Fresh Evidence
The three police officials, after the departure of the Canon and
Grayson, looked thoughtfully at each other for a few moments. The
Chief Constable said:
“Well—there’s an end of young Grayson, as far as we are concerned.”
Colson was heard to mutter something beneath his breath that sounded
like “blighted parson.” Then the Chief Constable went on:
“I’ve asked Canon Fittleworth, Colson, to try to remember anyone who
had any of his cigars.”
Colson nodded. He took one of the Canon’s cigars out of the box,
looked at it, put it in his case, and carefully examined the label on
the outside of the box.
“Well?” asked the superintendent.
“I don’t altogether depend on the Canon, sir. Other people might get
hold of these cigars as well—if they’ve friends in Cuba, or are in the
trade. Of course I agree with you, sir,” he went on to Major Renshaw,
“and we must take note of anyone who had a cigar from the Canon. But
it isn’t _there_ I fancy that we shall find our man. May I venture to
give an opinion?”
“Do,” said the others.
“Well, it’s fairly obvious that the original cigar band was changed
while passing round the jury. I’ve got my suspicions—but I won’t say
just now.”
“Ought we to tell the coroner, and get the jury—or any suspected
person on it—dismissed?” asked Major Renshaw.
“By no means, sir. That’s what I was just coming to. The man who
changed that band should be the same as the individual who went after
the walking-stick. We don’t want to rouse his suspicions at this
stage. Let him think the band has gone the same way as the stick—that
we’ve lost both clues.”
“How?” asked the superintendent.
“By making it public, just so far as we choose, and no farther. The
blight—the Canon’s bungled it up till now. If he’d only given us that
band, instead of producing it at the inquest, we could have kept it
dark. As it is, every newspaper’s got a head-line with ‘The Cigar Band
Clue—What are the Police doing?’ and all that rot. Well, let’s keep it
up. Let the public think we’ve tested the clue and that we’re
satisfied there’s nothing in it.”
“There’s a lot in what he says,” remarked the superintendent to the
Chief Constable, who nodded agreement.
“Let the newspaper fellows know this—give ’em an ‘official statement.’
They love that. And if you, sir,” to Major Renshaw, “could mention it,
casual like, it would help.”
“I’m dining out at Mr. Norwood’s to-night,” said the Chief
Constable—“one of what he calls his bachelor dinners. Dr. Hazell is
sure to be there. He’s the biggest gossip in the place. It will be all
over Frattenbury to-morrow if I mention it—ha, ha—‘on the authority of
the Chief Constable.’”
“That’s exactly what I want, sir,” said the detective eagerly. “It’ll
give more weight locally than all the newspapers. And I’ve got a sort
of inspiration that we haven’t to go out of the district to find our
man.”
“Unless, after all, it should happen to be Moss?” said the Chief
Constable.
“He’s not really out of the district—and we’ll see him to-morrow,”
replied Colson.
“If there’s nothing to keep us here, we’re both going up to London
to-morrow morning,” explained the superintendent. “Oh, and by the way,
sir, all known dealers in rough stones have been warned—and there’s an
eye being kept on certain fences. Not that it’s likely that the
murderer—if he’s got the stones—would sell them just now.”
“And it’s probable that they’re not far off,” said Colson dryly.
“Well,” said the Chief Constable, rising from his seat, “I’m off. I
must dress for dinner. If you want me, Superintendent, ring up
Norwood, he’s on the phone. I shall be there till about eleven.”
The little dinners which Francis Norwood gave periodically were as
stiff and formal as Francis Norwood himself. But they were always
good, and his port was of excellent vintage. There were four guests
that night—all of the male sex. The coroner rarely invited ladies, and
then only the wives of his intimate friends. He sat, stiff and erect,
at the head of the table, on his right Major Renshaw and Sir Peter
Birchnall, a local magnate and magistrate, on his left a clean-shaven,
round-faced man of short but rather portly dimensions, who was the Dr.
Hazell referred to by the Chief Constable, and a comfortable-looking
clergyman, the Reverend Alfred Carringford, the vicar of the parish in
which the coroner resided.
The maid—Norwood had no men-servants—had just put on the dessert with
its accompaniments of wine and a box of cigars. Norwood passed round
the port, and helped himself when it reached him again.
