Major Jefferson is Reluctant
Inspector Mansfield, of the Elchester police, was a methodical person.
He knew exactly what he had to do, and just how to do it. And he had
precisely as much imagination as was required for his job, and not a
fraction more. Too much imagination can be a very severe handicap to a
conscientious policeman, in spite of what the detective stories may
say.
As the inspector entered the library with Jefferson from the hall,
Roger, who had heard his arrival and was determined to miss no more of
this interesting situation than he could possibly help, contrived to
present himself at the French windows, the faithful Alec still in tow.
“Good-morning, Inspector,” he said cheerfully.
Jefferson frowned slightly; perhaps he was remembering his last words
to Roger. “These are Mr. Sheringham and Mr. Grierson, Inspector,” he
said a little brusquely. “They were present when we broke the door
in.”
The inspector nodded. “Good-morning, gentlemen. Sad business, this.
Very.” He glanced rapidly round the room. “Ah, there’s the body.
Excuse me, Major.”
He stepped quickly across and bent over the figure in the chair,
examining it attentively. Then he dropped on his knees and scrutinised
the hand that held the revolver.
“Mustn’t touch anything till the doctor’s seen him,” he explained
briefly, rising to his feet again and dusting the knees of his
trousers. “May I have a look at that document you spoke of, sir?”
“Certainly, Inspector. It’s on the table.”
Jefferson showed where the paper was lying, and the inspector picked
it up. Roger edged farther into the room. The presence of himself and
Alec had not been challenged, and he wished to establish his right to
be there. Furthermore, he was uncommonly curious to hear the
inspector’s views on the somewhat remarkable document he was now
studying.
The inspector looked up. “H’m!” he observed noncommittally, laying the
paper on the table again. “To the point, at any rate. Was Mr.
Stanworth in the habit of using a typewriter instead of pen and ink?”
“Just the point I mentioned, Inspector,” Roger broke in.
“Indeed, sir?” said the inspector politely. He turned to Jefferson.
“Do you happen to know, Major Jefferson?”
“Yes, I think he was,” Jefferson said thoughtfully. “He certainly
always wrote his letters on it. I fancy he used it a good deal.”
“But to sit down and type a thing like that!” Roger exclaimed. “It
seems so unnecessary somehow.”
“And what do you make of it then, Mr. Sheringham?” the inspector asked
with tolerant interest.
“I should say it showed a cold-blooded deliberation that proves Mr.
Stanworth to have been a very exceptional man,” Roger replied quickly.
The inspector smiled faintly. “I see you’re more used to considering
characters than actions,” he said. “Now I should have said that a more
ordinary explanation might be that Mr. Stanworth, having already
something else to type on the machine, slipped in a piece of paper and
did that at the same time.”
“Oh!” Roger remarked, somewhat nonplussed. “Yes, I never thought of
that.”
“It’s extraordinary what simple things one doesn’t think of at times,”
said the inspector wisely.
“But in that case,” Roger observed thoughtfully, “wouldn’t you expect
to find the other thing he had been typing? It can hardly have left
the room, can it?”
“That’s impossible to say,” said the inspector, with the air of one
closing the subject. “We don’t in the least know what Mr. Stanworth
did last night. He might have gone out and posted a letter or two
before he shot himself; and unless anyone happened to see him we could
never know whether he did or not. Now I take it, sir,” he added,
turning to Major Jefferson, “that Mr. Stanworth was a rather brusque,
decisive sort of man?”
Jefferson considered. “Decisive, certainly. But I don’t know whether
you would call him brusque exactly. Why?”
“The wording of this statement. It’s a bit—well, out of the ordinary,
isn’t it?”
“It’s quite typical,” said Jefferson shortly.
“It is? That’s what I’m getting at. Now have you any idea at all as to
the reasons he hints at?”
“Not in the least. I’m absolutely in the dark.”
“Ah! Well, perhaps Lady Stanworth will be able to throw some light on
that point later.” He strolled over to the door and began to examine
the lock.
Roger drew Alec aside. “You know, this is jolly interesting, this
business,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen the police at work before.
But the story books are all wrong. This man isn’t a fool by any means;
very far from it. He caught me out properly over that typing; and
twice at that. Perfectly obvious points when they’re mentioned, of
course; and I can’t think why they didn’t occur to me. That’s the
trouble with an _idée fixe_; you can’t see beyond it, or even round
it. Hullo; he’s trying the windows now.”
The inspector had crossed the room and was testing the fastenings of
the French windows. “You said all these were fastened when you got in
as well as the door, sir?” he remarked to Jefferson.
“Yes. But Mr. Sheringham can answer for that better than I. He opened
them.”
The inspector flashed a quick glance at Roger. “And they were all
securely fastened?”
“Absolutely,” said Roger with conviction. “I remember commenting on it
at the time.”
