To inquire of a fully fledged and responsible medical man whether he
has or has not given a false death certificate, without at the same
time ruffling his feelings is an undertaking requiring a nice judgment
and not a little tact. As French once again climbed the steps to Dr.
Emerson’s hall door early that same afternoon, he felt that the coming
interview would tax even his powers of suave inquiry. In a way, of
course, it didn’t matter whether the doctor’s feelings were ruffled or
not, but both on general principles and from a desire to prevent his
witness becoming hostile, the detective was anxious to save the
other’s face.
“How are you, doctor? Here I am back to worry you again,” French began
pleasantly as he was shown in to the consulting-room. They chatted for
a few moments and then French went on: “I wanted to ask you in
confidence about an acquaintance of Miss Averill’s, a Mr. Giles who
died recently. You knew him?”
“I attended him. I attended him for some years until Dr. Philpot came,
then he took him over as well as most of my other country patients. I
am not so young as I was and the arrangement suited us both. He died
while Dr. Philpot was ill, and I went out and gave the necessary
certificate.”
“So I gathered, and that’s why I came to you. What a curious
coincidence it was that this man should pass away at the very time of
the fire! That all four of Miss Averill’s closest acquaintances should
die at practically the same time is, you must admit, as strange as it
is tragic.”
Emerson looked at his visitor curiously.
“Strange enough and tragic enough, I admit,” he answered, “but such
coincidences are not infrequent. It is my experience that coincidences
which would be deemed too remarkable for a novel constantly occur in
real life.”
“I quite agree with you. I have often said the same thing. Mr. Giles
was an invalid, was he not?”
“Yes, from what he told me the poor fellow had a rather miserable
life. He was always delicate, and when he volunteered in 1914, he was
rejected because of his heart. As the war dragged on the authorities
became less particular and in 1917 he was re-examined and passed for
foreign service, wrongly, as I think. However, that’s what happened.
He went to France and in less than a month he was in hospital, having
been both gassed and wounded. As a result his heart became more
seriously affected. Even five years ago he was in a state in which
death might have occurred from a sudden shock, and myocarditis is a
complaint which does not improve as the years pass.”
“Then it was myocarditis he died of?”
“Yes. He had an attack of influenza on the previous Thursday. When Dr.
Philpot got laid up and asked me to take his patients over he told me
he had seen Mr. Giles and that he was in a bad way. The influenza made
an extra call on the poor man’s heart which no doubt hastened his end,
but the actual cause of death was myocarditis.”
“Does this disease leave any infallible signs after death? I mean, can
a doctor say definitely from the mere inspection of the remains that
death was due to it and to no other cause? Don’t think me impertinent
in asking. I told you we inspectors were always out after first-hand
information.”
Dr. Emerson raised his eyebrows as if to indicate delicately that the
question was perhaps not in the best taste, but with only the
slightest hint of stiffness he replied:—
“In this case the question does not arise. This man was in a serious
condition of health; his heart might have failed at any moment.
Moreover, he was suffering from influenza, which puts an extra strain
on the heart. Dr. Philpot gave it as his opinion that he would not
recover. When therefore I learned that he had died suddenly I was not
surprised. It was only to be expected. Further, when I examined him he
showed every sign of death from heart failure.”
“But that is just the point, doctor. Excuse my pressing it, but I
really am interested. For my own information I should like to know
whether these signs that you speak of were absolutely peculiar to a
death from heart disease. I understood, please correct me if I am
wrong, but I understood that only an autopsy could really establish
the point beyond question.”
Dr. Emerson hesitated.
“These are very peculiar questions,” he said presently. “I think you
should tell me what is in your mind. It seems to me that I am equally
entitled to ask how the death of Mr. Giles affects the cause of the
Starvel fire?”
French nodded, and drawing forward his chair, spoke more
confidentially.
“You are, doctor. I had not intended to mention my suspicion, but
since you have asked me, I’ll answer your question. I will ask you to
keep what I am about to say very strictly to yourself, and on that
understanding I must tell you that I’m not connected with an insurance
company: I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard. Certain facts which I do
not wish to go into at present have led me to suspect that Mr. Giles
may have been murdered. I want to make sure.”
Dr. Emerson stared as if he couldn’t have believed his ears, and his
jaw dropped.
