The London Lawyer’s Story
“_I who am given to novel-reading, how often have I gone out with the
doctor when the stranger has summoned him to visit the unknown patient
in the lonely house. . . . This Strange Adventure may lead, in a later
chapter, to the revealing of a mysterious crime._”
_The Londoner_
“I think,” said Mr. Trigg, “that it was on the 15th, or 16th June, 1925,
that a lady called to ask almost exactly the same question that you have
done—only that she represented herself as inquiring on behalf of a
friend whose name she did not mention. Yes—I think I can describe her
pretty well. She was tall and handsome, with a very clear skin, dark
hair and blue eyes—an attractive girl. I remember that she had very fine
brows, rather straight, and not much colour in her face, and she was
dressed in something summery but very neat. I should think it would be
called an embroidered linen dress—I am not an expert on those things—and
a shady white hat of panama straw.”
“Your recollection seems very clear,” said Parker.
“It is; I have rather a good memory; besides, I saw her on other
occasions, as you shall hear.
“At this first visit she told me—much as you did—that she was only
temporarily in Town, and had been casually recommended to me. I told her
that I should not like to answer her question off-hand. The Act, you may
remember, had only recently passed its Final Reading, and I was by no
means up in it. Besides, from just skimming through it, I had convinced
myself that various important questions were bound to crop up.
“I told the lady—Miss Grant was the name she gave, by the way—that I
should like to take counsel’s opinion before giving her any advice, and
asked if she could call again the following day. She said she could,
rose and thanked me, offering me her hand. In taking it, I happened to
notice rather an odd scar, running across the backs of all the
fingers—rather as though a chisel or something had slipped at some time.
I noticed it quite idly, of course, but it was lucky for me I did.
“Miss Grant duly turned up the next day. I had looked up a very learned
friend in the interval, and gave her the same opinion that I gave you
just now. She looked rather concerned about it—in fact, almost more
annoyed than concerned.
“‘It seems rather unfair,’ she said, ‘that people’s family money should
go away to the Crown like that. After all, a great-niece is quite a near
relation, really.’
“I replied that, provided the great-niece could call witnesses to prove
that the deceased had always had the intention of leaving her the money,
the Crown would, in all probability, allot the estate, or a suitable
proportion of it, in accordance with the wishes of the deceased. It
would, however, lie entirely within the discretion of the court to do so
or not, and, of course, if there had been any quarrel or dispute about
the matter at any time, the judge might take an unfavourable view of the
great-niece’s application.’
“‘In any case,’ I added, ‘I don’t _know_ that the great-niece is
excluded under the Act—I only understand that she _may_ be. In any case,
there are still six months before the Act comes into force, and many
things may happen before then.’
“‘You mean that Auntie may die,’ she said, ‘but she’s not really
dangerously ill—only mental, as Nurse calls it.’
“Anyhow, she went away then after paying my fee, and I noticed that the
‘friend’s great-aunt’ had suddenly become ‘Auntie,’ and decided that my
client felt a certain personal interest in the matter.”
“I fancy she had,” said Parker. “When did you see her again?”
“Oddly enough, I ran across her in the following December. I was having
a quick and early dinner in Soho, before going on to a show. The little
place I usually patronise was very full, and I had to sit at a table
where a woman was already seated. As I muttered the usual formula about
‘Was anybody sitting there,’ she looked up, and I promptly recognised my
client.
“‘Why, how do you do, Miss Grant?’ I said.
“‘I beg your pardon,’ she replied, rather stiffly. ‘I think you are
mistaken.’
“‘I beg _your_ pardon,’ said I, stiffer still, ‘My name is Trigg, and
you came to consult me in Bedford Row last June. But if I am intruding,
I apologise and withdraw.’
“She smiled then, and said, ‘I’m sorry, I did not recognise you for the
moment.’
“I obtained permission to sit at her table.
“By way of starting a conversation, I asked whether she had taken any
further advice in the matter of the inheritance. She said no, she had
been quite content with what I had told her. Still to make conversation,
I inquired whether the great-aunt had made a will after all. She
replied, rather briefly, that it had not been necessary; the old lady
had died. I noticed that she was dressed in black, and was confirmed in
my opinion that she herself was the great-niece concerned.
“We talked for some time, Inspector, and I will not conceal from you
that I found Miss Grant a very interesting personality. She had an
almost masculine understanding. I may say I am not the sort of a man who
prefers women to be brainless. No, I am rather modern in that respect.
If ever I was to take a wife, Inspector, I should wish her to be an
intelligent companion.”
Parker said Mr. Trigg’s attitude did him great credit. He also made the
mental observation that Mr. Trigg would probably not object to marrying
a young woman who had inherited money and was unencumbered with
relations.
“It is rare,” went on Mr. Trigg, “to find a woman with a legal mind.
Miss Grant was unusual in that respect. She took a great interest in
some case or other that was prominent in the newspapers at the time—I
forget now what it was—and asked me some remarkably sensible and
intelligent questions. I must say that I quite enjoyed our conversation.
Before dinner was over, we had got on to more personal topics, in the
course of which I happened to mention that I lived in Golder’s Green.”
“Did she give you her own address?”
“She said she was staying at the Peveril Hotel in Bloomsbury, and that
she was looking for a house in Town. I said that I might possibly hear
of something out Hampstead way, and offered my professional services in
case she should require them. After dinner I accompanied her back to her
hotel, and bade her good-bye in the lounge.”
“She was really staying there, then?”
“Apparently. However, about a fortnight later, I happened to hear of a
house in Golder’s Green that had fallen vacant suddenly. It belonged, as
a matter of fact, to a client of mine. In pursuance of my promise, I
wrote to Miss Grant at the Peveril. Receiving no reply, I made inquiries
there, and found that she had left the hotel the day after our meeting,
leaving no address. In the hotel register, she had merely given her
address as Manchester. I was somewhat disappointed, but thought no more
about the matter.
“About a month later—on January 26th, to be exact, I was sitting at home
reading a book, preparatory to retiring to bed. I should say that I
occupy a flat, or rather maisonette, in a small house which has been
divided to make two establishments. The people on the ground floor were
away at that time, so that I was quite alone in the house. My
housekeeper only comes in by the day. The telephone rang—I noticed the
time. It was a quarter to eleven. I answered it, and a woman’s voice
spoke, begging me to come instantly to a certain house on Hampstead
Heath, to make a will for someone who was at the point of death.”
“Did you recognise the voice?”
“No. It sounded like a servant’s voice. At any rate, it had a strong
cockney accent. I asked whether to-morrow would not be time enough, but
the voice urged me to hurry or it might be too late. Rather annoyed, I
put my things on and went out. It was a most unpleasant night, cold and
foggy. I was lucky enough to find a taxi on the nearest rank. We drove
to the address, which we had great difficulty in finding, as everything
was pitch-black. It turned out to be a small house in a very isolated
position on the Heath—in fact, there was no proper approach to it. I
left the taxi on the road, about a couple of hundred yards off, and
asked the man to wait for me, as I was very doubtful of ever finding
another taxi in that spot at that time of night. He grumbled a good
deal, but consented to wait if I promised not to be very long.
“I made my way to the house. At first I thought it was quite dark, but
presently I saw a faint glimmer in a ground-floor room. I rang the bell.
No answer, though I could hear it trilling loudly. I rang again and
knocked. Still no answer. It was bitterly cold. I struck a match to be
sure I had come to the right house, and then I noticed that the front
door was ajar.
“I thought that perhaps the servant who had called me was so much
occupied with her sick mistress as to be unable to leave her to come to
the door. Thinking that in that case I might be of assistance to her, I
pushed the door open and went in. The hall was perfectly dark, and I
bumped against an umbrella-stand in entering. I thought I heard a faint
voice calling or moaning, and when my eyes had become accustomed to the
darkness, I stumbled forward, and saw a dim light coming from a door on
the left.”
“Was that the room which you had seen to be illumined from outside?”
