That night in the lonely shed beside the gaunt, blackened walls of the
old house, proved one of the longest French had ever spent. But there
was no escape from the vigil. If Averill’s hoard lay beneath the sods
a few yards away, the place must be watched. Roper might come for the
swag at any time and French could not run the risk of its being
snatched at the last moment from his own eager clutches.
He pulled a couple of old boxes to the window, and sitting down, made
himself as comfortable as he could. But time dragged leadenly. He
watched while the moon crept slowly across the sky, he speculated over
the tragic business on which he was engaged and indulged in waking
dreams of the time when he should be Chief Inspector French of the
C.I.D., but nothing that he could do seemed to shorten the endless
hours. He was cold, too, in spite of his heavy coat. He longed to go
out and warm himself by a brisk walk, but he dared not risk betraying
his presence. In the small hours he ate his sandwiches, and then he
had to fight an overwhelming desire for sleep, intensified by the fact
that he had been up a good part of the previous night. But his
vigilance was unrewarded. There was no sign of a marauder, and as the
first faint glow of dawn began to show in the east, he saw that he had
had all his trouble for nothing. Altogether he was not sorry when just
before eight o’clock Sergeant Kent and the constable put in an
appearance, and as he stepped out to meet them he heaved a sigh of
heartfelt relief.
“You’re here before us,” Kent greeted him in surprise.
“That’s right, but I was too early. Now, sergeant, I asked you to come
out here for rather an unusual purpose: in fact, so that we might dig
a hole. Here is a spade and we’ll go and begin at once.”
The sergeant looked as if he wondered whether French hadn’t gone off
his head, but he controlled his feelings and with his satellite
followed the other’s lead.
“I want you,” went on French when they had reached the site of his
discovery, “to see just why I wish to dig this hole at this place,”
and he showed him the traces of the yellow clay and the cut sods. “You
see, some one has buried something here, and I want to find out what
it is.”
Kent in a non-committal silence seized the spade and began digging.
The constable then tried his hand, and when he had had enough, French
relieved him. So they took it in turns while the hole deepened and the
heap of soil beside it grew.
Suddenly the spade encountered something soft and yielding which yet
resisted its pressure. Kent, who was using it, stopped digging and
began to clear away the surrounding soil, while the others watched,
French breathlessly, the constable with the bovine impassiveness which
he had exhibited throughout.
“It’s a blanket, this is,” the sergeant announced presently.
“Something rolled up in a blanket.”
“Go on,” said French. “Open it up.”
Kent resumed his digging. For some minutes he worked, and then he
straightened himself and looked at French wonderingly.
“Lord save us!” he exclaimed in awed tones. “It’s uncommon like a
human corpse.”
“Nonsense!” French answered sharply. “It couldn’t be anything of the
kind. Get on and open it and then you’ll know.”
The sergeant hesitated, then climbed heavily out of the hole.
“Well, look yourself, sir,” he invited.
French jumped down, and as he gazed on the outline of the blanket
covered object, his eyes grew round and something like consternation
filled his mind. The sergeant was right! There was no mistaking that
shape! This was a grave that they were opening and the blanket was a
shroud.
French swore, then controlled himself and turned to the sergeant.
“You’re right, Kent. It’s a body sure enough. Clear away the soil
round it while the constable and I get that shed door off its hinges.”
The task of raising the uncoffined and decaying remains on to the
improvised stretcher was one which French could never afterwards think
of without a qualm of sick loathing, but eventually it was done and
the men slowly carried the shrouded horror to the shed. There the door
was placed upon a couple of boxes and French, clenching his teeth,
turned back the blanket from the face.
In spite of the terrible ravages of time both Kent and the constable
immediately recognised the distorted features. The body was that of
Markham Giles!
The discovery left French almost speechless. If Markham Giles’ body
was here, _whose was the third body at Starvel?_ Was the whole of his
case tumbling about his ears? Once again he swore bitterly and once
again pulled himself together to deal with the next step.
“This means an inquest,” he said to Kent. “You and I had better get
back to Thirsby and notify the coroner and so forth, and this man of
yours can stay here and keep watch.”
They walked down to the little town almost in silence, French too full
of his new problem to indulge in conversation, and the sergeant not
liking to break in upon his companion’s thoughts. On arrival Kent got
in touch with the coroner while French rang up Major Valentine.
“No, sir, I don’t know what to make of it,” he admitted in answer to
the major’s sharp question. “It certainly does look as if the man I
suspected was dead after all. But I would rather not discuss it over
the ’phone. Could I see you, sir, if I went down to Leeds?”
“No, I’ll go to Thirsby. I’d like to look into the matter on the spot.
