A Terrible Discovery
Jim Webb, “crew” of the yacht _Firefly_, came walking briskly over the
fields from Frattenbury the next morning. In the clear autumn air he
heard the Cathedral chimes strike the half-hour, and compared the time
with his watch. Half-past seven. His skipper breakfasted at half-past
eight, so there was plenty of time for him to prepare the meal with
the help of the little oil-stove in his cuddy.
It was only a few minutes later when he reached Marsh Quay. Mrs.
Yates, who was standing at the open door of the “Mariner’s Arms,”
greeted him with a “Good morning,” which he returned.
The tide was out and the yacht rode at anchor in calm water. Moored to
her stern was her dinghy, and Webb had to get aboard.
Mrs. Yates, who was a good-natured woman, had come out of the inn and
strolled down to where he was standing by the water’s edge.
“You’ll be getting your master’s breakfast, I suppose,” she said. “If
you want any hot water, I’ve got a kettle on the fire.”
“Thankee kindly, missis, but there’s a stove abord. Tell you what,
though, I’ll have to borrow one of these punts. I suppose that’ll be
all right?”
“You’re welcome. These here belong to me, and a nuisance they are at
times. The boys will get playing about with them. Look here—they’ve
been at it again, the young rascals! I know this one was tied up all
right yesterday.” And she pointed to one which was unsecured to a
post. “Them boys are the plague of my life,” she went on, as Webb
dragged the little craft down to the water and shoved off.
She stood, arms akimbo, watching him as he paddled the few strokes
that brought him to the yacht. As he clambered aboard he waved his
hand to her, and at that moment he noticed behind her the young man
who had been in the bar parlour the previous evening push a bicycle,
with a stuffed holdall strapped to it, and go quickly riding away
along the road.
Mrs. Yates still stood looking out over the great expanse of mud that
characterised the estuary at low tide. It was a pleasant morning, and
she had nothing particular to do just then.
Turning, she stopped for a minute or two to tighten the painter of one
of the other boats, and then began to walk slowly back to her house.
Suddenly she stopped. A hoarse cry rang out over the water behind her.
Turning once more, she saw Webb frantically climbing from the yacht
into the canoe, shouting incoherently as he did so.
She ran to the shore to meet him as he landed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Him—Mr. Templeton!” he cried as he staggered ashore.
“What?”
“Dead!”
“_Dead?_ What do you mean?”
“Yes—dead! I found him lying there in the cabin—on the floor.”
“But—but—surely——”
“I tell you he’s dead!” cried the man; “and what’s more, he’s been
murdered!”
“Oh, my God!” ejaculated Mrs. Yates, sitting down on one of the posts.
“What do you mean?”
“What I say. The cabin door was open, but I didn’t take no notice o’
that. He always sleeps with plenty o’ fresh air about. At first I
thought he’d tumbled out of his bunk and stunned himself—till I saw
something else on the floor—blood it was, missis. Then I took a closer
look at him, and saw he was stone dead! Lyin’ on his face, he is—and
the blood all round him.”
“Where—whereabouts was he hurt?”
“I dunno; I never stayed to see. What be I to do, missis? This is a
case for the police, and——”
“What’s the matter? What is a case for the police?”
They turned quickly. Coming out of the garden gate of the house
opposite the “Mariner’s Arms” was a little elderly man, with a
perfectly bald head and clean-shaven face, like an egg. He was dressed
in a loose velveteen jacket and grey flannel trousers, and wore a
gaudy pair of woollen slippers.
“What the matter?”
“Oh, Mr. Proctor!” almost screamed Mrs. Yates, “I’m so glad you’ve
come. It’s murder, sir!”
“Mr. Templeton, sir,” cried Webb; “he’s been done to death—over
there—on the yacht. I’ve just found him——”
“Steady, my man, steady. Try and keep calm and tell me all about it.
If it’s what you say, there’s no time to be lost.”
Under the quieting influence of the old gentleman, Jim Webb retold his
ghastly story; Mr. Proctor pursing up his little round mouth, nodding
encouragingly and now and then helping him out with a word or a
question. Then he took complete command of the case.
“Someone must go to Frattenbury at once and tell the police, and bring
a doctor.”
“There’s the young man what’s lodging with me—Mr. Grayson,” exclaimed
the landlady. “He’s just ridin’ his bicycle into Frattenbury.”
“He’s gone,” said Webb. “I seen him go just as I was gettin’ aboard.”
“Gone!” cried Mrs. Yates, “and never said good-bye to me?”
“What,” said Mr. Proctor, “is he leaving for good?”