“I think so. I called out, ‘May I come in?’ and a very low, weak voice
replied, ‘Yes, please.’ I pushed the door open and entered a room
furnished as a sitting-room. In one corner there was a couch, on which
some bed-clothes appeared to have been hurriedly thrown to enable it to
be used as a bed. On the couch lay a woman, all alone.
“I could only dimly make her out. There was no light in the room except
a small oil-lamp, with a green shade so tilted as to keep the light from
the sick woman’s eyes. There was a fire in the grate, but it had burnt
low. I could see, however, that the woman’s head and face were swathed
in white bandages. I put out my hand and felt for the electric switch,
but she called out:
“‘No light, please—it hurts me.’”
“How did she see you put your hand to the switch?”
“Well,” said Mr. Trigg, “that was an odd thing. She didn’t speak, as a
matter of fact, till I had actually clicked the switch down. But nothing
happened. The light didn’t come on.”
“Really?”
“No. I supposed that the bulb had been taken away or had gone phut.
However, I said nothing, and came up to the bed. She said in a sort of
half-whisper, ‘Is that the lawyer?’
“I said, ‘Yes,’ and asked what I could do for her.
“She said, ‘I have had a terrible accident. I can’t live. I want to make
my will quickly.’ I asked whether there was nobody with her. ‘Yes, yes,’
she said in a hurried way, ‘my servant will be back in a moment. She has
gone to look for a doctor.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘couldn’t she have rung up?
You are not fit to be left alone.’ ‘We couldn’t get through to one,’ she
replied, ‘it’s all right. She will be here soon. Don’t waste time. I
must make my will.’ She spoke in a dreadful, gasping way, and I felt
that the best thing would be to do what she wanted, for fear of
agitating her. I drew a chair to the table where the lamp was, got out
my fountain pen and a printed will-form with which I had provided
myself, and expressed myself ready to receive her instructions.
“Before beginning, she asked me to give her a little brandy and water
from a decanter which stood on the table. I did so, and she took a small
sip, which seemed to revive her. I placed the glass near her hand, and
at her suggestion mixed another glass for myself. I was very glad of it,
for, as I said, it was a beast of a night, and the room was cold. I
looked round for some extra coals to put on the fire, but could see
none.”
“That,” said Parker, “is extremely interesting and suggestive.”
“I thought it queer at the time. But the whole thing was queer. Anyway,
I then said I was ready to begin. She said, ‘You may think I am a little
mad, because my head has been so hurt. But I am quite sane. But he
shan’t have a penny of the money.’ I asked her if someone had attacked
her. She replied, ‘My husband. He thinks he has killed me. But I am
going to live long enough to will the money away.’ She then said that
her name was Mrs. Marion Mead, and proceeded to make a will, leaving her
estate, which amounted to about £10,000, among various legatees,
including a daughter and three or four sisters. It was rather a
complicated will, as it included various devices for tying up the
daughter’s money in a trust, so as to prevent her from ever handing over
any of it to the father.”
“Did you make a note of the names and addresses of the people involved?”
“I did, but, as you will see later on, I could make no use of them. The
testatrix was certainly clear-headed enough about the provisions of the
will, though she seemed terribly weak, and her voice never rose above a
whisper after that one time when she had called to me not to turn on the
light.
“At length I finished my notes of the will, and started to draft it out
on to the proper form. There were no signs of the servant’s return, and
I began to be really anxious. Also the extreme cold—or something
else—added to the fact that it was now long past my bed-time, was making
me appallingly sleepy. I poured out another stiff little dose of the
brandy to warm me up, and went on writing out the will.
“When I had finished I said:
“‘How about signing this? We need another witness to make it legal.’
“She said, ‘My servant must be here in a minute or two. I can’t think
what has happened to her.’
“‘I expect she has missed her way in the fog,’ I said. ‘However, I will
wait a little longer. I can’t go and leave you like this.’
“She thanked me feebly, and we sat for some time in silence. As time
went on, I began to feel the situation to be increasingly uncanny. The
sick woman breathed heavily, and moaned from time to time. The desire
for sleep overpowered me more and more. I could not understand it.
“Presently it occurred to me, stupefied though I felt, that the most
sensible thing would be to get the taxi-man—if he was still there—to
come in and witness the will with me, and then to go myself to find a
doctor. I sat, sleepily revolving this in my mind, and trying to summon
energy to speak. I felt as though a great weight of inertia was pressing
down upon me. Exertion of any kind seemed almost beyond my powers.
“Suddenly something happened which brought me back to myself. Mrs. Mead
turned a little over upon the couch and peered at me intently, as it
seemed, in the lamp-light. To support herself, she put both her hands on
the edge of the table. I noticed, with a vague sense of something
unexpected, that the left hand bore no wedding-ring. And then I noticed
something else.
“Across the back of the fingers of the right hand went a curious scar—as
though a chisel or some such thing had slipped and cut them.”
Parker sat upright in his chair.
“Yes,” said Mr. Trigg, “that interests you. It startled me. Or rather,
startled isn’t quite the word. In my oppressed state, it affected me
like some kind of nightmare. I struggled upright in my chair, and the
woman sank back upon her pillows.
“At that moment there came a violent ring at the bell.”
“The servant?”
“No—thank Heaven it was my taxi-driver, who had become tired of waiting.
I thought—I don’t quite know what I thought—but I was alarmed. I gave
some kind of shout or groan, and the man came straight in. Happily, I
had left the door open as I had found it.
“I pulled myself together sufficiently to ask him to witness the will. I
must have looked queer and spoken in a strange way, for I remember how
he looked from me to the brandy-bottle. However, he signed the paper
after Mrs. Mead, who wrote her name in a weak, straggling hand as she
lay on her back.
“‘Wot next, guv’nor?’ asked the man, when this was done.
“I was feeling dreadfully ill by now. I could only say, ‘Take me home.’
“He looked at Mrs. Mead and then at me, and said, ‘Ain’t there nobody to
see to the lady, sir?’
“I said, ‘Fetch a doctor. But take me home first.’
“I stumbled out of the house on his arm. I heard him muttering something
about its being a rum start. I don’t remember the drive home. When I
came back to life, I was in my own bed, and one of the local doctors was
standing over me.
“I’m afraid this story is getting very long and tedious. To cut matters
short, it seems the taxi-driver, who was a very decent, intelligent
fellow, had found me completely insensible at the end of the drive. He
didn’t know who I was, but he hunted in my pocket and found my visiting
card and my latch-key. He took me home, got me upstairs and, deciding
that if I was drunk, I was a worse drunk that he had ever encountered in
his experience, humanely went round and fetched a doctor.
“The doctor’s opinion was that I had been heavily drugged with veronal
or something of that kind. Fortunately, if the idea was to murder me,
the dose had been very much under-estimated. We went into the matter
thoroughly, and the upshot was that I must have taken about 30 grains of
the stuff. It appears that it is a difficult drug to trace by analysis,
but that was the conclusion the doctor came to, looking at the matter
all round. Undoubtedly the brandy had been doped.
“Of course, we went round to look at the house next day. It was all shut
up, and the local milkman informed us that the occupiers had been away
for a week and were not expected home for another ten days. We got into
communication with them, but they appeared to be perfectly genuine,
ordinary people, and they declared they knew nothing whatever about it.
They were accustomed to go away every so often, just shutting the house
and not bothering about a caretaker or anything. The man came along at
once, naturally, to investigate matters, but couldn’t find that anything
had been stolen or disturbed, except that a pair of sheets and some
pillows showed signs of use, and a scuttle of coal had been used in the
sitting-room. The coal-cellar, which also contained the electric meter,
had been left locked and the meter turned off before the family
left—they apparently had a few grains of sense—which accounts for the
chill darkness of the house when I entered it. The visitor had
apparently slipped back the catch of the pantry window—one of the usual
gimcrack affairs—with a knife or something, and had brought her own
lamp, siphon and brandy. Daring, but not really difficult.
