Doctor Philpot lived in a small detached house at the end of the High
Street of the little town, close enough to the centre of things to be
convenient for patients, and far enough away to have a strip of garden
round his house and to avoid being overlooked by his neighbours.
The reply to the letter he had written from “Charles Musgrave” about
the mythical gardener told French that the doctor’s consulting hours
were from six to eight o’clock in the evening, and at two minutes to
eight on the day he had returned from Edinburgh French rang the
doctor’s bell. The door was opened by an elderly woman who led the way
to the consulting room.
There seemed to French a vaguely unprosperous air about the place. The
garden was untended, the railing wanted paint and the house, while
well enough furnished, looked neglected and dirty. French wondered if
these were the outward and visible signs of the betting proclivities
of their owner, of which the hotel landlord had taken so serious a
view.
Dr. Philpot was seated at a writing table, but he rose on French’s
entry. His appearance was not exactly unprepossessing, but it
suggested a lack of force or personality. Physically he was frail,
neither tall nor short, and washed out as to colouring. His tired,
dreamy-looking eyes were of light blue, his fair hair, thinning on the
top, was flecked with gray and his complexion had an almost unhealthy
pallor. He had well-formed, rather aristocratic features, but his
expression was bored and dissatisfied. He struck French as a dreamer
rather than a practical man of affairs. But his manner was polite
enough as he wished his visitor good-evening and pointed to a chair.
“I have called, Dr. Philpot, not as a patient, but to consult you on a
small matter of business.”
Dr. Philpot glanced at the clock on the marble chimney piece.
“It is just eight,” he answered. “I shall not have any more patients
to-night. I am quite at your service.”
French sat down and made a remark or two about the weather, while he
watched the man opposite to him keenly but unobtrusively. He was
playing for time in which to ascertain what manner of man this doctor
really was, so that he might handle the interview in the way most
likely to achieve its end. Philpot replied politely but shortly,
evidently at a loss to know why his visitor could not come to the
point. But French presently did so with surprising suddenness.
“I am sorry, Dr. Philpot, that I am here on very unpleasant business,
and I must begin by telling you that I am a detective inspector from
New Scotland Yard.”
As he spoke French made no secret of his keen scrutiny. His eyes never
left the other’s face, and he felt the thrill of the hunter when he
noticed a sudden change come over its expression. From inattentive and
bored it now became watchful and wary, and the man’s figure seemed to
stiffen as if he were bracing himself to meet a shock.
“I regret to say,” French proceeded, “that information has recently
been received by the Yard which, if true, would indicate that you are
guilty of a very serious crime, and I have to warn you that if you are
unable to offer me a satisfactory explanation I may have to arrest
you, in which case anything which you may now say may be used in
evidence against you.”
French was deeply interested by the other’s reception of this speech.
Dr. Philpot’s face was showing extreme apprehension, not to say actual
fear. This was not altogether unexpected—French had seen apprehension
stamped on many a face under similar circumstances. But what was
unexpected was that the doctor should show no surprise. He seemed
indeed to take French’s statement for granted, as if a contingency
which he had long expected had at last arisen. “He knows what is
coming,” French thought as he paused for the other to speak.
But Philpot did not speak. Instead he deliberately raised his
eyebrows, and looking inquiringly at French, waited for him to
continue. French remained silent for a moment or two, then leaning
forward and staring into the other’s eyes, he said in a low tone: “Dr.
Philpot, you are accused of murdering your wife, Edna Philpot, at your
home at Braeside, Kintilloch, about 5.30 on the afternoon of the 15th
May, 1921.”
The doctor started and paled. For a moment panic seemed about to
overtake him, then he pulled himself together.
“Ridiculous!” he declared coolly. “Your information must be capable of
some other explanation. What does it consist of?”
“It purports to be the statement of an eyewitness,” French returned,
continuing slowly: “It mentions—among other things—it mentions—a
cricket bat.”
Again Philpot’s start indicated that the shot had told, but he
answered steadily:—
“A cricket bat? I don’t follow. What has a cricket bat to do with it?”
“Everything,” French said grimly: “if the information received is
correct, of course.”
Philpot turned and faced him.