“God bless my soul!” he cried. “_Murdered?_ Did I hear you say
murdered?”
“Yes,” said French, “but I am not sure about it. It is only a
suspicion.”
“A pretty nasty suspicion for me, after my certificate! But you
couldn’t be right. The very idea is absurd! Who could have murdered
such a harmless man, and badly off at that!”
“Well, I think it might be possible to find a motive. But if you don’t
mind, I’d really rather not discuss what may prove to be a mare’s
nest. However, you see now the object of my questions. I want to know
the possibilities from the medical point of view. Perhaps you will
tell me about that autopsy?”
Dr. Emerson was manifestly disturbed by French’s suggestion. He moved
uneasily in his chair and gave vent to exclamations of scepticism and
concern. “Of course,” he went on, “I’ll tell you everything I can, and
I needn’t say I most sincerely hope your suspicion is unfounded. You
are perfectly correct on the other point. Only an autopsy can
establish beyond question the fact of a death from myocarditis. If I
had had the slightest doubt in Mr. Giles’ case I should have required
one before giving a certificate. But I had no doubt, and with all due
respect to you I have none now.”
“You may be right, doctor. I’ll tell you as soon as I know myself. In
the meantime thank you for your information and not a word to a soul.”
French left the house with a deep satisfaction filling his mind. Dr.
Emerson’s admission was what he had hoped for and it very nearly
banished his last remaining doubt. But he felt that he ought to get
Dr. Philpot’s views also. Philpot had seen the man before death and
his evidence would certainly be required if the matter went further.
Accordingly, he turned in the direction of the younger man’s house,
and a few minutes later was entering a consulting-room for the second
time that day.
“Good-afternoon, doctor,” he said, with his usual cheery smile. “I’ve
come on my old tack of looking for information. But it’s a very simple
matter this time: just one question on quite a different subject.”
Dr. Philpot was looking changed: old and worn and despondent. French
was rather shocked at his appearance. He was sitting forward in his
chair, hunched over the fire, with his head resting in his hands and a
look of brooding misery on his features. He looked like a man upon
whom a long expected blow had at last fallen; a man at the end of his
tether, who does not know which way to turn for relief. And then,
somewhat to French’s surprise, the cause came out.
“Of course, of course,” the other murmured, rousing himself as if from
an evil dream. “If you want to know anything from me ask it now, for
I’m leaving the town almost at once.”
French was genuinely surprised.
“Leaving the town?” he repeated. “You don’t mean——? Do you mean for
good?”
“For good, yes. And I don’t want ever to see the cursed place again.
But it’s my own fault. I may as well tell you, for you’ll hear it soon
enough. I have failed.”
“Financially, you mean?”
Philpot glanced at his visitor with sombre resentment.
“Financially, of course. How else?” he growled. “It was never a land
flowing with milk and honey, this place, but for the last few months
my position has been getting more and more impossible. The only things
I get plenty of are bills—bills everywhere, and no money to meet them.
I’ve struggled and fought to keep my end up, but it has been no good.
When I came, I couldn’t afford to buy a practice, and though I’ve not
done so badly owing to Dr. Emerson’s giving up his more distant
patients, I haven’t built up quickly enough and my little capital
couldn’t stand the strain. Another three or four years and I might
have got my head above water.” He made a gesture of despair. “But
there it is and complaining won’t help it.”
French’s natural reaction was to show sympathy with any one in
trouble, and he could not help feeling sorry for this doctor who had
made a mess of his life and who now, nearing middle age, was going to
have to begin all over again. But when he remembered what the landlord
of the Thirsdale Arms had told him of the man’s gambling proclivities,
his sympathy was somewhat checked. To continue gambling when you know
that your indulgence is going to prevent your paying your just debts
is but a short way removed from theft. Of course, French did not know
how far the landlord’s story was true, so it was with relief that he
reminded himself that he was not Philpot’s judge, and that his
business was simply to get the information he required as easily and
pleasantly as he could.
“I am exceedingly sorry to hear what you say,” he declared gravely,
and he was not altogether a hypocrite in making his manner and tone
express genuine regret. “It is a terrible position for any one to find
himself in and I can well understand how you feel. But, though bad,
you must not consider it hopeless. Many a man has passed through a
similar trouble and has come out on top in the end.”