“No Mrs. Mead or Miss Grant was to be heard of anywhere, as I needn’t
tell you. The tenants of the house were not keen to start expensive
inquiries—after all, they’d lost nothing but a shilling’s worth of
coals—and on consideration, and seeing that I hadn’t actually been
murdered or anything, I thought it best to let the matter slide. It was
a most unpleasant adventure.”
“I’m sure it was. Did you ever hear from Miss Grant again?”
“Why, yes. She rang me up twice—once, after three months, and again only
a fortnight ago, asking for an appointment. You may think me cowardly,
Mr. Parker, but each time I put her off. I didn’t quite know what might
happen. As a matter of fact, the opinion I formed in my own mind was
that I had been entrapped into that house with the idea of making me
spend the night there and afterwards blackmailing me. That was the only
explanation I could think of which would account for the
sleeping-draught. I thought discretion was the better part of valour,
and gave my clerks and my housekeeper instructions that if Miss Grant
should call at any time I was out and not expected back.”
“H’m. Do you suppose she knew you had recognised the scar on her hand?”
“I’m sure she didn’t. Otherwise she would hardly have made advances to
me in her own name again.”
“No. I think you are right. Well, Mr. Trigg, I am much obliged to you
for this information, which may turn out to be very valuable. And if
Miss Grant should ring you up again—where did she call from, by the
way?”
“From call-boxes, each time. I know that, because the operator always
tells one when the call is from a public box. I didn’t have the calls
traced.”
“No, of course not. Well, if she does it again, will you please make an
appointment with her, and then let me know about it at once? A call to
Scotland Yard will always find me.”
Mr. Trigg promised that he would do this, and Parker took his leave.
“And now we know,” thought Parker as he returned home, “that somebody—an
odd unscrupulous somebody—was making inquiries about great-nieces in
1925. A word to Miss Climpson, I fancy, is indicated—just to find out
whether Mary Whittaker has a scar on her right hand, or whether I’ve got
to hunt up any more solicitors.”
The hot streets seemed less oppressively oven-like than before. In fact,
Parker was so cheered by his interview that he actually bestowed a
cigarette-card upon the next urchin who accosted him.
Part III
THE MEDICO-LEGAL PROBLEM
“_There’s not a crime
But takes its proper change out still in crime
If once rung on the counter of this world._”
E. B. Browning, _Aurora Leigh_
CHAPTER XIX
Gone Away
“_There is nothing good or evil save in the will._”
Epictetus
“You will not, I imagine, deny,” observed Lord Peter, “that very odd
things seem to happen to the people who are in a position to give
information about the last days of Agatha Dawson. Bertha Gotobed dies
suddenly, under suspicious circumstances; her sister thinks she sees
Miss Whittaker lying in wait for her at Liverpool docks; Mr. Trigg is
inveigled into a house of mystery and is semi-poisoned. I wonder what
would have happened to Mr. Probyn, if he had been careless enough to
remain in England.”
“I deny nothing,” replied Parker. “I will only point out to you that
during the month in which these disasters occurred to the Gotobed
family, the object of your suspicions was in Kent with Miss Vera
Findlater, who never left her side.”
“As against that undoubted snag,” rejoined Wimsey, “I bring forward a
letter from Miss Climpson, in which—amid a lot of rigmarole with which I
will not trouble you—she informs me that upon Miss Whittaker’s right
hand there is a scar, precisely similar to the one which Mr. Trigg
describes.”
“Is there? That does seem to connect Miss Whittaker pretty definitely
with the Trigg business. But is it your theory that she is trying to
polish off all the people who know anything about Miss Dawson? Rather a
big job, don’t you think, for a single-handed female? And if so, why is
Dr. Carr spared? and Nurse Philliter? and Nurse Forbes? And the other
doctor chappie? And the rest of the population of Leahampton, if it
comes to that?”
“That’s an interesting point which had already occurred to me. I think I
know why. Up to the present, the Dawson case has presented two different
problems, one legal and one medical—the motive and the means, if you
like that better. As far as opportunity goes, only two people figure as
possibles—Miss Whittaker and Nurse Forbes. The Forbes woman had nothing
to gain by killin’ a good patient, so for the moment we can wash her
out.
“Well now, as to the medical problem—the means. I must say that up to
now that appears completely insoluble. I am baffled, Watson (said he,
his hawk-like eyes gleaming angrily from under the half-closed lids).
Even I am baffled. But not for long! (he cried, with a magnificent burst
of self-confidence). My Honour (capital H) is concerned to track this
Human Fiend (capitals) to its hidden source, and nail the whited
sepulchre to the mast even though it crush me in the attempt! Loud
applause. His chin sank broodingly upon his dressing-gown, and he
breathed a few guttural notes into the bass saxophone which was the
cherished companion of his solitary hours in the bathroom.”
Parker ostentatiously took up the book which he had laid aside on
Wimsey’s entrance.
“Tell me when you’ve finished,” he said, caustically.
“I’ve hardly begun. The means, I repeat, seems insoluble—and so the
criminal evidently thinks. There has been no exaggerated mortality among
the doctors and nurses. On that side of the business the lady feels
herself safe. No. The motive is the weak point—hence the hurry to stop
the mouths of the people who knew about the legal part of the problem.”
“Yes, I see. Mrs. Cropper has started back to Canada, by the way. She
doesn’t seem to have been molested at all.”
“No—and that’s why I still think there was somebody on the watch in
Liverpool. Mrs. Cropper was only worth silencing so long as she had told
nobody her story. That is why I was careful to meet her and accompany
her ostentatiously to Town.”
“Oh, rot, Peter! Even if Miss Whittaker had been there—which we know she
couldn’t have been—how was she to know that you were going to ask about
the Dawson business? She doesn’t know you from Adam.”
“She might have found out who Murbles was. The advertisement which
started the whole business was in his name, you know.”
“In that case, why hasn’t she attacked Murbles or you?”
“Murbles is a wise old bird. In vain are nets spread in his sight. He is
seeing no female clients, answering no invitations, and never goes out
without an escort.”
“I didn’t know he took it so seriously.”
“Oh, yes. Murbles is old enough to have learnt the value of his own
skin. As for me—have you noticed the remarkable similarity in some ways
between Mr. Trigg’s adventure and my own little adventurelet, as you
might say, in South Audley Street?”
“What, with Mrs. Forrest?”
“Yes. The secret appointment. The drink. The endeavour to get one to
stay the night at all costs. I’m positive there was something in that
sugar, Charles, that no sugar should contain—see Public Health
(Adulteration of Food) Acts, various.”
“You think Mrs. Forrest is an accomplice?”
“I do. I don’t know what she has to gain by it—probably money. But I
feel sure there is some connection. Partly because of Bertha Gotobed’s
£5 note; partly because Mrs. Forrest’s story was a palpable fake—I’m
certain the woman’s never had a lover, let alone a husband—you can’t
mistake real inexperience; and chiefly because of the similarity of
method. Criminals always tend to repeat their effects. Look at George
Joseph Smith and his brides. Look at Neill Cream. Look at Armstrong and
his tea-parties.”
“Well, if there’s an accomplice, all the better. Accomplices generally
end up by giving the show away.”
“True. And we are in a good position because up till now I don’t think
they know that we suspect any connection between them.”
“But I still think, you know, we ought to get some evidence that actual
crimes have been committed. Call me finicking, if you like. If you
_could_ suggest a means of doing away with these people so as to leave
no trace, I should feel happier about it.”
“The means, eh?—Well, we do know something about it.”
“As what?”
“Well—take the two victims—”
“Alleged.”
“All right, old particular. The two alleged victims and the two
(alleged) intended victims. Miss Dawson was ill and helpless; Bertha
Gotobed possibly stupefied by a heavy meal and an unaccustomed quantity
of wine; Trigg was given a sufficient dose of veronal to send him to
sleep, and I was offered something of probably the same kind—I wish I
could have kept the remains of that coffee. So we deduce from that,
what?”
“I suppose that it was a means of death which could only be used on
somebody more or less helpless or unconscious.”