“Why did you open them, sir?”
“To let some air into the place. It smelt of death, if you know what I
mean.”
The inspector nodded as if the explanation satisfied him, and at the
same moment the front door bell rang.
“I expect that’s the doctor,” Jefferson remarked, moving towards the
door. “I’ll go and see.”
“That man’s badly on the jump,” Roger commented to himself. Aloud he
took the opportunity of remarking, “I dare say you’ll find some
private papers in that safe which may throw some light on the
business.” Roger badly wanted to know what was inside that safe. And
what wasn’t!
“Safe, sir?” said the inspector sharply. “What safe?”
Roger pointed out where the safe stood. “I understand that Mr.
Stanworth always carried it about with him,” he remarked casually.
“That seems to point to the fact of there being something helpful
inside, I should say.”
The inspector glanced round. “You never know with these suicides,
sir,” he said in confidential tones. “Sometimes the reason’s plain
enough; but often there doesn’t seem any reason for it at all. Either
they’ve kept it to themselves, or else they’ve gone suddenly dotty.
‘Temporary Insanity’ is more often true than you’d say. Melancholia
and such-like. The doctor may be able to help us there.”
“And here he comes, if I’m not very much mistaken,” Roger observed, as
the sound of approaching voices reached their ears.
The next moment Jefferson reappeared, showing a tall, thin man with a
small bag in his hand into the room.
“This is Doctor Matthewson,” he said.
The doctor and the inspector exchanged nods of acquaintance. “There’s
the body, Doctor,” remarked the latter, waving his hand towards the
chair. “Nothing very remarkable about the case; but of course you know
the coroner will want a detailed report.”
Dr. Matthewson nodded again and, setting his bag upon the table, bent
over the still figure in the chair and proceeded to make his
examination.
It did not take him many minutes.
“Been dead about eight hours,” he remarked briefly to the inspector,
as he straightened up again. “Let’s see. It’s just past ten now, isn’t
it? I should say he died at somewhere round two o’clock this morning.
The revolver must have been within a couple of inches of his forehead
when he fired. The bullet may be——” He felt carefully at the back of
the dead man’s head, and, whipping a lancet out of his pocket, made an
incision in the skull. “Here it is,” he added, extracting a small
object of shining metal from the skin. “Lodged just under the scalp.”
The inspector made a few brief notes in his pocketbook.
“Obviously self-inflicted, of course?” he observed.
The doctor raised the dangling hand and scrutinised the fingers that
held the revolver. “Obviously. The grip is properly adjusted and must
have been applied during life.” With an effort he loosened the clasp
of the dead fingers and handed the weapon across the table to the
inspector.
The latter twirled the chamber thoughtfully before opening it. “Not
fully loaded, but only one chamber fired,” he announced, and made
another note.
“Edges of wound blackened and traces of powder on surrounding skin,”
supplied the doctor.
The inspector extracted the empty shell and fitted the bullet
carefully into it, comparing the latter with the bullets of the
unfired cartridges.
“Why do you do that?” Roger asked with interest. “You know the bullet
must have been fired from that revolver.”
“It’s not my job to _know_ anything, sir,” returned the inspector, a
little huffily. “My job is to collect evidence.”
“Oh, I wasn’t meaning that you weren’t acting perfectly correctly,”
Roger said hastily. “But I’ve never seen anything of this sort before,
and I was wondering why you were taking such pains to collect evidence
when the cause of death is so obvious.”
“Well, sir, it isn’t my business to determine the cause of death,” the
inspector explained, unbending slightly before the other’s obvious
interest. “That’s the coroner’s job. All I have to do is to assemble
all the available evidence that I can find, however trivial it may
seem. Then I lay it before him, and he directs the jury accordingly.
That is the correct procedure.”
Roger retired into the background. “I said there weren’t any flies on
this bird,” he muttered to Alec, who had been a silent but none the
less interested spectator of the proceedings. “That’s the third time
he’s wiped the floor with me.”
“By the way, sir,” the inspector was saying to Doctor Matthewson, “I
take it that as Lady Stanworth sent for you, you have been called in
here before since they arrived?”
“That’s right, Inspector,” nodded the doctor. “Mr. Stanworth called me
in himself. He had a slight attack of hay fever.”
“Ah!” remarked the inspector with interest. “And I suppose you
examined him more or less.”
The doctor smiled faintly. He was remembering a somewhat strenuous
half hour he had spent with his patient in this very room. “As a
matter of fact, I examined him very thoroughly indeed. At his own
request, of course. He said that it was the first time he had seen a
doctor for fifteen years, and he’d like to be properly overhauled
while he was about it.”
“And how did you find him?” the inspector asked with interest.
“Anything much wrong with him? Heart, or anything like that?”