Philpot smiled faintly.
“I appreciate your kindness,” he answered. “But don’t let us talk
about it. I told you in order to explain my departure and because you
would hear it in any case. But if you don’t mind, I would rather not
speak of it again. You said something about a question, I think?”
“Yes, but first I must ask just this. You say you are leaving here.
Suppose through some unexpected development in this Starvel case you
are wanted to give evidence. Can I find you?”
“Of course. I am going to a friend in Glasgow who says he can find me
a job. I shall be staying with Mrs. MacIntosh, of 47 Kilgore Street,
Dumbarton Road.”
French noted the address.
“Thanks. I do not think I shall want you, but I should be remiss in my
duty if I failed to keep in touch with you. The other question is
about a friend of Miss Averill’s, a man named Giles, who died about
the time of the fire. I wish you would tell me what he died of.”
Dr. Philpot looked at him in surprise. Then something approaching a
twinkle appeared in his eye.
“Hullo! Another—er—unexpected development? Is it indiscreet to
inquire?”
“It is,” French answered, “but I’ll tell you because I really want my
information. It may be a very serious matter, Dr. Philpot, and I am
mentioning it in strict confidence only. I have certain reasons to
suppose that Mr. Giles may have been murdered and I want to get your
views on the possibility.”
Dr. Philpot’s astonishment at the announcement was quite as marked as
that of his _confrère_, but he made less effort to conceal his
scepticism.
“My dear Inspector! You’re surely not serious? Giles? Oh come now, you
don’t expect me to believe that? What possible motive could any one
have for doing such a thing?”
French did not explain the motive. He said he didn’t claim
infallibility and admitted he might be wrong in his theory. He was
simply collecting facts and he wanted any the other could supply.
“Well,” Philpot declared, “these are the facts so far as I know them.”
He crossed over to an index, and rapidly looking through it, withdrew
a card. “This is the man’s record. He was seriously ill to begin with:
he had a heart affection which might have killed him at any moment. I
have attended him for years and his disease was growing worse. His
life in fact was precarious. That is your first fact.
“The second is that during the week before his death he developed
influenza. I went out and saw him on the Thursday. I believed that his
days were numbered and I expected to hear of his death at any time. He
did die, if I remember correctly, on the following Tuesday. I did not
see him then, as I was myself down with ’flu, but Dr. Emerson saw him
and he can tell you if his death was natural. I don’t know, Inspector,
what you are basing your opinion on, but I can say with certainty that
I shall be surprised if you are right.”
“It is your outlook on the matter which most strongly supports my
suspicion,” French rejoined: “yours and Dr. Emerson’s, for I have seen
him and his is the same. He was expecting that Mr. Giles would die
from his disease, consequently when he did die he assumed that the
disease was the cause. Perfectly naturally, mind you: I’m not
criticising him. But my point is that his preconceived idea made him
less critical than he might otherwise have been.”
“Ingenious no doubt, but to me unconvincing. However, it is not my
affair, but yours. Is there any other question that you wish me to
answer?”
French rapidly reflected. He thought that there was nothing more.
Between these two men he had got what he wanted.
“I don’t think there is, doctor,” he returned. “I’m afraid your
information hasn’t helped me on much, but after all it was facts that
I wanted. I’ll not detain you any longer. Allow me just to say that I
hope your present difficulties will be short-lived and that you may
soon settle down satisfactorily again.”
So, as far as the medical testimony was concerned, his theory about
Giles’ murder might well be true. Dr. Emerson had really been very lax
and yet, French imagined, most medical men in similar circumstances
would have acted as he had done. But whether that was so or not,
Emerson had jumped to conclusions and had signed the death certificate
without having really taken any trouble to ascertain the cause of
death. And this, if necessary, he could be made to admit in the
witness box.
French saw that only one thing would settle the matter. Giles’ coffin
must be opened and the contents examined.
To obtain the necessary powers from the Home Office was a simple
matter in London, where the request could be put through direct from
the Yard. But here in Yorkshire it must come from the local
authorities. French decided therefore that his proper course would be
to put the additional facts that he had learned before Major Valentine
and let that officer see to the rest. It was not a matter upon which
he cared to telephone or write, so having made an appointment by wire,
he once again took the afternoon train for Leeds.