Sir Peter held his glass up to the light, took a sip, and smiled
approvingly.
“’72, if ’m not mistaken, Norwood?”
Norwood nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry to say I’ve only a few more bottles left.
And it’s too heavy a price to-day, even if there’s any on the market.”
Dr. Hazell raised his eyebrows and shook his head knowingly. Norwood
was reputed to be a wealthy man, and the little doctor was sceptical.
“If you want to replenish your cellar, I can put you on to a good
thing, Norwood,” went on Sir Peter.
“Indeed?”
“Buy ‘Virginian Reefs.’ They’re bound to go up. I happen to have seen
the engineer’s latest report. It’s a safe thing.”
“‘Virginian Reefs,’ eh?” said Dr. Hazell, taking out his notebook.
“You recommend them, do you, Sir Peter?”
“I hold some myself,” replied the Baronet pompously, and with the air
of one who could not be wrong.
Norwood shook his head and smiled his dry little smile.
“We lawyers are not over-keen on speculation,” he said. “‘Virginian
Reefs’—yes. I imagined they were in low water.”
“Seven and sixpence was yesterday’s price, but they’ll go to three and
four pounds. The general public know nothing yet, of course. This is
the chance for picking them up.”
Norwood, who was peeling an apple, at this point sent round the
cigars. Carringford remarked as he lighted one:
“That was a strange circumstance—the discovery of that cigar band by
Fittleworth in that Marsh Quay case.”
He looked at Norwood as he spoke. The coroner replied stiffly:
“You can’t expect me to discuss that, Vicar.”
“I suppose not,” said the doctor, “but it was a queer thing, as you
say, Carringford. I suppose, Major,” and he leaned his elbows on the
table and looked across at the Chief Constable, “I suppose the whole
thing is keeping you pretty busy?”
“Naturally,” replied Major Renshaw, cutting and lighting his cigar.
“Now here,” and the doctor held up the band he had just removed from
his own cigar, “here is an innocent enough looking thing, and yet it
might hang a man in this case, easily enough. You policemen have to
note the merest trifles—well, just as we doctors do sometimes. A tiny
symptom, Major—the flutter of an eyelid, a pain in the little finger,
so to speak—but we know it points to a fatal disease. And I suppose
you attach the greatest importance to this bit of red paper. It’s
_the_ clue, isn’t it?”
“Oh, come now,” said Sir Peter, “you’re asking leading questions of
the police. It won’t do, Doctor.”
Major Renshaw removed the cigar from his mouth, puffed a volume of
smoke across the table, and said: “Oh, I don’t know. As a matter of
fact, I don’t mind saying that we attach very little importance to
that cigar band.”
“Really?” asked the coroner, sipping his port. “I confess I shouldn’t
have thought that—though I don’t wish of course, to give an opinion.”
“No,” went on the Chief Constable, “I don’t think there’s much in it.
And, as a matter of fact, we’ve tested it already. The brand was more
common than Canon Fittleworth led us to suppose, and, after all, very
likely had nothing to do with the murder at all. It might have been in
the cabin for days.”
“Dear me,” said the doctor, who was listening intently. “That’s rather
a disappointment to you, isn’t it?”
The Major shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s not much use following up such a very doubtful clue,” he
admitted.
Norwood apparently did not care for the subject of the murder to be
discussed. In his position as coroner this was natural. He addressed a
counter-remark across the table to Carringford:
“I’ve just read the speech you made at the Diocesan Conference on
Parochial Church Councils, Vicar. You must let me congratulate you.”
The clergyman, pleased with the compliment, was launching forth on
matters ecclesiastical—to the intense boredom of Sir Peter—when the
maid entered.
“Please, sir, someone wants to speak to Major Renshaw on the
telephone.”
“You know where it is, Major—in the hall,” said Norwood.
“Thanks.”
The Chief Constable went to the telephone.
“Hullo—yes——”
The voice of the superintendent replied.
“Can you come at once, sir? It’s important.”
“All right.”
“I’m sorry, Norwood,” he said, as he went back into the dining-room,
“but I’ll have to go—I’m wanted.”