“Yes, sir. All of a sudden like. Came down an hour earlier for his
breakfast and asked for his bill. I couldn’t make it out.”
“Well, well,” replied Mr. Proctor. “Time enough to talk about him
later. My young great-nephew is staying with me, and he’s got a
bicycle. I’ll send him into Frattenbury at once. He’s a sharp lad.
Phil,” he cried, turning to the house, “Phil, come here at once. Look
sharp.”
A bright-looking boy of about fifteen came running up. Mr. Proctor
gave him hasty instructions. “Ride as hard as you can,” he said.
“Righto, uncle. I’ll do it in ten minutes.”
“Good boy. Now, my man are you quite certain your master is dead?”
“Yes, sir—there ain’t no doubt about it.”
“Um—all the same, I’ll go and have a look. You can pull me out.”
Mrs. Yates waited on the shore till he returned, shaking his head.
“There’s no doubt about it, I’m afraid. We can’t do any more. I
haven’t moved anything. Best let the police find things just as they
are. You two come into my house and have something. You’re both
scared, that’s what you are.”
He took them in and gave them a brandy and soda each. When they came
out again the news spread rapidly, and a group of men, women and
children gathered on the shore and gazed at the yacht. Tom Gale came
along the quay, munching the remains of his breakfast. Mr. Proctor
nudged Jim Webb’s arm just as the latter was about to tell the story
to an expectant audience.
“If you’ll take my advice, my man,” he said, “you’ll say nothing. Wait
till the police come, and let them take the lead.”
Jim Webb accordingly lighted his pipe and remained dumb, much to the
annoyance of the little crowds, the members of which began to
speculate upon what had happened, and finally determined, to their
great satisfaction, that Webb himself had committed the murder and
that Mr. Proctor was keeping an eye upon him till the police arrived
to arrest him. One of them even suggested to the latter:
“Hadn’t we better lock him up in Mrs. Yates’s cellar, sir?”
“Lock who up?”
“Why, _him_,” pointing a condemnatory thumb over his shoulder at the
unconscious Webb.
“Lock yourself up for a silly fool,” retorted Mr. Proctor
contemptuously.
Presently a motor appeared dashing down the road. It was driven by the
superintendent of the police. By his side was the doctor, and in the
back seat a burly constable and a man in plain clothes. They all
jumped out. Mr. Proctor, who was still in supreme command, addressed a
few words to the superintendent.
“You’ve done quite right, sir—quite right,” said the latter; “and now
we’ll get on with things at once.”
The superintendent was a quiet, refined-looking man, with a big black
moustache. The man in plain clothes was of slight build, clean shaven,
alert, and with shrewd grey eyes.
“Now, sergeant,” said the superintendent, “you and I will go aboard
with the doctor.” He went on, turning to the constable, “You stay
here. We shall want you, my man,” he added, addressing Jim Webb.
“What’s your name?”
“Webb, sir.”
“Told you so,” said the man who had been snubbed by Mr. Proctor. “They
always confront ’em with their victims. Why don’t he put the handcuffs
on him?”
A boat was run down to the water, and Webb pulled them out to the
yacht.
The cabin was small. Webb, at the command of the superintendent,
stayed outside, while the three men squeezed their way in. It was just
the ordinary saloon of a small yacht. There was a bunk on either side,
with lockers beneath and a folding-table, fixed to the floor, ran
half-way down the centre. Huddled up to the floor, on his face, was
the body of Reginald Templeton.
The doctor went down on his knees by his side and made a careful
investigation.
“Stabbed in the back,” he said presently, “and whoever did it knew the
right place—right through the heart, as far as I can see. He must have
fallen just as he is, and died instantaneously.”
“How long has he been dead?” asked the superintendent.
The doctor went on with his examination, and consulted his watch.
“Some hours,” he replied. “Rigor mortis has begun to set in. I should
say it might have been after midnight—probably before. I should like
to make a complete examination later on. Can’t we have him moved to
the inn?”
“That will be best,” replied the superintendent. “We’ll see about
that.”
“There’s a motor just come,” said Webb from the deck.
“That’s mine,” said the doctor. “I told my man to follow us out. I’ll
get back now, but I’ll be down again later in the morning. There’s no
more I can do at present.”
“All right. Colson,” went on the superintendent to the detective,
“you’d like to stay aboard and investigate a bit?”
“Yes, sir. I want a good look round. And I prefer working alone.”
The superintendent took a last searching glance round the cabin.
“Webb!”
“Yes, sir?”
Webb put his head in at the doorway.
“That lamp,” and he pointed to an oil-lamp swinging from the ceiling.