“I believe, sir, that I have found where that third body was
obtained,” he began, as he took his seat for the second time in the
Chief Constable’s room. “It is, of course, only theory, indeed, you
might almost say guess-work, but I think it works in. The nearest
inhabitant to Starvel, a man living alone, died on the night before
the fire.” French went on to relate in detail what took place and to
give his views thereon.
The Chief Constable heard him in silence, and then sat for some
moments thinking the matter over.
“I’m afraid I don’t feel so sanguine about it as you seem to,” he said
at last. “At the same time I agree that the matter must be settled by
an examination of the coffin. But I shall be surprised if Giles’ body
is not found within it.”
“It may be, sir, of course,” French admitted. “But I’m glad you agree
that we should make sure. In that case there is no object in delay.
Will you obtain the necessary exhumation order, or is there anything
you wish me to do in the matter?”
“No, I’ll see to it. You may arrange with Kent to get the work done.
Let Kent arrange for a magistrate to be present. A representative will
be required from the Home Office, of course?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Then you may expect the order in a day or two. I shall be very much
interested to hear the result. It will be impossible to keep the
affair quiet?”
“I’m afraid so. There will be too many concerned in it.”
“Quite. Well, you must get up some tale about it. What are you going
to say?”
“I haven’t thought yet, sir. I’ll dish out something when the time
comes.”
When French reached Hellifield on his return journey he found Oxley on
the platform.
“You been travelling also, Inspector?” Oxley greeted him. “I’ve just
been to Penrith for the day. These connections always make me curse.
They’re all arranged to and from Leeds, but people going to or from
the north have to kick their heels here for the best part of an hour
each way.”
“Can’t please everybody, Mr. Oxley,” French remarked tritely.
“You think not?” Oxley smiled. “Well, how’s the case?”
“Nothing doing for the moment. I was in seeing Dr. Philpot this
morning. He seems in a bad way, poor fellow.”
Oxley looked grave.
“It’s a bad case, I fear.” He glanced round and his voice sank. “From
what I’ve heard and by putting two and two together I shouldn’t wonder
if he’ll only pay two or three shillings in the pound. All gone to the
bookies, or nearly all. You know, Inspector, between ourselves, when a
man’s in debt all round, as he is, it’s not just the game to go
putting his last few pounds on horses.”
“It’s a fact, Mr. Oxley. Of course, one must remember that the gambler
plunges in the hope of pulling something off. If he had had some bits
of luck he might have put himself square.”
“That’s true, and you can imagine any one taking the risk. If he wins
his whole trouble is over, while if he loses he is little the worse.
He may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. But you haven’t told
me how the case is getting on.”
It was natural enough that Oxley should be interested in his
investigations, but French thought he pushed his curiosity a little
too far. They met fairly often—sometimes, he thought, not entirely by
accident—and every time Oxley made a dead set at him to learn what he
was doing and if he had reached any conclusions. French did not like
being pumped, and as a result he became closer than ever. On this
occasion it taxed even his skill to put the solicitor off without
unpleasantly plain speaking, but he managed it at last and the talk
drifted into other channels. Oxley was in his usual state of rather
boisterous good humor, and before the train stopped at Thirsby he
regaled French with the gossip of the district and told a number of
the highly flavoured stories in which his soul delighted.
Coincidence ordained that French should meet at the station the one
person whose curiosity as to the progress of the investigation was
even keener than Oxley’s—Tarkington’s clerk, Bloxham. Bloxham never
lost an opportunity of fishing for information, and French had little
doubt that their frequent “unexpected” meetings were carefully
prearranged. On the present occasion the man joined French with a
“Walking to the hotel, Mr. French? I’m just going that way too,” and
immediately began to ask leading questions. But French’s feelings were
still somewhat ruffled from his encounter with Oxley, and for once
Bloxham received as direct and decisive a reply as his heart could
wish.
“Sorry, Mr. French,” he stammered, staring at French in considerable
surprise. “I’m afraid we outsiders must bother you a lot. I was
interested because of the notes, you understand, but of course if the
thing is confidential that’s another matter.”
“That’s all right,” French returned, recovering his temper. “Come and
have a drink.”