“Anything fresh—about the murder?” asked Dr. Hazell.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah,” said the doctor, pointing a finger at him, “you and I both get
rung up in our professions. Only there’s a difference. They call me up
to save lives—and they summon you to help in catching an unfortunate
wretch for the gallows, eh?”
“Perhaps. Good night,” replied the Chief Constable.
When he reached the police station he found the superintendent,
Colson, and a strong odour of stale beer, which emanated from the
mouth of a peculiar individual. He was a rough-looking man of about
forty, dressed in old, patched, corduroy breeches, brown leather
gaiters, and a big, loose jacket, well-worn. He had a very red,
beery-looking face, unbrushed black hair and whiskers, and a pair of
sharp-looking dark eyes like a ferret’s. The Chief Constable looked at
him and said severely:
“It’s you, is it, Thatcher? What mischief have you been up to now?”
The man shifted his dirty, soft hat from one hand to the other, and
replied in a surly, thick tone of voice:
“I ain’t done nothin’, Major—s’elp me I ain’t. I’ve told ’im what I
come ’ere for.”
And he jerked his head towards the superintendent.
“It’s all right, sir,” said that functionary, “he’s come of his own
accord this time. He wants to make a statement.”
“What about?”
“That ’ere murder—over at Marsh Quay,” said Thatcher.
“What do you know about it?”
“Look ’ere, Major,” replied Joe Thatcher, “I doan’t say as how I ain’t
got into trouble time and agen. _You_ knows that. And I ain’t given to
have naught to do with the police as long as they lets me aloane—which
they doan’t always do, damn ’em! But I draws the line at murder, I
does. I doan’t hold with it, and that’s why I come here to-night.”
“Go on. What have you got to tell us?”
A wicked, artful leer broke over the man’s face. “If I tells you what
I knows—you woan’t ask me what I was a-doin’ of that night? I doan’t
want to come up before the beaks just because I was havin’ a
constitootional, as they calls it, when other folks were asleep.”
“All right, Thatcher,” said the superintendent. “We’ve got your
record, and we know pretty well what you’re up to when you take your
midnight walks abroad. But you needn’t fear in this case. If you’ve
got any information about the murder at Marsh Quay we’ll forget the
rest.”
“That’s what my missus said, she did. I told her what I seen—and she
says, ‘You go and tell the police, Joe.’ I kept on sayin’ I wouldn’t,
and that’s why I didn’t come afore. An’ she kept a-naggin’ on me, till
I saw life was going to be a little hell if I didn’t come. And here I
be.”
“Go on, my man,” said the Chief Constable encouragingly. “There’s
nothing to be afraid of; tell us about it.”
“Well, ’tis like this. Saturday night I went out for a walk—late. I
doan’t say as I hadn’t a gun wi’ me—but that’s naught to do wi’ it—be
it?”
“Nothing at all,” said Major Renshaw with a laugh.
“I got down and round about them stubble-fields and spinneys along
near the quay—but I didn’t have no luck.”
“No,” said the Major dryly. “We had a big shoot there last week, and
cleared out most of the birds.”
“So I found,” said the poacher brazenly. “Now—that ’ere wood, t’other
side o’ the water. Sometimes there’s a goodish few—sparrers, we’ll
say—to be found there, and it wouldn’t ha’ been the first time as I’d
borrowed one o’ they canoes and slipped over for an hour or so. O’
course I returned the canoe when I’d finished. I ain’t no thief—thank
Gawd!”
The others grinned at him, but were silent. It was best for the man to
tell his story in his own way.
“It was between half-past twelve and one as I got down to the quay—I
allus reckons to know the time within a few minutes—’tis a habit o’
mine. There was no one about and ’twas a still night. There was a
light on board that ’ere little yacht where the murder was, but I
didn’t hear any sound. I was a-standin’ on the quay, a-makin’ up my
mind whether ’twas worth while crossing over, when I heard the sound
of a boat bein’ pulled across—from the other side.”
“From the _other_ side?” asked Colson.
“That’s right. I wondered what anyone was a-doin’ that time o’
night—when respectable folk ought to be abed and asleep.” He grinned.