“Exactly. As for instance, a hypodermic injection—only nothing appears
to have been injected. Or a delicate operation of some kind—if we could
only think of one to fit the case. Or the inhalation of something—such
as chloroform—only we could find no traces of suffocation.”
“Yes. That doesn’t get us very far, though.”
“It’s something. Then again, it may very well be something that a
trained nurse would have learnt or heard about. Miss Whittaker was
trained, you know—which, by the way, was what made it so easy for her to
bandage up her own head and provide a pitiful and unrecognisable
spectacle for the stupid Mr. Trigg.”
“It wouldn’t have to be anything very out of the way—nothing, I mean,
that only a trained surgeon could do, or that required very specialised
knowledge.”
“Oh, no. Probably something picked up in conversation with a doctor or
the other nurses. I say, how about getting hold of Dr. Carr again? Or,
no—if he’d got any ideas on the subject he’d have trotted ’em out before
now. I know! I’ll ask Lubbock, the analyst. He’ll do. I’ll get in touch
with him to-morrow.”
“And meanwhile,” said Parker, “I suppose we just sit round and wait for
somebody else to be murdered.”
“It’s beastly, isn’t it? I still feel poor Bertha Gotobed’s blood on my
head, so to speak. I say!”
“Yes?”
“We’ve practically got clear proof on the Trigg business. Couldn’t you
put the lady in quod on a charge of burglary while we think out the rest
of the dope? It’s often done. It _was_ a burglary, you know. She broke
into a house after dark and appropriated a scuttleful of coal to her own
use. Trigg could identify her—he seems to have paid the lady particular
attention on more than one occasion—and we could rake up his taxi-man
for corroborative detail.”
Parker pulled at his pipe for a few minutes.
“There’s something in that,” he said finally. “I think perhaps it’s
worth while putting it before the authorities. But we mustn’t be in too
much of a hurry, you know. I wish we were further ahead with our other
proofs. There’s such a thing as Habeas Corpus—you can’t hold on to
people indefinitely just on a charge of stealing coal—”
“There’s the breaking and entering, don’t forget that. It’s burglary,
after all. You can get penal servitude for life for burglary.”
“But it all depends on the view the law takes of the coal. It might
decide that there was no original intention of stealing coal, and treat
the thing as a mere misdemeanour or civil trespass. Anyhow, we don’t
really _want_ a conviction for stealing coal. But I’ll see what they
think about it at our place, and meanwhile I’ll get hold of Trigg again
and try and find the taxi-driver. And Trigg’s doctor. We might get it as
an attempt to murder Trigg, or at least to inflict grievous bodily harm.
But I should like some more evidence about—”
“Cuckoo! So should I. But I can’t manufacture evidence out of nothing.
Dash it all, be reasonable. I’ve built you up a case out of nothing.
Isn’t that handsome enough? Base ingratitude—that’s what’s the matter
with you.”
Parker’s inquiries took some time, and June lingered into its longest
days.
Chamberlin and Levine flew the Atlantic, and Segrave bade farewell to
Brooklands. The _Daily Yell_ wrote anti-Red leaders and discovered a
plot, somebody laid claim to a marquisate, and a Czecho-Slovakian
pretended to swim the Channel. Hammond out-graced Grace, there was an
outburst of murder at Moscow, Foxlaw won the Gold Cup and the earth
opened at Oxhey and swallowed up somebody’s front garden. Oxford decided
that women were dangerous, and the electric hare consented to run at the
White City. England’s supremacy was challenged at Wimbledon, and the
House of Lords made the gesture of stooping to conquer.
Meanwhile, Lord Peter’s projected _magnum opus_ on a-hundred-and-one
ways of causing sudden death had advanced by the accumulation of a mass
of notes which flowed all over the library at the flat, and threatened
to engulf Bunter, whose task it was to file and cross-reference and
generally to produce order from chaos. Oriental scholars and explorers
were button-holed in clubs and strenuously pumped on the subject of
abstruse native poisons; horrid experiments performed in German
laboratories were communicated in unreadable documents; and the life of
Sir James Lubbock, who had the misfortune to be a particular friend of
Lord Peter’s, was made a burden to him with daily inquiries as to the
post-mortem detection of such varying substances as chloroform, curate,
hydrocyanic acid gas and diethylsulphonmethylethylmetane.
“But surely there _must_ be something which kills without leaving a
trace,” pleaded Lord Peter, when at length informed that the persecution
must cease. “A thing in such universal demand—surely it is not beyond
the wit of scientists to invent it. It must exist. Why isn’t it properly
advertised? There ought to be a company to exploit it. It’s simply
ridiculous. Why, it’s a thing one might be wantin’ one’s self any day.”
“You don’t understand,” said Sir James Lubbock. “Plenty of poisons leave
no particular post-mortem appearances. And plenty of them—especially the
vegetable ones—are difficult to find by analysis, unless you know what
you are looking for. For instance, if you’re testing for arsenic, that
test won’t tell you whether strychnine is present or not. And if you’re
testing for strychnine, you won’t find morphia. You’ve got to try one
test after another till you hit the right one. And of course there are
certain poisons for which no recognised tests exist.”
“I know all that,” said Wimsey. “I’ve tested things myself. But these
poisons with no recognised test—how do you set about proving that
they’re there?”
“Well, of course, you’d take the symptoms into account, and so on. You
would look at the history of the case.”
“Yes—but I want a poison that doesn’t produce any symptoms. Except
death, of course—if you call that a symptom. Isn’t there a poison with
no symptoms and no test? Something that just makes you go off, Pouf!
like that?”
“Certainly not,” said the analyst, rather annoyed—for your medical
analyst lives by symptoms and tests, and nobody likes suggestions that
undermine the very foundations of his profession—“not even old age or
mental decay. There are always symptoms.”
Fortunately, before symptoms of mental decay could become too pronounced
in Lord Peter, Parker sounded the call to action.
“I’m going down to Leahampton with a warrant,” he said. “I may not use
it, but the chief thinks it might be worth while to make an inquiry.
What with the Battersea mystery and the Daniels business, and Bertha
Gotobed, there seems to be a feeling that there have been too many
unexplained tragedies this year, and the Press have begun yelping again,
blast them! There’s an article in _John Citizen_ this week, with a
poster: ‘Ninety-six Murderers at Large,’ and the _Evening Views_ is
starting its reports with ‘Six weeks have now passed, and the police are
no nearer the solution—’ you know the kind of thing. We’ll simply have
to get some sort of move on. Do you want to come?”
“Certainly—a breath of country air would do me good, I fancy. Blow away
the cobwebs, don’t you know. It might even inspire me to invent a good
way of murderin’ people. ‘O Inspiration, solitary child, warbling thy
native wood-notes wild—’ Did somebody write that, or did I invent it? It
sounds reminiscent, somehow.”
Parker, who was out of temper, replied rather shortly, and intimated
that the police car would be starting for Leahampton in an hour’s time.
“I will be there,” said Wimsey, “though, mind you, I hate being driven
by another fellow. It feels so unsafe. Never mind. I will be bloody,
bold and resolute, as Queen Victoria said to the Archbishop of
Canterbury.”
They reached Leahampton without any incident to justify Lord Peter’s
fears. Parker had brought another officer with him, and on the way they
picked up the Chief Constable of the County, who appeared very dubiously
disposed towards their errand. Lord Peter, observing their array of five
strong men, going out to seize upon one young woman, was reminded of the
Marquise de Brinvilliers—(“What! all that water for a little person like
me?”)—but this led him back to the subject of poison, and he remained
steeped in thought and gloom till the car drew up before the house in
Wellington Avenue.
Parker got out, and went up the path with the Chief Constable. The door
was opened to them by a frightened-looking maid, who gave a little
shriek at sight of them.
“Oh, sir! have you come to say something’s happened to Miss Whittaker?”
“Isn’t Miss Whittaker at home, then?”
“No, sir. She went out in the car with Miss Vera Findlater on
Monday—that’s four days back, sir, and she hasn’t come home, nor Miss
Findlater neither, and I’m frightened something’s happened to them. When
I see you, sir, I thought you was the police come to say there had been
an accident. I didn’t know what to do, sir.”