“Look here,” he said harshly, “will you say right out what you mean
and be done with it? Are you accusing me of murdering my wife with a
cricket bat, or what are you trying to get at?”
“I’ll tell you,” French rejoined. “The statement is that you arranged
the—‘accident’—which befell your wife. The ‘accident,’ however, did
not kill her, as you hoped and intended, and you then struck her on
the temple with a cricket bat, which did kill her. That, I say, is the
statement. I have just been to Kintilloch and have been making
inquiries. Now, Dr. Philpot, when I mentioned the cricket bat you
started. You therefore realised its significance. Do you care to give
me an explanation or would you prefer to reserve your statement until
you have consulted a solicitor?”
Dr. Philpot grew still paler as he sat silent, lost in thought.
“Do you mean that you will arrest me if I don’t answer your
questions?”
“I shall have no alternative.”
Again the doctor considered while his eyes grew more sombre and his
expression more hopeless. At last he seemed to come to a decision. He
spoke in a low voice.
“Ask your questions and I’ll answer them if I can.”
French nodded.
“Did you ever,” he said slowly, “admit to any one that you had
committed this murder?”
Philpot looked at him in surprise.
“Never!” he declared emphatically.
“Then how,” French went on, slapping the confession down on the table,
“how did you come to write this?”
Philpot stared at the document as if his eyes would start out of his
head. His face expressed incredulous amazement, but here again French,
who was observing him keenly, felt his suspicions grow. Philpot was
surprised at the production of the paper; it was impossible to doubt
the reality of his emotion. But he did not read it. He evidently
recognised it and knew its contents. For a moment he gazed
breathlessly, then he burst out with a bitter oath.
“The infernal scoundrel!” he cried furiously. “I knew he was bad, but
this is more than I could have imagined! That——Roper is at the bottom
of this, I’ll swear! It’s another of his hellish tricks!”
“What do you mean?” French asked. “Explain yourself.”
“You got that paper from Roper—somehow, didn’t you?” The man was
speaking eagerly now. “Even after he’s dead his evil genius remains.”
“If after my warning you care to make a statement, I will hear it
attentively, and you will have every chance to clear yourself. As I
told you I have learned about the case from various sources. I retain
that knowledge to check your statement.”
Philpot made a gesture as if casting prudence to the winds.
“I’ll tell you everything; I have no option,” he said, and his manner
grew more eager. “It means admitting actions which I hoped never to
have to speak of again. But I can’t help myself. I don’t know whether
you’ll believe my story, but I will tell you everything exactly as it
happened.”
“I am all attention, Dr. Philpot.”
The doctor paused for a moment as if to collect his thoughts, then
still speaking eagerly though more calmly, he began:—
“As you have inquired into this terrible affair, you probably know a
good deal of what I am going to tell you. However, lest you should not
have heard all, I shall begin at the beginning.
“In the year 1913 I was appointed assistant on the medical staff of
the Ransome Institute. One of the attendants there was called Roper,
John Roper: the John Roper who lost his life at Starvel some weeks
ago. He was a sneering, cynical man with an outwardly correct manner,
but when he wished to be nasty, with a very offensive turn of phrase.
He was under my immediate supervision and we fell foul of each other
almost at once.
“One day, turning a corner in one of the corridors I came on Roper
with his arms round one of the nurses. Whether she was encouraging him
or not I could not tell, but when he saw me he let her go and she
instantly vanished. I spoke to him sharply and said I would report
him. I should have been warned by his look of hate, but he spoke
civilly and quietly.
“‘I have nothing to say about myself,’ he said, ‘but you’ll admit that
Nurse Williams is a good nurse, and well conducted. I happen to know
she is supporting her mother, and if she gets the sack it will be ruin
to both of them.’
“I told him he should have considered that earlier, but when I thought
over the affair I felt sorry for the girl. She was, as he had said, a
thoroughly attentive, kindly girl, and a good nurse. Well, not to make
too long a story, there I made my mistake. I showed weakness and I
made no report.”
Philpot had by this time mastered his emotion and now he was speaking
quietly and collectedly, though with an earnestness that carried
conviction.
“But though I hadn’t reported him, Roper from that moment hated me. He
was outwardly polite, but I could see the hatred in his eyes. I, on my
part, grew short with him. We never spoke except on business and as
little as possible on that. But all the time he was watching for his
revenge.
