Jack on the Gallows Tree by Leo Bruce Read Free Book Online

pointedly.
    â€œOn Thursday I felt I couldn’t come tamely back here for another long period on the following day. But I had run out of money and also I thought I should tell my mother what I was doing. So I drove down here.”
    â€œWhat is the exact distance from London?”
    â€œThirty-seven miles.”
    â€œYou left London at?”
    â€œEight o’clock. Reached my mother’s house a little before ten. She was alone in the little sitting-room in which she was found next day.”
    â€œOh, you saw her?”
    â€œCertainly. I was with her for about an hour. I explained that I wanted a few days’ holiday. She gave me the money I required.”
    â€œA cheque?”
    â€œNo. My mother kept a large sum in cash in the house. She gave me sixty pounds.”
    â€œWhere did she keep that money?”
    â€œIn her bedroom, somewhere. I don’t know exactly. She went upstairs to fetch it.”
    â€œHas the remains of her hoard been found since, do you know?”
    â€œI don’t know. I parted with my mother at eleven. She was in excellent health and spirits. I drove away and reached London soon after midnight.”
    â€œHave you any proof of that? It would make an excellent alibi for you, if you have.”
    â€œI haven’t, I’m afraid. I had a latch-key of the flat where I was staying and nobody was up. But I think it’s ratherabsurd to talk about alibis. Surely no one in their senses could suspect me of murdering my mother?”
    â€œMy dear Mr Westmacott, in these days of schizophrenia anyone may be suspected of anything. Somebody entered your mother’s house that evening, either with his own key or by her consent. It limits the field quite a little, doesn’t it?”
    The long pale face remained expressionless.
    â€œYou think the police may even be foolish enough to suspect me?”
    â€œYou must be on the list of possibles for anyone investigating these murders. I take it you don’t wish to give details of your movements in London?”
    â€œNo. They had absolutely nothing to do with this.”
    â€œTell me a little about your mother, Mr Westmacott.”
    â€œMy mother was nearing eighty years old. You have probably seen photographs of her. She was considered a very handsome woman. She had a wide acquaintance among artists and writers, particularly those who were interested in the Pre-Raphaelite school. She inherited my father’s collection of William Morris textiles, pottery, books and furniture, and although she was not precisely what you would call an intellectual woman she appreciated these and was proud of our family connection with that famous circle of craftsmen. She liked to invite people who were interested to the house, and entertained very freely.”
    â€œYou were all brought up in this atmosphere, then. Weren’t you apt to rebel at times? I should have thought you had had enough of Burne-Jones and whatnot.”
    Gabriel Westmacott blinked solemnly.
    â€œI believe my brother Dante is less interested than I. His wife is not of an art-loving disposition, by any means. For my own part I am proud to be the grandson of a man who was familiar with those giants.”
    â€œWas your mother’s kindness to artists appreciated?”
    â€œAlmost universally. There were exceptions, of course.Or at least one exception. A disreputable painter called Ben Johnson….”
    â€œBut he’s considered one of our most remarkable living artists.”
    Gabriel Westmacott seemed to have something uncomfortably hot in his mouth.
    â€œI know nothing about his pictures. He is a dissolute man, given to drunkenness and other vices. His language is abominable and he is unable to control his violent temper and outrageous manners in the presence of ladies.”
    â€œYou know him?”
    â€œI know of him. He lives not far away and is notorious as a rake and a rowdy. When he first came here my mother was good