There will be an inquest, of course?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Kent is arranging it with the coroner. We shall
want an autopsy also. One of the things I wanted to know is who you
think I should have to make it. But you can tell me that when you
come.”
Major Valentine replied that he would drive over in his car and would
pick up French at the police station at two p.m. on his way out to
Starvel.
It was now getting on towards midday, but French decided that he would
have time to make an inquiry and get lunch before the Chief
Constable’s arrival. He therefore turned into High Street and walked
to Pullar’s, the largest shoe shop of the town.
“Mr. Pullar in?” he asked pleasantly. He had met the man in the bar of
the Thirsdale Arms and there was a nodding acquaintance between the
two.
“I suppose you haven’t heard of our discovery, Mr. Pullar?” French
began when he was seated in the proprietor’s office. The whole
business was bound to come out at the inquest, so he might as well
enlist the other’s goodwill by telling him confidentially something
about it.
Mr. Pullar cautiously admitted he hadn’t heard anything unusual.
“This is unusual enough for any one,” French assured him, and he told
of the finding of the grave on the moor, though making no mention of
his doubts and fears about Roper.
Mr. Pullar was duly impressed and repeatedly begged that his soul
might be blessed. When he had absorbed the news French turned to the
real object of his call.
“I thought that maybe you could give me a bit of help, Mr. Pullar.
You’d perhaps be interested to know how I got on to the thing. Well,
it was in this way.” He took from the matchbox the piece of clay he
had found on the floor of the shed.
“I picked this up in the shed, and as that sort of clay is covered
everywhere here with three feet of dark soil, it followed that some
one had dug a hole more than three feet deep.”
Mr. Pullar expressed his admiration of the other’s perspicacity with
the same pious wish as before.
“Now you see,” French continued, “this clay was sticking to a shoe. It
probably got a bit dry in the shed and dropped or got knocked off.
Now, Mr. Pullar, can you tell me what kind of a shoe it was?”
Mr. Pullar shook his head. With every wish to assist, he was doubtful
if he could answer the question. He picked up the piece of clay and
turned it over gingerly in his fingers.
“Well,” he said presently, pointing to the hollow curve, “that’s been
sticking round the outside of a heel, that has. If it had been a toe
it would have been squeezed flatter. But that’s the square-edged mark
of a heel.” He looked interrogatively at French, who hastened to
interject: “Just what I thought, Mr. Pullar. A man’s heel.”
“Yes, a man’s heel I would think: though, mind you, it’s not easy to
tell the difference between a man’s and some of these flat heeled
shoes women wear now.”
“I thought it was a man’s from the size.”
“No: it might be either a big woman or a small man. Sevens, I should
say.” He got up and put his head through the office door. “Here, John!
Bring me three pairs of gents’ black Fitwells: a six and a half, a
seven and an eight: medium weight.”
When the shoes came Mr. Pullar attempted to fit the circle of clay to
the curve of each heel. French was delighted with the thorough and
systematic way he set about it. He tried with all three sizes, then
roared out for a pair of sixes and a pair of nines.
“It’s no good, Mr. French,” he said when he had tested these also.
“Look for yourself. It’s smaller than a nine, but you can’t tell any
more than that. It might be a six or a seven or an eight. It isn’t
sharp enough to say.”
French looked for himself, but he had to admit the other’s conclusion
was correct. The prints presumably had been made by a man with rather
small feet, and that was all that could be said.
French was disappointed. He had hoped for something more definite.
Roper admittedly had rather small feet, but the same was true of
numbers of other men.
He bade Mr. Pullar good day and returned to the hotel for lunch. But
he soon learned that the worthy shoe merchant had made the most of his
opportunities. Scarcely had he sat down when the reporter of the local
paper hurried into the coffee room and excitedly demanded details of
the great find. And behind him appeared the hotel proprietor and a
number of clients who had been supporting British industries in the
bar.
French saw there was nothing for it but capitulation. Good-humouredly
he told his story, merely stipulating that after his statement to the
reporter he should not be troubled further until he had finished his
lunch. This was agreed to, but it is sad to relate that French did not
entirely play the game. His repast ended, he slipped out through the
yard, and by devious ways reached the police station unnoticed. Major
Valentine drove up as he arrived and in a few seconds the two men were
whirling out along the Starvel road, while French told his story in
detail.
“It’s really an extraordinary development,” the Chief Constable
commented. “You assumed that Giles had been murdered in order to
obtain his body for the Starvel fraud. If you were correct it followed
that his coffin would be empty. You opened his coffin and it was
empty. A more complete vindication of your line of reasoning it would
be hard to imagine. And now it turns out that the body was not used
for the Starvel fraud; therefore the whole of your reasoning falls to
the ground. If you had not made a mistake and acted on false premises
you would not have discovered the truth. Peculiar, isn’t it?”