Two days later the exhumation order came, and that same night shortly
after twelve o’clock a little party emerged from the local police
station, and separating at the door, set off by various routes in the
direction of the cemetery. Inspector French walked down the High
Street with Dr. Laming, the Home Office representative, Sergeant Kent
with Colonel Followes, the local magistrate from whom French had
obtained the warrant for Whymper’s arrest, went via Cross Lane, while
a sturdy policeman armed with tools disappeared down a parallel
street.
The night was dark and cloudy, with a cold south-westerly wind which
gave promise of early rain. There was a thin crescent moon, though its
light penetrated but slightly through the pall of cloud. The men
shivered and turned up their collars as they faced the raw damp air.
The five met within the gates of the cemetery, which were opened to
them by the caretaker and relocked behind them. Two gravediggers were
in attendance. In the darkness and silence the little company moved
off, and led by the caretaker, crossed the ground towards its
north-easterly corner.
The place was very secluded. It lay on the side of a gently sloping
hill whose curving bulk screened it from the town. It was tastefully
laid out and well kept, but to the little party, with their minds full
of their gruesome mission, it seemed eerie and sinister. The shrubs
and bushes which French had so much admired on his previous visit, now
presented shadowy and menacing forms which moved and changed their
positions as the men passed on. Presently a beam from an acetylene
bicycle lamp flashed out and the caretaker called a halt.
“This is it,” he said in a low voice, pointing to the long narrow
mound of a grave.
Silently the two gravediggers advanced, and stretching a tarpaulin on
the grass alongside the mound, began to remove the sods. Then they
dug, first through dark soil and then through yellow, which they
heaped up in a pyramid on the tarpaulin. They worked steadily, but a
whole hour had passed before with a dull thud a spade struck something
hollow.
“We’re down at last,” the caretaker said, while the diggers redoubled
their efforts.
Gradually the top of the coffin became revealed and the men,
undermining the walls of their excavation, worked the clay out from
round the sides. Presently all was clear.
As the interment had taken place only some two months earlier the
coffin was still perfectly sound. Raising it was therefore an easy
matter. Ropes were lowered and passed through the handles, and with a
steady pull, the sinister casket came away from the clay beneath and
in a few seconds was lying on the grass beside the hole. French,
holding his electric torch to the brass plate, could read the
inscription: “Markham Giles, died 14th September, 1926. Aged 36.”
Meanwhile the sturdy policeman had come forward with a screwdriver and
was beginning to withdraw the screws holding down the lid. Every one
but the case-hardened Home Office official felt a thrill of excitement
pass over him as the fateful moment approached. Only Dr. Laming and
French had before taken part in an exhumation, and the feelings of the
others were stirred by the gruesome nature of the operations and
thoughts of the ghastly sight which they expected would soon meet
their eyes. With French it was different. He was moved because his
reputation was at stake. So much depended for him on what that raised
lid would reveal. If he had put all concerned to the trouble and
expense of an unnecessary exhumation, it would count against him. He
found it hard to stand still and to preserve a suitable attitude of
aloofness while the constable slowly operated the screwdriver.
At last the screws were removed and the lid was carefully raised and
lifted clear. And then the eyes which had been bulging with
anticipated horror, bulged still more with incredulous amazement.
There was no sign of Markham Giles’ body or any other! Instead, the
coffin was half-full of dark, peaty earth; and when this earth was
sifted nothing was found embedded in it.
The sight produced varying emotions in the onlookers. The uninitiated
broke into exclamations of wonder: French felt such a wave of
satisfaction sweep through him that he could have shouted in his
delight: Dr. Laming contented himself with a quick glance and a murmur
of “One for you, French. Congratulations.” All felt that they had
assisted in a unique experiment, the result of which had triumphantly
vindicated the authorities.
This, then, was the end of the mystery. The conclusion which French
had reached by analysis and deduction had been tested and had proved
true, and that proof established at one and the same time the whole of
the steps of his line of reasoning. Roper was guilty of one of the
most diabolical plots ever conceived in the mind of a criminal. He had
allowed nothing to stand in his way. He had sacrificed the lives of no
less than three people in order that he might with the greater
security steal his employer’s money. Every part of his devilish scheme
was made clear, except one—his present whereabouts. French determined
that he would immediately begin to trace him and that nothing would
induce him to stop until he had succeeded.