“Skipped, by God!” was Parker’s instant thought, but he controlled his
annoyance, and asked:
“Do you know where they were going?”
“Crow’s Beach, Miss Whittaker said, sir.”
“That’s a good fifty miles,” said the Chief Constable. “Probably they’ve
just decided to stay there a day or two.”
“More likely gone in the opposite direction,” thought Parker.
“They didn’t take no things for the night, sir. They went off about ten
in the morning. They said they was going to have lunch there and come
home in the evening. And Miss Whittaker hasn’t written nor nothing. And
her always so particular. Cook and me, we didn’t know what—”
“Oh, well, I expect it’s all right,” said the Chief Constable. “It’s a
pity, as we particularly wanted to see Miss Whittaker. When you hear
from her, you might say Sir Charles Pillington called with a friend.”
“Yes, sir. But please, sir, what ought we to do, sir?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll have inquiries made. I’m the Chief
Constable, you know, and I can soon find out whether there’s been an
accident or anything. But if there had been, depend upon it we should
have heard about it. Come, my girl, pull yourself together, there’s
nothing to cry about. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”
But Sir Charles looked disturbed. Coming on top of Parker’s arrival in
the district, the thing had an unpleasant look about it.
Lord Peter received the news cheerfully.
“Good,” said he, “joggle ’em up. Keep ’em moving. That’s the spirit.
Always like it when somethin’ happens. My worst suspicions are goin’ to
be justified. That always makes one feel so important and virtuous,
don’t you think? Wonder why she took the girl with her, though. By the
way, we’d better look up the Findlaters. They may have heard something.”
This obvious suggestion was acted upon at once. But at the Findlaters’
house they drew blank. The family were at the seaside, with the
exception of Miss Vera, who was staying in Wellington Avenue with Miss
Whittaker. No anxiety was expressed by the parlour-maid and none,
apparently, felt. The investigators took care not to arouse any alarm,
and, leaving a trivial and polite message from Sir Charles, withdrew for
a consultation.
“There’s nothing for it, so far as I can see,” said Parker, “but an
all-stations call to look out for the car and the ladies. And we must
put inquiries through to all the ports, of course. With four days’
start, they may be anywhere by now. I wish to Heaven I’d risked a bit
and started earlier, approval or no approval. What’s this Findlater girl
like? I’d better go back to the house and get photographs of her and the
Whittaker woman. And, Wimsey, I wish you’d look in on Miss Climpson and
see if she has any information.”
“And you might tell ’em at the Yard to keep an eye on Mrs. Forrest’s
place,” said Wimsey. “When anything sensational happens to a criminal
it’s a good tip to watch the accomplice.”
“I feel sure you are both quite mistaken about this,” urged Sir Charles
Pillington. “Criminal—accomplice—bless me! I have had considerable
experience in the course of a long life—longer than either of yours—and
I really feel convinced that Miss Whittaker, whom I know quite well, is
as good and nice a girl as you could wish to find. But there has
undoubtedly been an accident of some kind, and it is our duty to make
the fullest investigation. I will get on to Crow’s Beach police
immediately, as soon as I know the description of the car.”
“It’s an Austin Seven and the number is XX9917,” said Wimsey, much to
the Chief Constable’s surprise. “But I doubt very much whether you’ll
find it at Crow’s Beach, or anywhere near it.”
“Well, we’d better get a move on,” snapped Parker. “We’d better
separate. How about a spot of lunch in an hour’s time at the George?”
Wimsey was unlucky. Miss Climpson was not to be found. She had had her
lunch early and gone out, saying she felt that a long country walk would
do her good. Mrs. Budge was rather afraid she had had some bad news—she
had seemed so upset and worried since yesterday evening.
“But indeed, sir,” she added, “if you was quick, you might find her up
at the church. She often drops in there to say her prayers like. Not a
respectful way to approach a place of worship to my mind, do you think
so yourself, sir? Popping in and out on a week-day, the same as if it
was a friend’s house. And coming home from Communion as cheerful as
anything and ready to laugh and make jokes. I don’t see as how we was
meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way—so disrespectful
and nothing uplifting to the ’art about it. But there! we all ’as our
failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if
she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one.”
Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate name
for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At the
moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious
discussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.
The doors of S. Onesimus were hospitably open, and the red Sanctuary
lamp made a little spot of welcoming brightness in the rather dark
building. Coming in from the June sunshine, Wimsey blinked a little
before he could distinguish anything else. Presently he was able to make
out a dark, bowed figure kneeling before the lamp. For a moment he hoped
it was Miss Climpson, but presently saw to his disappointment that it
was merely a Sister in a black habit, presumably taking her turn to
watch before the Host. The only other occupant of the church was a
priest in a cassock, who was busy with the ornaments on the High Altar.
It was the Feast of S. John, Wimsey remembered suddenly. He walked up
the aisle, hoping to find his quarry hidden in some obscure corner. His
shoes squeaked. This annoyed him. It was a thing which Bunter never
permitted. He was seized with a fancy that the squeak was produced by
diabolic possession—a protest against a religious atmosphere on the part
of his own particular besetting devil. Pleased with this thought, he
moved forward more confidently.
The priest’s attention was attracted by the squeak. He turned and came
down towards the intruder. No doubt, thought Wimsey, to offer his
professional services to exorcise the evil spirit.
“Were you looking for anybody?” inquired the priest, courteously.
“Well, I was looking for a lady,” began Wimsey. Then it struck him that
this sounded a little odd under the circumstances, and he hastened to
explain more fully, in the stifled tones considered appropriate to
consecrated surroundings.
“Oh, yes,” said the priest, quite unperturbed, “Miss Climpson was here a
little time ago, but I fancy she has gone. Not that I usually keep tabs
on my flock,” he added, with a laugh, “but she spoke to me before she
went. Was it urgent? What a pity you should have missed her. Can I give
any kind of message or help you in any way?”
“No, thanks,” said Wimsey. “Sorry to bother you. Unseemly to come and
try to haul people out of church, but—yes, it was rather important. I’ll
leave a message at the house. Thanks frightfully.”
He turned away; then stopped and came back.
“I say,” he said, “you give advice on moral problems and all that sort
of thing, don’t you?”
“Well, we’re supposed to try,” said the priest. “Is anything bothering
you in particular?”
“Ye-es,” said Wimsey, “nothing religious, I don’t mean—nothing about
infallibility or the Virgin Mary or anything of that sort. Just
something I’m not comfortable about.”
The priest—who was, in fact, the vicar, Mr. Tredgold—indicated that he
was quite at Lord Peter’s service.
“It’s very good of you. Could we come somewhere where I didn’t have to
whisper so much. I never can explain things in a whisper. Sort of
paralyses one, don’t you know.”
“Let’s go outside,” said Mr. Tredgold.
So they went out and sat on a flat tombstone.
“It’s like this,” said Wimsey. “Hypothetical case, you see, and so on.
S’posin’ one knows somebody who’s very, very ill and can’t last long
anyhow. And they’re in awful pain and all that, and kept under
morphia—practically dead to the world, you know. And suppose that by
dyin’ straight away they could make something happen which they really
wanted to happen and which couldn’t happen if they lived on a little
longer (I can’t explain exactly how, because I don’t want to give
personal details and so on)—you get the idea? Well, supposin’ somebody
who knew all that was just to give ’em a little push off so to
speak—hurry matters on—why should that be a very dreadful crime?”
“The law—” began Mr. Tredgold.
“Oh, the law says it’s a crime, fast enough,” said Wimsey. “But do you
honestly think it’s very bad? I know you’d call it a sin, of course, but
why is it so very dreadful? It doesn’t do the person any harm, does it?”
“We can’t answer that,” said Mr. Tredgold, “without knowing the ways of
God with the soul. In those last weeks or hours of pain and
unconsciousness, the soul may be undergoing some necessary part of its
pilgrimage on earth. It isn’t our business to cut it short. Who are we
to take life and death into our hands?”
