partner, had already left for the ground when I arrived. The doctor’s garage was occupied, for young Bennett, whose people were of considerable wealth, had brought a splendid Daimler with him that entirely filled it, and so I had to find accommodation for my car at the rear of a neighboring inn. It was already intensely hot and I felt dizzy on reaching my bedroom, which, although the blinds had been drawn against the sun, was like a baker’s oven.