It was not long before the news of the discovery leaked out. When
French came down to breakfast next morning he found three reporters
waiting for him, and he had hardly begun to speak to them when a
fourth arrived.
“That’s all right, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “I am from Scotland
Yard after all, and I’ll tell you as much as I can. I only wish I knew
more! As to what may or may not lie behind it I cannot hazard a guess;
we are about to go into that. But the fact is that we received secret
information—I can’t give away the source—you may say an anonymous
letter if you like—but information was forthcoming which led us to
believe that the poor gentleman, Mr. Giles, had become the victim of a
gang of criminals. The story was to the effect that he had been
murdered by chloroform or poison, and that after he had been coffined,
the gang returned and removed the body, disposing of it in some other
way. That was all, but it obviously suggested that the gang in
question was that of the burglars who, as you are aware, have been
active in these parts for many months, and that they had emptied the
coffin in order to find a temporary safe deposit for their booty.
That, at all events, was a possible explanation. On going into the
matter I thought it was worth while testing the story by exhuming the
coffin, and sure enough, the body was gone. But the other suggestion
about the burglars’ swag wasn’t so happy. When we opened the coffin we
found it half-full of earth: about the weight of the deceased.
Needless to say we searched it thoroughly, but there was nothing else
in it. So, whatever the motive of the crime, it was not to find a safe
hiding place for valuables.”
The reporters were voluble in their interest and in the joy they
evidently felt in the scoop vouchsafed them.
“Some story that, Inspector,” they cried. “Tell us more and we’ll give
you a good write up.”
But French smilingly shook his head.
“Sorry it’s all I’m at liberty to give away,” he declared. “Come now,
gentlemen, I haven’t done so badly for you. Plenty of men in my
position wouldn’t have told you anything.”
“But do you not think,” said one, the least vociferous of the four,
“that your theory may have been right after all? Is it not possible
that the stuff was hidden in the coffin as you suggested, but was dug
up and removed by the gang before you made your exhumation?”
“I thought of that,” French declared brazenly, “and you may be right,
though there were no signs of it. However, that is one of the things
to be gone into.”
When French had breakfasted he went to see the undertaker who had
conducted Giles’ funeral, and there he received some information which
still more firmly established the theory he had evolved.
“The whole arrangements,” explained Mr. Simkins, the proprietor, in
the course of the conversation, “were carried out to Mr. Roper’s
orders. Mr. Roper said that Mr. Giles had had an idea he mightn’t get
over the attack, and he had handed him the money for his funeral,
asking him to see to it as he had no relative to do it. There were
twelve pounds over when the ground was bought, and Mr. Roper handed
the money to me and told me to do the best I could with it. He said he
thought the best plan would be to get the body coffined that
afternoon—it was a Wednesday—and have the funeral on the Friday. He
said the doctor thought the coffining should be done as soon as
possible, and while the day of the interment didn’t really matter,
Friday would suit as well as any. That was the reason he gave for the
arrangement, for you know, sir, in inexpensive funerals at such a
distance, we generally do the coffining just before the funeral and so
make the one journey do. But that was the way it was done.”
“I understand,” French continued. “Mr. Giles died on the Tuesday, the
coffining was done on the Wednesday, and the funeral took place on the
Friday. That right?”
“That’s right, sir.”
It seemed to French that the undertaker’s statement demonstrated the
sole remaining steps of Roper’s plan so completely that every detail
of that hideous night now stood revealed in all its ghastliness. He
had not only murdered Markham Giles, but he had arranged that the body
should lie coffined in the lonely house on the night of the major
tragedy. On that night he and probably Mrs. Roper must have opened the
coffin, taken out the remains, replaced them with the proper weight of
earth, and once more screwed down the lid. A small handcart such as
French had noticed in the unburnt outhouse at Starvel would serve to
convey the remains to the Hollow, where they were to be used in such a
terrible way to bolster up the deception.
Truly, it was a well-thought-out scheme! And how nearly had it
succeeded! But its success would be short-lived. With set teeth and
frowning brow French vowed to himself that he would not rest until he
had the monster who had done this deed safely under lock and key.