“Well, we do it all day, one way and another.
Juries—soldiers—doctors—all that. And yet I do feel, somehow, that it
isn’t a right thing in this case. And yet, by interfering—finding things
out and so on—one may do far worse harm. Start all kinds of things.”
“I think,” said Mr. Tredgold, “that the sin—I won’t use that word—the
damage to Society, the wrongness of the thing lies much more in the harm
it does the killer than in anything it can do to the person who is
killed. Especially, of course, if the killing is to the killer’s own
advantage. The consequence you mention—this thing which the sick person
wants done—does the other person stand to benefit by it, may I ask?”
“Yes. That’s just it. He—she—they do.”
“That puts it at once on a different plane from just hastening a
person’s death out of pity. Sin is in the intention, not the deed. That
is the difference between divine law and human law. It is bad for a
human being to get to feel that he has any right whatever to dispose of
another person’s life to his own advantage. It leads him to think
himself above all laws—Society is never safe from the man who has
deliberately committed murder with impunity. That is why—or one reason
why—God forbids private vengeance.”
“You mean that one murder leads to another.”
“Very often. In any case it leads to a readiness to commit others.”
“It has. That’s the trouble. But it wouldn’t have if I hadn’t started
trying to find things out. Ought I to have left it alone?”
“I see. That is very difficult. Terrible, too, for you. You feel
responsible.”
“Yes.”
“You yourself are not serving a private vengeance?”
“Oh, no. Nothing really to do with me. Started in like a fool to help
somebody who’d got into trouble about the thing through having
suspicions himself. And my beastly interference started the crimes all
over again.”
“I shouldn’t be too troubled. Probably the murderer’s own guilty fears
would have led him into fresh crimes even without your interference.”
“That’s true,” said Wimsey, remembering Mr. Trigg.
“My advice to you is to do what you think is right, according to the
laws which we have been brought up to respect. Leave the consequences to
God. And try to think charitably, even of wicked people. You know what I
mean. Bring the offender to justice, but remember that if we all got
justice, you and I wouldn’t escape either.”
“I know. Knock the man down but don’t dance on the body. Quite. Forgive
my troublin’ you—and excuse my bargin’ off, because I’ve got a date with
a friend. Thanks so much. I don’t feel quite so rotten about it now. But
I was gettin’ worried.”
Mr. Tredgold watched him as he trotted away between the graves. “Dear,
dear,” he said, “how nice they are. So kindly and scrupulous and so
vague outside their public-school code. And much more nervous and
sensitive than people think. A very difficult class to reach. I must
make a special intention for him at Mass to-morrow.”
Being a practical man, Mr. Tredgold made a knot in his handkerchief to
remind himself of this pious resolve.
“The problem—to interfere or not to interfere—God’s law and Cæsar’s.
Policemen, now—it’s no problem to them. But for the ordinary man—how
hard to disentangle his own motives. I wonder what brought him here.
Could it possibly be—No!” said the vicar, checking himself, “I have no
right to speculate.” He drew out his handkerchief again and made another
mnemonic knot as a reminder against his next confession that he had
fallen into the sin of inquisitiveness.
CHAPTER XX
Murder
Siegfried: “_What does this mean?_”
Isbrand: “_A pretty piece of kidnapping, that’s all._”
Beddoes, _Death’s Jest-Book_
Parker, too, had spent a disappointing half-hour. It appeared that Miss
Whittaker not only disliked having her photograph taken, but had
actually destroyed all the existing portraits she could lay hands on,
shortly after Miss Dawson’s death. Of course, many of Miss Whittaker’s
friends might be in possession of one—notably, of course, Miss
Findlater. But Parker was not sure that he wanted to start a local
hue-and-cry at the moment. Miss Climpson might be able to get one, of
course. He went round to Nelson Avenue. Miss Climpson was out; there had
been another gentleman asking for her. Mrs. Budge’s eyes were beginning
to bulge with curiosity—evidently she was becoming dubious about Miss
Climpson’s “nephew” and his friends. Parker then went to the local
photographers. There were five. From two of them he extracted a number
of local groups, containing unrecognisable portraits of Miss Whittaker
at church bazaars and private theatricals. She had never had a studio
portrait made in Leahampton.
Of Miss Findlater, on the other hand, he got several excellent
likenesses—a slight, fair girl, with a rather sentimental look—plump and
prettyish. All these he despatched to Town, with directions that they
should be broadcast to the police, together with a description of the
girl’s dress when last seen.
The only really cheerful members of the party at the “George” were the
second policeman, who had been having a pleasant gossip with various
garage-proprietors and publicans, with a view to picking up information,
and the Chief Constable, who was vindicated and triumphant. He had been
telephoning to various country police-stations, and had discovered that
XX9917 had actually been observed on the previous Monday by an A.A.
scout on the road to Crow’s Beach. Having maintained all along that the
Crow’s Beach excursion was a genuine one, he was inclined to exult over
the Scotland Yard man. Wimsey and Parker dispiritedly agreed that they
had better go down and make inquiries at Crow’s Beach.
Meanwhile, one of the photographers, whose cousin was on the staff of
the _Leahampton Mercury_, had put a call through to the office of that
up-to-date paper, which was just going to press. A stop-press
announcement was followed by a special edition; somebody rang up the
London _Evening Views_ which burst out into a front-page scoop; the fat
was in the fire, and the _Daily Yell_, _Daily Views_, _Daily Wire_ and
_Daily Tidings_, who were all suffering from lack of excitement, came
brightly out next morning with bold headlines about disappearing young
women.
Crow’s Beach, indeed, that pleasant and respectable watering-place, knew
nothing of Miss Whittaker, Miss Findlater, or car XX9917. No hotel had
received them; no garage had refuelled or repaired them; no policeman
had observed them. The Chief Constable held to his theory of an
accident, and scouting parties were sent out. Wires arrived at Scotland
Yard from all over the place. They had been seen at Dover, at Newcastle,
at Sheffield, at Winchester, at Rugby. Two young women had had tea in a
suspicious manner at Folkestone; a car had passed noisily through
Dorchester at a late hour on Monday night; a dark-haired girl in an
“agitated condition” had entered a public-house in New Alresford just
before closing-time and asked the way to Hazelmere. Among all these
reports, Parker selected that of a boy-scout, who reported on the
Saturday morning that he had noticed two ladies with a car having a
picnic on the downs on the previous Monday, not far from Shelly Head.
The car was an Austin Seven—he knew that, because he was keen on motors
(an unanswerable reason for accuracy in a boy of his age), and he had
noticed that it was a London number, though he couldn’t say positively
what the number was.
Shelly Head lies about ten miles along the coast from Crow’s Beach, and
is curiously lonely, considering how near it lies to the watering-place.
Under the cliffs is a long stretch of clear sandy beach, never visited,
and overlooked by no houses. The cliffs themselves are chalk, and
covered with short turf, running back into a wide expanse of downs,
covered with gorse and heather. Then comes a belt of pine-trees, beyond
which is a steep, narrow and rutty road, leading at length into the
tarmac high-road between Ramborough and Ryders Heath. The downs are by
no means frequented, though there are plenty of rough tracks which a car
can follow, if you are not particular about comfort or fussy over your
springs.
Under the leadership of the boy-scout, the police-car bumped
uncomfortably over these disagreeable roads. It was hopeless to look for
any previous car-tracks, for the chalk was dry and hard, and the grass
and heath retained no marks. Everywhere, little dells and hollows
presented themselves—all exactly alike, and many of them capable of
hiding a small car, not to speak of the mere signs and remains of a
recent picnic. Having arrived at what their guide thought to be
approximately the right place, they pulled up and got out. Parker
quartered the ground between the five of them and they set off.
Wimsey took a dislike to gorse-bushes that day. There were so many of
them and so thick. Any of them might hold a cigarette package or a
sandwich paper or a scrap of cloth or a clue of some kind. He trudged
along unhappily, back bent and eyes on the ground, over one ridge and
down into the hollow—then circling to right and to left, taking his
bearings by the police-car; over the next ridge and down into the next
hollow; over the next ridge—
Yes. There was something in the hollow.