“In May, 1914, I married and set up house at Braeside. Then came the
war and in ’15 I joined up. After two years I was invalided out and
went back to Kintilloch. Roper, I should say, was exempted from
service owing to a weak heart.
“On my return after that two years I was a different man. I am not
pleading neurasthenia, though I suffered from shell-shock, but I had
no longer the self-control of my former days. Though I still dearly
loved my wife, I confess I felt strongly attracted to other women when
in their company. Thus it happened—I don’t want to dwell on a painful
subject—that I, in my turn, became guilty of the very offence for
which I had threatened to report Roper.” He spoke with an obvious
effort. “There was a nurse there—I need not tell you her name: she’s
not there now—but she was a pretty girl with a kindly manner. I met
her accidentally in Edinburgh and on the spur of the moment asked her
to lunch. From that our acquaintance ripened and at last, by Fate’s
irony—well, Roper found her in my arms one evening in a deserted part
of the Institute shrubbery. I can never forget his satanic smile as he
stood there looking at us. I sent the girl away and then he disclosed
his terms. The price of his silence was ten shillings a week. If I
would pay him ten shillings a week he would forget what he had seen.
“Well, just consider my position. The incident was harmless in itself
and yet its publication would have been my ruin. As you probably know,
in such institutions that sort of thing is very severely dealt with.
If Roper had reported me to the authorities my resignation would have
followed as a matter of course. And it was not I alone who would have
suffered. The nurse would probably have had to go. My wife also had to
be considered. I needn’t attempt to justify myself, but I took the
coward’s way and agreed to Roper’s terms.
“Then there was triumph on his evil face and he saw that he had me.
With outward civility and veiled insolence he said that while my word
was as good to him as my bond, the matter was a business one, and
should be settled in a business way. To ensure continued payment he
must have a guarantee. The guarantee was to take the form of a
statement written and signed by myself, stating—but I can remember its
exact words. It was to say:—
“‘I, Herbert Philpot, doctor of medicine and at present assistant on
the staff of the Ransome Institute in this town, under compulsion and
in the hope of avoiding exposure, hereby admit that I have been
carrying on an intrigue with Nurse So-and-so of the same institution.
I further admit unseemly conduct with her in the grounds of the
Ransome Institute on the evening of this 2nd October, 1920, though I
deny any serious impropriety.’”
Philpot was now speaking in low tones with every appearance of shame
and distress, as if the memory of these events and the putting of them
into words was acutely painful to him. His manner was convincing, and
French felt that the story, at least so far, might well be true.
“You can’t think less of me than I do of myself, Inspector, when I
tell you that at last after a protest and a long argument I submitted
even in this humiliation. I am not trying to justify myself, but I
just couldn’t face the trouble. I wrote the statement. Roper took it,
and thanking me civilly, said he would keep it hidden as long as the
money was paid. But if there was a failure to pay he would send it
anonymously to the Institute authorities.
“After that everything seemed to become normal again. Every Saturday I
secretly handed Roper a ten-shilling note and our relations otherwise
went on as before. And then came that awful afternoon when my wife
lost her life.
“I can never forget the horror of that time and I surely need not
dwell on it? If you have made inquiries at Kintilloch you will know
what took place. Every word I said then was the literal truth. I shall
pass on to what happened afterwards, but if there is any question you
want to ask I will try to answer it.”
“There is nothing so far.”
“One evening about a week after the funeral Roper called at my house
and asked for an interview. I brought him into my study and then he
referred to the ten shillings a week and said that he was sure I would
see that his knowledge had now become vastly more valuable, and what
was I going to do about it? I said that on the contrary it was now
almost worthless. My wife was dead and I didn’t care what became of
myself. There was only the nurse to think of, and even about her I
didn’t now mind so much, as she had gone to America. At the same time
for peace’ sake I would continue the payments. He need not, however,
think he was going to get any more out of me.