“I can see pretty well in the dark—I _has_ to in my perfession—so I
jist lay low and watched. Whoever it was, he warn’t no boatman, by the
way he mucked that ’ere boat about. The tide was flowin’ in and he had
to pull hard. When he got across he made straight for that ’ere yacht
where the lights was burnin’. Clumsy, he was, too. He didn’t ’arf bump
the nose o’ his boat into the yacht when he got to her. You could hear
the bang all over the place.”
“What did he do then?”
“Why, Major, he got aboard the yacht and went in the cabin. I see him
quite plainly. But he never stayed there long. In less than five
minutes he was out again, clamberin’ into the boat, and pullin’ away
across stream as hard as ever he could go. Seemed in a mighty hurry,
he did. Just then I heard the Cathedral clock strike one.”
“What did you do?”
“I lit a pipe and waited a bit—quarter of an hour or less, I reckon. I
was thinkin’ it wouldn’t do to cross over to the wood that night. And
then the motor-car come along.”
“The motor-car!” ejaculated the superintendent.
“Yes, sir—come down the road.”
“To the quay?”
“No, sir. It stopped about thirty or forty yards before it got to the
quay. I could see the lights.”
“Did you see who was in it?”
“No, sir; I made tracks along the shore. Thinks I, ‘There’s too many
folks about to-night for an honest chap to get a livin’,’ so I come
straight home. And that’s all about it.”
They questioned him sharply, but he stuck to his story. Then the
superintendent said:
“You’ll probably have to tell all this to the jury—at the adjourned
inquest.”
“It won’t get me into no trouble?” asked Thatcher.
“No,” said the superintendent. “We’ll see to that.”
“Because,” went on the man as he rose to go, “I’ve got my reputation
to think of.”
“We know all about that. And look here, Thatcher, keep your mouth
shut,” said the superintendent.
“How about the boats on the opposite shore?” asked the Chief Constable
when Joe Thatcher had departed.
“There’s only one,” replied Colson, “belonging to Moss.”
“Yes—to Moss,” said the superintendent thoughtfully. “It looks ugly
for him. We’ll see this Isaac Moss to-morrow morning.”
“I shall have to run down to Marsh Quay early before we start,”
remarked Colson.
“What for?”
“A little matter I want to look into. I wish this chap Thatcher had
told us all this before.”
“It doesn’t matter much,” said the superintendent. “It’s just as well
to have cleared off Grayson first. It leaves us a freer hand. I wish
we knew more about that motor.”
And the others agreed.
Early the following morning Colson was at Marsh Quay. He sought out
Jim Webb, who was still in charge of the _Firefly_, sleeping aboard
her, till he received instructions from her owner at Salcombe.
“Webb,” he said, “I want you to row me over opposite.”
“All right, sir.”
“Pull to the yacht first. I want to see something.”
He made Webb pull him all round the yacht till he found what he
wanted.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, pointing to an indentation in
her sides. The paint, especially the narrow green band, was badly
rubbed, and the woodwork a little crushed. “Was this done before you
came here?”
“No, sir. I’m sure it wasn’t. I noticed it on Monday. Some of them
reporter chaps—or someone—must have banged into her. They’ve been
swarming about the place.”
“Might have been caused by the nose of a boat running into her, eh?”
“That’s exactly what I think, sir.”
“All right, we’ll go across now.”
When they reached the farther shore he made for the small boat which
was moored to the landing-stage, and examined her carefully. On her
bows was a distinct smear of green paint.
“Humph,” said the detective, “that seems to bear out Thatcher’s story.
That’s the boat, sure enough. Webb,” he went on, “wait here five
minutes, will you? There’s something I want to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colson disappeared along the pathway through the wood, carrying under
his arm a long, thin brown-paper parcel he had brought. He began to
unroll it as he went along.
In ten minutes or so he returned, the parcel under his arm, wrapped up
once more. His brows knit and he was not looking best pleased. He
hardly spoke to Jim Webb, and when he landed at once rode off on his
bicycle.
“That’s a frost,” he muttered to himself; “at least, it looks like
one. Anyhow, we’ll see presently what Moss has got to say. He must be
the man who crossed over to the yacht that night. It’s pretty
suspicious. But things don’t altogether fit—though they _may_ of
course.”