“Peculiar enough, sir. But I wish I could agree with you that I had
discovered the truth. It seems to me I am further away from it than
ever.”
“No; the correction of an error is always progress. But I’m not
denying,” Major Valentine went on with a whimsical smile, “that there
is still something left to be cleared up.”
French laughed unhappily.
“I don’t like to think of it,” he said. “But the post-mortem may tell
us something. According to my previous theory this man was murdered.
Now this discovery raises a certain doubt, though personally I have
very little. But in any case we have no proof. Therefore I thought we
should want a post-mortem.”
“Undoubtedly. We’ll get Dr. Lingard of Hellifield. This the shed?”
“Yes, sir. The body’s inside.”
A few minutes sufficed to put the chief constable in possession of all
the available information and the two men returned to the car.
“You know,” the major declared as he restarted his engine, “if this
man was murdered it doesn’t say a great deal for that Dr. Emerson. He
gave a certificate of death from natural causes, didn’t he?”
“If you ask my opinion,” French answered gloomily, “he didn’t examine
the body at all. I saw him about it. It seems the man had been
suffering from heart disease for years. He also had a touch of
influenza some days before his death which might have caused heart
failure. Dr. Emerson practically admitted he had assumed this had
happened. He also admitted that anyhow only a post-mortem could have
made sure.”
“Careless and reprehensible, no doubt. But, French, I wonder whether
we shouldn’t all have done the same in his circumstances. The idea of
foul play in such a case would never enter any one’s head.”
“That’s what he said, sir. Until I told him about the empty coffin he
scouted the suggestion. When I mentioned that he didn’t know what to
say.”
“He’ll be required at the inquest?”
“Of course, sir. And the other doctor, Philpot. He attended the man
during his illness.”
They ran rapidly into the town and pulled up at the police station.
Kent, recognising his visitor, hurried obsequiously to meet them.
“Good-evening, Kent,” the major greeted him. “Inspector French has
just been telling me of this affair. Have you heard from the coroner?”
“Yes, sir, I saw him about it. To-morrow at eleven he’s fixed for the
inquest.”
“Where?”
“At the courthouse. He asked that the remains might be brought in
before that.”
“It’s not allowing much time for the post-mortem. Better see the
coroner again, Kent, and get him to take evidence of identification
and adjourn for a week. I’ll arrange with Dr. Lingard about the
post-mortem at once, and will you, French, get in touch with the local
doctors. Meanwhile as we’re here let us settle about the evidence.”
Kent led the way to his room and there a discussion took place on the
procedure to be adopted at the inquest. A list of the witnesses was
drawn up with a note of the testimony which was to be expected from
each. Certain facts, it was considered, should be kept in the
background, and Kent was instructed to see the coroner and ask him to
arrange this also. When the business was complete the major rose.
“Then I shall see you at the adjourned inquest, Kent. French, if
you’ll come along I’ll give you a lift as far as your hotel. As a
matter of fact I’d like to have a chat with you,” he went on when they
had left the police station. “This new development is certainly very
puzzling and I’d like to discuss it in detail. Have you a private
sitting room?”
“Not all the time. I’ve had one once or twice for an evening when I
had work to do, but ordinary times I don’t have it. We can get it all
right now though.”
“Well, you arrange it while I see to the car. And order some tea.
You’ll join me in a cup, won’t you?”
“Thank you, I should like to.”
In a few minutes a fire of logs was crackling in the rather dismal
private sitting room of the Thirsdale Arms. Until tea was over the
major chatted of men and things apart from the case, but when the
waiter had disappeared with the tray and the two men had settled
themselves with cigars before the fire he came to business.
“I admit, French, that I am not only tremendously interested in this
case, but also extremely puzzled. From what you say, that’s your
position also. Now just to run over two or three points. I take it
there is no doubt as to motive?”
“No, sir, we may take it as gospel that Mr. Averill’s thirty thousand
pounds were stolen and that that’s the key of the whole affair.”
“You suspected Whymper at first?”
“Yes, at first sight things looked bad for him. I needn’t go over the
details: he had some of the stolen money in his possession and had
been to the house on the night of the tragedy and so on. But I went
into the thing thoroughly and I was satisfied that Roper had made him
his dupe. Whymper’s all right, sir. We shall get nothing there.”
“I hear he and Miss Averill are to be married.”
“So I heard, in fact he told me himself. He wanted to propose and then
this affair made him hold back. But as soon as I told him I was not
going to arrest him he went straight to the lady and told her the
circumstances and asked her to marry him. She accepted him and the
wedding is to take place soon.”