“His answer dumbfounded me. It left me terribly shaken and upset. He
said he expected I hadn’t known it, but the police suspected me of
murdering my wife, and were making all sorts of inquiries about me. He
pointed out that it was generally believed my wife and I hated each
other: that we were seldom seen together and that she had been
overheard speaking disparagingly of me. Then he said I was alone in
the house when she met her death; no one had seen the accident and
there was only my word for what had taken place. He said it was known
there was a cricket bat in the hall, and that it would be obvious to
any one that a blow on the temple from the flat side of the bat would
look just like a bruise caused by striking the floor. All this, he
said, the police had discovered, but what prevented them taking action
was the fact that they didn’t think they could show a strong enough
motive to take the case into court. That, he said—and I shall never
forget the devilish look in his eyes—that was where he came in. He had
but to go forward and relate the incident in the shrubbery to complete
their case. He explained that he could do it in a perfectly natural
way. He would say that while the affair was only a mere intrigue he
did not consider it his business to interfere, but when it came to
murder it was a different thing. He did not wish to be virtually an
accessory after the fact.
“His remarks came as a tremendous shock to me. The possibility of such
a terrible suspicion had not occurred to me, but now I saw that there
was indeed a good deal of circumstantial evidence against me. I need
not labour the matter. The result of our long conversation is all you
wish to hear. In the end I was guilty of the same weakness and folly
that I had shown before; I asked him his price and agreed to pay it.
Two pounds a week, he demanded, until further notice, and I gave way.
But when he went on to say that as before he required a guarantee and
must have a written confession of the crime, I felt he had passed the
limit. I refused to avow a crime of which I was not guilty, and dared
him to do his worst.
“But once again he proved himself one too many for me. With his
cynical evil smile he took two photographs out of his pocket and
handed me one. It was an extraordinarily clear copy of my confession
of the intrigue with the nurse. Then he handed me the other photograph
and at first I just couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a copy of this,”
and Dr. Philpot picked up the note that French had found in Roper’s
safe deposit.
“I asked him, of course, for an explanation and he admitted brazenly
that he had forged the letter. He had spent the week since the
accident making copy after copy until he had got it perfect. When I
stormed at him and threatened him with arrest he just laughed and said
the boot was on the other foot. He said I needn’t have the slightest
uneasiness, that so long as the money was paid the letter would never
see the light of day. Otherwise the document would be enclosed
anonymously to the police. You may guess how it ended up. I promised
to pay: and I paid.”
Dr. Philpot’s face looked more gray and weary than ever and his eyes
took on a deeper sombreness as he said these words. He waited as if
for French to speak, but French did not move and he resumed:—
“After all that had happened, life at Kintilloch became inexpressibly
painful for me and I began to look out for another job. Then I heard
that the principal doctor of this little town was old and in failing
health, and there was a possible opening for a new-comer. I resigned
the Ransome job and set up my plate here. But every week I sent two
treasury notes to Roper.
“Some fifteen or sixteen months ago, when I had been here between
three and four years, I had a letter from Roper saying that he had
seen an advertisement for a man and wife to act as servants to a Mr.
Averill of Starvel in my neighbourhood. As he had shortly before left
the Ransome he wished to apply. As a matter of fact, I found out later
that he had been dismissed for drugging a patient. I forgot to say
also that he had married my former servant. If, he went on, I would
use my influence with Mr. Averill to get him the job he would cease
his demand for the two pounds a week and send me the note he had
forged.
“Mr. Averill was by this time my patient, and I mentioned Roper to
him. I could do so with a clear conscience for with all his faults
Roper was an excellent attendant. His wife, Flora, also was a good
servant and I believed they would suit Mr. Averill well. At the same
time I told Mr. Averill just why he had left the Ransome. But Mr.
Averill thought that for that very reason he could get them cheap and
after some negotiations they were engaged.
“The very same week Roper called on me and said I had kept my word in
the past and he would keep his now. He said he was tired of crooked
going and wished to live straight. He would blackmail me no longer. He
handed me the forged note and watched me put it in the fire. I ceased
paying him the money. From then to the day of his death he was civil
when we met, and no unpleasant subjects were touched on. I began to
believe his reformation was genuine, but now since you show me this I
see he was unchanged. It is evident he must have made a copy of his
forgery and kept one while he let me destroy the other. I wish you
would tell me how you got it. What his motive can have been you may be
able to guess, but I cannot.