He saw it first sticking out round the edge of a gorse-bush. It was
light in colour, and pointed, rather like a foot.
He felt a little sick.
“Somebody has gone to sleep here,” he said aloud.
Then he thought:
“Funny—it’s always the feet they leave showing.”
He scrambled down among the bushes, slipping on the short turf and
nearly rolling to the bottom. He swore irritably.
The person was sleeping oddly. The flies must be a nuisance all over her
head like that.
It occurred to him that it was rather early in the year for flies. There
had been an advertising rhyme in the papers. Something about “Each fly
you swat now means, remember, Three hundred fewer next September.” Or
was it a thousand fewer? He couldn’t get the metre quite right.
Then he pulled himself together and went forward. The flies rose up in a
little cloud.
It must have been a pretty heavy blow, he thought, to smash the back of
the skull in like that. The shingled hair was blonde. The face lay
between the bare arms.
He turned the body on its back.
Of course, without the photograph, he could not—he need not—be certain
that this was Vera Findlater.
All this had taken him perhaps thirty seconds.
He scrambled up to the rim of the hollow and shouted.
A small black figure at some distance stopped and turned. He saw its
face as a white spot with no expression on it. He shouted again, and
waved his arms in wide gestures of explanation. The figure came running;
it lurched slowly and awkwardly over the heathy ground. It was the
policeman—a heavy man, not built for running in the heat. Wimsey shouted
again, and the policeman shouted too. Wimsey saw the others closing in
upon him. The grotesque figure of the boy-scout topped a ridge, waving
its staff—then disappeared again. The policeman was quite near now. His
bowler hat was thrust back on his head, and there was something on his
watch-chain that glinted in the sun as he ran. Wimsey found himself
running to meet him and calling—explaining at great length. It was too
far off to make himself heard, but he explained, wordily, with emphasis,
pointing, indicating. He was quite breathless when the policeman and he
came together. They were both breathless. They wagged their heads and
gasped. It was ludicrous. He started running again, with the man at his
heels. Presently they were all there, pointing, measuring, taking notes,
grubbing under the gorse-bushes. Wimsey sat down. He was dreadfully
tired.
“Peter,” said Parker’s voice, “come and look at this.”
He got up wearily.
There were the remains of a picnic lunch a little farther down the
hollow. The policeman had a little bag in his hand—he had taken it from
under the body, and was now turning over the trifles it contained. On
the ground, close to the dead girl’s head, was a thick, heavy
spanner—unpleasantly discoloured and with a few fair hairs sticking to
its jaws. But what Parker was calling his attention to was none of
these, but a man’s mauve-grey cap.
“Where did you find that?” asked Wimsey.
“Alf here picked it up at the top of the hollow,” said Parker.
“Tumbled off into the gorse it was,” corroborated the scout, “just up
here, lying upside down just as if it had fallen off somebody’s head.”
“Any footmarks?”
“Not likely. But there’s a place where the bushes are all trodden and
broken. Looks as if there’d been some sort of struggle. What’s become of
the Austin? Hi! don’t touch that spanner, my lad. There may be
finger-prints on it. This looks like an attack by some gang or other.
Any money in that purse? Ten-shilling note, sixpence and a few
coppers—oh! Well, the other woman may have had more on her. She’s very
well off, you know. Held up for ransom, I shouldn’t wonder.” Parker bent
down and very gingerly enfolded the spanner in a silk handkerchief,
carrying it slung by the four corners. “Well, we’d better spread about
and have a look for the car. Better try that belt of trees over there.
Looks a likely spot. And, Hopkins—I think you’d better run back with our
car to Crow’s Beach and let ’em know at the station, and come back with
a photographer. And take this wire and send it to the Chief Commissioner
at Scotland Yard, and find a doctor and bring him along with you. And
you’d better hire another car while you’re about it, in case we don’t
find the Austin—we shall be too many to get away in this one. Take Alf
back with you if you’re not sure of finding the place again. Oh! and
Hopkins, fetch us along something to eat and drink, will you, we may be
at it a long time. Here’s some money—that enough?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
The constable went off, taking Alf, who was torn between a desire to
stay and do some more detecting, and the pride and glory of being first
back with the news. Parker gave a few words of praise for his valuable
assistance which filled him with delight, and then turned to the Chief
Constable.
“They obviously went off in this direction. Would you bear away to the
left, sir, and enter the trees from that end, and Peter, will you bear
to the right and work through from the other end, while I go straight up
the middle?”
The Chief Constable, who seemed a good deal shaken by the discovery of
the body, obeyed without a word. Wimsey caught Parker by the arm.
“I say,” he said, “have you looked at the wound? Something funny, isn’t
there? There ought to be more mess, somehow. What do you think?”
“I’m not thinking anything for the moment,” said Parker, a little
grimly. “We’ll wait for the doctor’s report. Come on, Steve! We want to
dig out that car.”
“Let’s have a look at the cap. H’m. Sold by a gentleman, resident in
Stepney. Almost new. Smells strongly of California Poppy—rather a swell
sort of gangsman, apparently. Quite one of the lads of the village.”
“Yes—we ought to be able to trace that. Thank Heaven, they always
overlook something. Well, we’d better get along.”
The search for the car presented no difficulties. Parker stumbled upon
it almost as soon as he got in under the trees. There was a clearing,
with a little rivulet of water running through it, beside which stood
the missing Austin. There were other trees here, mingled with the pines,
and the water made an elbow and spread into a shallow pool, with a kind
of muddy beach.
The hood of the car was up, and Parker approached with an uncomfortable
feeling that there might be something disagreeable inside, but it was
empty. He tried the gears. They were in neutral and the handbrake was
on. On the seat was a handkerchief—a large linen handkerchief, very
grubby and with no initials or laundry-mark. Parker grunted a little
over the criminal’s careless habit of strewing his belongings about. He
came round in front of the car and received immediate further proof of
carelessness. For on the mud there were footmarks—two men’s and a
woman’s, it seemed.
The woman had got out of the car first—he could see where the left heel
had sunk heavily in as she extricated herself from the low seat. Then
the right foot—less heavily—then she had staggered a little and started
to run. But one of the men had been there to catch her. He had stepped
out of the bracken in shoes with new rubbers on them, and there were
some scuffling marks as though he had held her and she had tried to
break away. Finally, the second man, who seemed to possess rather narrow
feet and to wear the long-toed boots affected by town boys of the louder
sort—had come after her from the car—the marks of his feet were clear,
crossing and half-obliterating hers. All three had stood together for a
little. Then the tracks moved away, with those of the woman in the
middle, and led up to where the mark of a Michelin balloon tyre showed
clearly. The tyres of the Austin were ordinary Dunlops—besides, this was
obviously a bigger car. It had apparently stood there for some little
time, for a little pool of engine-oil had dripped from the crank-case.
Then the bigger car had moved off, down a sort of ride that led away
through the trees. Parker followed it for a little distance, but the
tracks soon became lost in a thick carpet of pine-needles. Still, there
was no other road for a car to take. He turned to the Austin to
investigate further. Presently shouts told him that the other two were
converging upon the centre of the wood. He called back and before long
Wimsey and Sir Charles Pillington came crashing towards him through the
bracken which fringed the pines.
“Well,” said Wimsey, “I imagine we may put down this elegant bit of
purple headgear to the gentleman in the slim boots. Bright yellow, I
fancy, with buttons. He must be lamenting his beautiful cap. The woman’s
footprints belong to Mary Whittaker, I take it.”
“I suppose so. I don’t see how they can be the Findlater girl’s. This
woman went or was taken off in the car.”
“They are certainly not Vera Findlater’s—there was no mud on her shoes
when we found her.”
“Oh! you were taking notice, then. I thought you were feeling a bit dead
to the world.”
“So I was, old dear, but I can’t help noticin’ things, though moribund.
Hullo! what’s this?”