“It’s burning. Did you light it when you came aboard?”
“No, sir. I never noticed it.”
“Very well. Now pull me ashore, please.”
“Mr. Proctor,” he said when he came ashore and the doctor had
departed, “may we go into your house? I want to ask Webb some
questions.”
“By all means, Superintendent. Come along in. Have you had breakfast
yet?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“How about you, Webb?”
“I had some at Frattenbury, sir.”
“Well, I’ll leave you,” said Mr. Proctor as he took them into his
dining-room.
“Don’t do that,” said the superintendent. “You may be able to help us.
Now then, Webb,” and he took out his notebook.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s your home?”
“Thirty-one, Fore Street, Salcombe, sir.”
“You’re a sailor?”
“I work for Mr. Jefferies, sir. He lets out boats. He hired the
_Firefly_ to Mr. Templeton—Mr. Reginald Templeton, sir.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“You’ve been with him ever since?”
“Yes, sir,” and he recapitulated what he had told Tom Gale in the inn
parlour.
“Who was Mr. Templeton?”
“He’d just come from Africa, sir. I reckon, from what he said, he’d
been exploring or something. But he didn’t talk much. He knew how to
handle a boat, sir.”
“I see. And you visited all these places?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he had any particular reason for coming here?”
“I think he had, sir.”
“Why?”
“He asked from the first whether I knew the coast. I said I did. I’ve
an uncle in Frattenbury, sir. And I’ve sailed in these parts several
times. He seemed pleased when I told him this.”
“Anything else?”
Webb thought a moment.
“He mentioned he’d be here some days, sir. Said he had business. Said
he was expected.”
“Who by?”
“I can’t say, sir. Only——”
“Yes?”
“When we was in Weymouth he gave me a letter to post—and, well——”
“You read the address?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“Very well. What was it?”
“To a parson in Frattenbury, sir. A reverend gentleman, name of
Fittlemore—or something like that.”
“Fittleworth?” asked the superintendent sharply.
“That’s it, sir; Fittleworth was the name.”
“Canon Fittleworth,” said the other. “Well, that’s a help, anyhow. Now
tell me about last night.”
Webb told him how he had had leave to stay in Frattenbury, and that
Templeton had mentioned he was going to dine there. A few more
questions, and the superintendent glanced over his notes.
“Well,” he said, “there’ll be an inquest, of course, and we shall want
you, Webb. What are you thinking of doing?”
Webb hesitated.
“I don’t much fancy sleeping alone on the _Firefly_, sir. I could get
a bed at the inn here, or my uncle at Frattenbury will put me up.”
“All right, so long as you keep in touch with us. That’s all for the
present. Thank you very much, Mr. Proctor. You can go, Webb.”
Mr. Proctor rose from his chair, crossed the room and showed Webb out
of the door. Then he took down a box from the shelf.
“Can I offer you a cigar, Superintendent?”
“Thanks very much.” The policeman lighted his cigar, looked over his
notes for a few minutes, and then said: “You’re a good judge of
cigars, Mr. Proctor.”
“I am,” replied the little man with a smile. “This is a strange case.”
“Um,” said the superintendent. “It’s too early to form an opinion yet.
But one thing is fairly obvious. Whoever murdered Mr. Templeton must
have known he was coming here and must have got out to that yacht
after he returned from Frattenbury and was aboard her.”
Mr. Proctor flicked the ash from the cigar he was smoking, and
observed dryly:
“Or have got aboard first, and waited for him there.”
“What makes you say that?” asked the superintendent, looking up
quickly.
“Only because it’s just as obvious as your own theory. I thought it
might be worth considering.”
The superintendent reflected for a minute.
“Yes—it is,” he admitted. “Now I must be going. I shall be back
shortly.”
Before he finally left for Frattenbury he pulled out to the _Firefly_
and had a few words with the detective-sergeant.
“When you’ve finished here,” he said, “you’d better make a few
inquiries on shore. Find out who owns the boats about here. One of
them must have been used by the murderer, otherwise the dinghy
wouldn’t have been here. Get to work among the people, and make a note
of them, or of any strangers. I’m off to see the coroner. Also I’ve
discovered that Templeton was probably dining with Canon Fittleworth
last night. At any rate, he knew him. I’ll bring the Canon back with
me if he’s able to come.”
“Right, sir. I’ll do what I can.”
After a last injunction to the constable on the shore, the
superintendent entered his motor and drove off.
“He ain’t took that ’ere man back with him, after all,” said the
disappointed spectator who had fixed the crime onto the unfortunate
Jim Webb. “And that’s what we pays our police for!”