“I know his father in Leeds and I’m glad to hear that he’s definitely
out of trouble. Then you suspected Philpot?”
“I suspected Philpot because of his connection with Roper, though
there was nothing directly connecting him with the Starvel crime. But
I soon saw that I was on the wrong track there too. He accounted for
everything that seemed suspicious, and what was more, any points of
his statement which in the nature of the case could be corroborated,
were corroborated by other witnesses. Besides, he was ill at the time:
there was the evidence of his housekeeper and others as well as Dr.
Emerson’s testimony that he was unable to leave his bed. And there was
his failure. If he had just obtained £30,000 he wouldn’t have allowed
the bailiff in.”
“Might not that have been a trick to put people off the scent?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. If he had been guilty he wouldn’t have
shown sudden evidence of wealth, but he wouldn’t have gone bankrupt
either—just for fear it might be taken as a trick. Of course, sir, I’m
aware that none of this is absolutely conclusive. There was absence of
evidence of guilt, but not proof of innocence, and, of course, illness
can be faked and so on. But the thing that really cleared Philpot in
my mind was the conduct of Roper. It’s impossible to consider this
case without considering Roper’s conduct.”
“I know, and I really agree with you. Still let us exhaust the
possibilities. You thought of other people, I suppose?”
“I thought of every one else in the place almost. Oxley, Tarkington,
Emerson and several others; even Kent I considered. But there wasn’t a
shred of evidence against any of them. The only other real alternative
to Roper is the burglars—the gang who have been operating for some
months past. But here again Roper’s conduct comes in. If Roper wasn’t
guilty he wouldn’t have acted as he did.”
The chief constable smoked in silence for some moments.
“I think all you say is very sound. Now just run over the case against
Roper and I shall try to pick holes.”
“First, sir, there was the man’s character; vindictive, unscrupulous,
a blackmailer, and as well as that a skilful forger. Admittedly this
description came from Philpot, but all that could be known to
outsiders was confirmed by the sergeant and many others at Kintilloch.
Roper was the only person we know of, other than the burglar gang, who
had the character and the ability to commit the crime.”
“Not convincing, but go on.”
“Not convincing alone, no doubt; but it does not stand alone.
Secondly, there was the getting of Miss Averill out of the way;
thirdly, there was the Whymper episode and fourthly, the matter of
Giles’s funeral.”
“That’s all right except that when we find Giles’s body was not burned
the whole case falls to the ground.”
French threw the stub of his cigar into the fire.
“Don’t you believe it, sir. None of what I have been saying falls to
the ground. Though I admit the motive of this Giles business is not
clear, the facts remain and their significance remains. I don’t now
follow all Roper’s scheme, but I still believe he is our man.”
Major Valentine nodded decisively.
“So do I, French, and we shall get him all right. Then you’ve no
theory of where the third body came from?”
“I believe Roper enticed some other poor devil to the house and
murdered him also. I think, sir, we’ll have to try again to find out
if any one disappeared about that time.”
“I’ll see to it, but I’m not hopeful of doing better than before.”
Major Valentine showed signs of breaking up the conference, but French
raised his hand.
“A moment, sir, if you please. I was thinking that this inquest gives
us a chance that perhaps we should take advantage of. No more of those
notes have come through. What, sir, would you say was the reason for
that?”
“Well, if we’re right about Roper being alive, I suppose because he’s
afraid.”
“That’s what I think. And this business will make him still more
afraid. Now I wonder if we couldn’t set his mind at ease for him.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“Why, this way. Suppose that I was very frank in my evidence—very
frank and open and comprehensive. Suppose that I should tell about the
notes; about their numbers having been taken, and about the one
turning up in London, and robbery being thereby suspected and my being
sent down to investigate. Suppose I explained that I had succeeded in
tracing that note and had found that it had been given by Mr. Averill
himself to a friend, and that the whole transaction was perfectly in
order. But suppose I conveyed that only the numbers of the last batch
of notes—say, twenty twenties—were known. Wouldn’t that do the trick?”
“You mean that if the numbers of only twenty notes were known, Roper
would feel safe in changing the others?”
“Quite so. Furthermore, if nothing was said about the ashes being
newspaper he would think that the suspicion of robbery had been
dispelled by the discovery that the note passed in London was all
right.”
“It’s worth trying. If he rises to it you’ll get him.”
“Right, sir. Then I’ll advise the coroner beforehand. Or perhaps you
would do so?”
“I’ll do it. Well, I must be getting home. I’m glad to have had this
talk and I hope your scheme will meet with success.”
Next morning the inquest opened and formal evidence of identification
of the remains of the late Markham Giles was taken. The proceedings
were then adjourned for seven days to enable the police to prosecute
inquiries.