He put his hand down behind the cushions of the car and pulled out an
American magazine—that monthly collection of mystery and sensational
fiction published under the name of _The Black Mask_.
“Light reading for the masses,” said Parker.
“Brought by the gentleman in the yellow boots, perhaps,” suggested the
Chief Constable.
“More likely by Miss Findlater,” said Wimsey.
“Hardly a lady’s choice,” said Sir Charles, in a pained tone.
“Oh, I dunno. From all I hear, Miss Whittaker was dead against
sentimentality and roses round the porch, and the other poor girl copied
her in everything. They might have a boyish taste in fiction.”
“Well, it’s not important,” said Parker.
“Wait a bit. Look at this. Somebody’s been making marks on it.”
Wimsey held out the cover for inspection. A thick pencil-mark had been
drawn under the first two words of the title.
“Do you think it’s some sort of message? Perhaps the book was on the
seat, and she contrived to make the marks unnoticed and shove it away
here before they transferred her to the other car.”
“Ingenious,” said Sir Charles, “but what does it mean? The Black. It
makes no sense.”
“Perhaps the long-toed gentleman was a black man,” suggested Parker. “Or
possibly a Hindu or Parsee of sorts.”
“God bless my soul,” said Sir Charles, horrified, “an English girl in
the hands of a black man. How abominable!”
“Well, we’ll hope it isn’t so. Shall we follow the road out or wait for
the doctor to arrive?”
“Better go back to the body, I think,” said Parker. “They’ve got a long
start of us, and half an hour more or less in following them up won’t
make much odds.”
They turned from the translucent cool greenness of the little wood back
on to the downs. The streamlet clacked merrily away over the pebbles,
running out to the southwest on its way to the river and the sea.
“It’s all very well your chattering,” said Wimsey to the water. “Why
can’t you say what you’ve seen?”
CHAPTER XXI
By What Means?
“_Death hath so many doors to let out life._”
Beaumont and Fletcher, _Custom of the Country_
The doctor turned out to be a plumpish, fussy man—and what Wimsey
impatiently called a “Tutster.” He tutted over the mangled head of poor
Vera Findlater as though it was an attack of measles after a party or a
self-provoked fit of the gout.
“Tst, tst, tst. A terrible blow. How did we come by that, I wonder? Tst,
tst. Life extinct? Oh, for several days, you know. Tst, tst—which makes
it so much more painful, of course. Dear me, how shocking for her poor
parents. And her sisters. They are very agreeable girls; you know them,
of course, Sir Charles. Yes. Tst, tst.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose,” said Parker, “that it is Miss
Findlater.”
“None whatever,” said Sir Charles.
“Well, as you can identify her, it may be possible to spare the
relatives the shock of seeing her like this. Just a moment, doctor—the
photographer wants to record the position of the body before you move
anything. Now, Mr.—Andrews?—yes—have you ever done any photographs of
this kind before? No?—well, you mustn’t be upset by it! I know it’s
rather unpleasant. One from here, please, to show the position of the
body—now from the top of the bank—that’s right—now one of the wound
itself—a close-up view, please. Yes. Thank you. Now, doctor, you can
turn her over, please—I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews—I know exactly how you are
feeling, but these things have to be done. Hullo! look how her arms are
all scratched about. Looks as if she’d put up a bit of a fight. The
right wrist and left elbow—as though someone had been trying to hold her
down. We must have a photograph of the marks, Mr. Andrews—they may be
important. I say, doctor, what do you make of this on the face?”
The doctor looked as though he would have preferred not to make so much
as an examination of the face. However, with many tuts he worked himself
up to giving an opinion.
“As far as one can tell, with all these post-mortem changes,” he
ventured, “it looks as though the face had been roughened or burnt about
the nose and lips. Yet there is no appearance of the kind on the bridge
of the nose, neck or forehead. Tst, tst—otherwise I should have put it
down to severe sunburn.”
“How about chloroform burns?” suggested Parker.
“Tst, tst,” said the doctor, annoyed at not having thought of this
himself—“I wish you gentlemen of the police force would not be quite so
abrupt. You want everything decided in too great a hurry. I was about to
remark—if you had not anticipated me—that since I could _not_ put the
appearance down to sunburn, there remains some such possibility as you
suggest. I can’t possibly say that it is the result of
chloroform—medical pronouncements of that kind cannot be hastily made
without cautious investigation—but I was about to remark that it _might_
be.”
“In that case,” put in Wimsey, “could she have died from the effects of
the chloroform? Supposing she was given too much or that her heart was
weak?”
“My good sir,” said the doctor, deeply offended this time, “look at that
blow upon the head, and ask yourself whether it is necessary to suggest
any other cause of death. Moreover, if she had died of the chloroform,
where would be the necessity for the blow?”
“That is exactly what I was wondering,” said Wimsey.
“I suppose,” went on the doctor, “you will hardly dispute my medical
knowledge?”
“Certainly not,” said Wimsey, “but as you say, it is unwise to make any
medical pronouncement without cautious investigation.”
“And this is not the place for it,” put in Parker, hastily. “I think we
have done all there is to do here. Will you go with the body to the
mortuary, doctor. Mr. Andrews, I shall be obliged if you will come and
take a few photographs of some footmarks and so on up in the wood. The
light is bad, I’m afraid, but we must do our best.”
He took Wimsey by the arm.
“The man is a fool, of course,” he said, “but we can get a second
opinion. In the meantime, we had better let it be supposed that we
accept the surface explanation of all this.”
“What is the difficulty?” asked Sir Charles, curiously.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Parker. “All the appearances are in favour
of the girls having been attacked by a couple of ruffians, who have
carried Miss Whittaker off with a view to ransom, after brutally
knocking Miss Findlater on the head when she offered resistance.
Probably that is the true explanation. Any minor discrepancies will
doubtless clear themselves up in time. We shall know better when we have
had a proper medical examination.”
They returned to the wood, where photographs were taken and careful
measurements made of the footprints. The Chief Constable followed these
activities with intense interest, looking over Parker’s shoulder as he
entered the particulars in his notebook.
“I say,” he said, suddenly, “isn’t it rather odd—”
“Here’s somebody coming,” broke in Parker.
The sound of a motor-cycle being urged in second gear over the rough
ground proved to be the herald of a young man armed with a camera.
“Oh, God!” groaned Parker. “The damned Press already.”
He received the journalist courteously enough, showing him the
wheel-tracks and the footprints, and outlining the kidnapping theory as
they walked back to the place where the body was found.
“Can you give us any idea, Inspector, of the appearance of the two
wanted men?”
“Well,” said Parker, “one of them appears to be something of a dandy; he
wears a loathsome mauve cap and narrow pointed shoes, and, if those
marks on the magazine cover mean anything, one or other of the men may
possibly be a coloured man of some kind. Of the second man, all we can
definitely say is that he wears number 10 shoes, with rubber heels.”
“I was going to say,” said Pillington, “that, à propos de bottes, it is
rather remarkable—”
“And this is where we found the body of Miss Findlater,” went on Parker,
ruthlessly. He described the injuries and the position of the body, and
the journalist gratefully occupied himself with taking photographs,
including a group of Wimsey, Parker and the Chief Constable standing
among the gorse-bushes, while the latter majestically indicated the
fatal spot with his walking-stick.
“And now you’ve got what you want, old son,” said Parker, benevolently,
“buzz off, won’t you, and tell the rest of the boys. You’ve got all we
can tell you, and we’ve got other things to do beyond granting special
interviews.”
The reporter asked no better. This was tantamount to making his
information exclusive, and no Victorian matron could have a more
delicate appreciation of the virtues of exclusiveness than a modern
newspaper man.
“Well now, Sir Charles,” said Parker, when the man had happily chugged
and popped himself away, “what were you about to say in the matter of
the footprints?”
But Sir Charles was offended. The Scotland Yard man had snubbed him and
thrown doubt on his discretion.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I feel sure that my conclusions would appear
very elementary to you.”
And he preserved a dignified silence throughout the return journey.