“See what he’s getting at?” Roger whispered to Alec. “Wants to find
out if he was suffering from any incurable disease that might have led
to suicide.”
“There was nothing wrong with him at all,” the doctor said with
finality. “He was as sound as the proverbial bell. In fact, for a man
of his years he was in a really remarkably healthy condition.”
“Oh!” The inspector was clearly a little disappointed. “Well, what
about this safe, then?”
“The safe?” Major Jefferson repeated in startled tones.
“Yes, sir; I think I should like to have a look at the contents, if
you please. They may throw some light on the affair.”
“But—but——” Major Jefferson hesitated, and it seemed to the interested
Roger that his usually impassive face showed traces of real alarm.
“But is that necessary?” he asked more calmly. “There may be private
papers in there of a highly confidential nature. Not that I know
anything about it,” he added somewhat hastily; “but Mr. Stanworth was
always exceedingly reticent about the contents.”
“All the more reason for us to have a look at them, sir,” returned the
inspector dryly. “As for anything confidential, that will of course go
no farther. That is, unless there is some excellent reason to the
contrary,” he added darkly.
Still Jefferson hesitated. “Of course, if you insist,” he said slowly,
“there is no more to be said. Still, it seems highly unnecessary to
me, I must say.”
“That, sir, is a matter for me to decide,” replied the inspector
shortly. “Now, can you tell me where the key would be and what the
combination is?”
“I believe that Mr. Stanworth usually kept his key-ring in his
right-hand waistcoat pocket,” Jefferson said tonelessly, as if the
subject had ceased to interest him. “As for the combination, I have
not the least idea what it was. I was not in Mr. Stanworth’s
confidence to that extent,” he added with the least possible shade of
bitterness in his voice.
The inspector was feeling in the pocket mentioned. “Well, they’re not
here now,” he said. With quick, deft movements he searched the other
pockets. “Ah! Here they are. In the one above. He must have slipped
them into the wrong pocket by mistake. But you say you don’t know the
combination? Now I wonder how we can find that.” He weighed the ring
of keys thoughtfully in his hand, deliberating.
Roger had strolled round the room with a careless air. If that safe
was going to be opened, he wanted a good look at the contents. Now he
paused by the fireplace.
“Hullo!” he remarked suddenly. “Somebody’s been burning something
here.” He bent and peered into the grate. “Paper! I shouldn’t be
surprised if those ashes aren’t all that’s left of your evidence,
Inspector.”
The inspector crossed the room hastily and joined him. “I daresay
you’re right, Mr. Sheringham,” he said disappointedly. “I ought to
have noticed that myself. Thank you. Still, we must get that safe
opened as soon as possible in any case.”
Roger rejoined Alec. “One to me,” he smiled. “Now, if he’d been one of
the story-book inspectors, he’d have bitten my head off for
discovering something that he’d missed. I like this man.”
The inspector put his notebook away. “Well, Doctor,” he said briskly,
“I don’t think there’s anything more that you or I can do here, is
there?”
“There’s nothing more that I can do,” Doctor Matthewson replied. “I’d
like to get away, too, if you can spare me. I’m rather busy to-day.
I’ll let you have that report at once.”
“Thanks. No, I shan’t want you any more, sir. I’ll let you know when
the inquest will be. Probably to-morrow.” He turned to Jefferson. “And
now, sir, if you’ll let me use the telephone, I’ll ring up the coroner
and notify him. And after that, if there’s another room convenient,
I’d like to interview these gentlemen and yourself, and the other
members of the household also. We may be able to get a little closer
to those reasons that Mr. Stanworth mentions.” He folded up the
document in question and tucked it carefully away in his pocket.
“Then you won’t be wanting this room any more?” asked Jefferson.
“Not for the present. But I’ll send in the constable I brought with me
to take charge in the meantime.”
“Oh!”
Roger looked curiously at the last speaker. Then he turned to Alec.
“Now am I getting a bee in my bonnet,” he said in a low voice, as they
followed the others out of the room, “or did Jefferson sound
disappointed to you just then?”
“Heaven only knows,” Alec whispered back. “I can’t make out any of
them, and you’re as bad as anybody else!”
“Wait till I get you alone. I’m going to talk my head off,” Roger
promised.
The inspector was giving his instructions to a large burly countryman,
disguised as a policeman, who had been waiting patiently in the hall
all this time. While Jefferson led the way to the morning room, the
latter ambled portentously into the library. It was the first time he
had been placed in charge, however temporary, of a case of this
importance, and he respected himself tremendously for it.
Arrived on the scene of the tragedy, he frowned heavily about him,
gazed severely at the body for a moment and then very solemnly smelled
at the ink-pot. He had once read a lurid story in which what had been
thought at first to be a case of suicide had turned out eventually to
be a murder carried out by means of a poisoned ink-pot; and he was
taking no chances.