“That, Inspector, is the whole truth of this unhappy affair. I had
hoped never to have to speak of it again, and now that I have told you
of it I trust that the whole miserable business may be decently buried
and forgotten.”
French nodded gravely. He was puzzled by this long story of the
doctor’s. The tale was certainly possible. As he reviewed each point
he had to admit that not only was it possible, but it was even
reasonably probable. Given a man of weak character as this doctor
appeared to be, and a clever and unscrupulous ruffian, as Roper had
been painted, the whole affair could have happened quite naturally and
logically. Moreover it adequately covered all the facts.
On the other hand, if Philpot had killed his wife he would tell just
some such tale as this. There was no one to refute it. Roper and his
wife were dead and the nurse had left the country. Of course, it might
be possible to trace the nurse, but it certainly couldn’t be done
easily or rapidly.
As he turned the matter over in his mind it seemed to French that the
crucial point was the authenticity of the confession. If Philpot had
written it, he had done so because he was guilty and because he,
therefore, could not help himself. However terrible the putting of
such a statement in black and white would be to him, it would be the
lesser of two evils, the alternative being immediate betrayal. But if
the confession were a forgery all this would be reversed. It could
only have come into being in some such way as the doctor had
described. In fact, in his case it would amount to a powerful
confirmation of his story.
Now, upon this point there was no doubt. The confession definitely
_was_ a forgery. The Yard experts were unanimous, and their opinion
under such circumstances might be taken for gospel. French might
therefore start with a strong bias in favour of Philpot.
This French realised, and then he found himself again weighed down by
doubt. Was it credible that a man would really pay blackmail for fear
of having an obviously forged confession produced? At first French did
not think so—he would not have done it himself—but as he considered
the special circumstances he saw that this question did not accurately
describe the situation as it would appear to the doctor. In the first
place, Philpot did not know how bad a forgery the document was. It
seemed to him his own writing, and he had no guarantee that it would
not be accepted as such. But he knew that if it were produced he would
almost certainly have the misery of arrest and imprisonment and
possibly of trial also. Moreover, the episode of the nurse would come
out, and the result of the whole business would have been ruin to his
career. If Philpot had been a strong man he would no doubt have faced
the situation, but as it was, French felt sure that he would take the
coward’s way. No, there was nothing in this idea to make him doubt the
man’s story.
On the contrary, Philpot’s admission that he had submitted to
blackmail was actually in his favour. If he had intended to lie surely
he would have invented a tale less damaging to himself. He had not
hesitated to tell French about the nurse and so present him with the
very motive for his wife’s murder which was lacking in the case
against himself.
On the whole it seemed to French that the probabilities were on
Philpot’s side and he himself inclined to the view that he was
innocent. Whatever the truth, he saw that he had no case to bring into
court. No jury would convict on such evidence.
And if here was no evidence to convict the man of the murder of his
wife, there was still less to associate him with the Starvel affair.
In fact there was here no case against him at all. Even leaving
Philpot’s illness out of the question, there was nothing to indicate
any connection with the crime. It would be just as reasonable to
suspect Emerson or Oxley or even Kent.
French had an uncomfortable feeling that he had been following
will-o’-the-wisps both in this affair and in Whymper’s. The
circumstances in each had been suspicious and he did not see how he
could have avoided following them up, but now that he had done so it
looked as if he had been wasting his time. Ruefully he saw also that
he had rather got away from his facts. He had forgotten that the
motive of the Starvel crime had not to be sought in anything indirect
or ingenious or fanciful. The motive was obvious enough and
commonplace enough in all conscience; it was theft. And such a motive
French could not see actuating either Philpot or Whymper.
No, he must get back to the facts. Who had stolen the money? That was
what he had to find out. And he would not get it the way he was going.
He must start again and work with more skill and vision. First, he
must reassure this doctor, and then he must get away to some place
where he could think without interruption.
“I am sorry, Dr. Philpot, to have had to give you the pain of
reopening matters which I can well understand you would have preferred
to leave closed. It was necessary, however, that my doubts on these
matters should either be confirmed or set at rest. I may say that I
accept your story and am satisfied with the explanation you have given
me. I hope it may be possible to let the affair drop and at the
present time I see no reason to prevent it.” He arose. “I wish you
good-night, doctor, and thank you for your confidence.”