Mr. Proctor Upsets Matters
The coroner, in re-opening the inquiry, intimated that only one
witness of any importance would be heard, and that, with the full
consent of the police, who would not, he understood, ask for a further
adjournment, the jury would be called upon to record their verdict
that afternoon.
The first witness called was a postman who gave evidence that he had
seen the deceased coming out of the Cathedral precincts at Frattenbury
between half-past eight and nine on the Saturday evening. He, the
witness, was standing outside the post office, opposite the gateway
into the Close, where there was an electric lamp.
“Why did you not tell us this at the commencement of the inquiry?”
asked the coroner.
“Because it was only through a portrait of the deceased, published in
a newspaper afterwards, that I remembered his face, sir.”
“Very well. Did you see which way he went when he came out of the
Close?”
“Up the street, towards the Cross, sir.”
“That was all you noticed?”
“Yes, sir, nothing more.”
“Thank you.”
Isaac Moss was called next. He was terribly nervous, and gave his
evidence in such a low tone of voice that the coroner had frequently
to ask him to speak up. Bit by bit the story he had told the
superintendent and Colson was painfully dragged from him. The jury
listened attentively, and evidently one or two of them were not much
struck with his veracity. The coroner then questioned him.
“Why didn’t you inform the police at the time?”
“I was too much frightened.”
“You know that you put yourself in a very serious position, Mr. Moss?”
“Yes, I know that. I regret it very much now.”
“You say that it was after half-past twelve when you crossed the
estuary?”
“It was; it struck one just after I had left the yacht.”
“Have you anyone who can corroborate your statement that you had not
left your house before?”
“My wife is here, and my housekeeper, who brought in some hot water
for my whisky just before eleven o’clock.”
“We will hear them—for your sake,” said the coroner. “But in any case,
it is my duty to reprimand you seriously for your foolish behaviour.”
Mrs. Moss and the housekeeper having given brief evidence, a juror
said:
“May I ask you a question, sir?”
The coroner nodded.
“Isn’t it a fact that the doctor who examined the body told us last
time that the murder _might_ have been committed after midnight?”
“That is so,” replied the coroner, looking round. “The doctor is here.
Would you like him to repeat his statement?”
“If you please, sir.”
And the doctor said:
“Yes. I certainly stated that the murder might have been committed
after twelve, but not long after. The probability is that it took
place before that hour. Rigor mortis was palpably developed.”
“Thank you,” said the coroner. “Are there any more witnesses?”
There was only Joe Thatcher, who gave brief evidence as to seeing Moss
board the yacht, and gave no little amusement at his indignantly
assumed innocence when questioned as to his doings that night. The
police were careful to state that he had come forward voluntarily.
The coroner summed up briefly, not too greatly in favour of Moss, and
directed the jury to find their verdict.
“Do you wish to retire, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” said the juryman who had spoken before.
The jury went into another room, and there was a little buzz of
conversation. The coroner did not join in it. He was absorbed in his
notes. Anthony Crosby, who was seated next to the Chief Constable,
said to the latter:
“I should like to call at the police station for a short conversation.
There’s something I want to see.”
“You shall,” said the Chief Constable. “I’ll motor you back in my car.
Norton and Colson are coming in the other. We shall probably have some
interesting information to give you by that time,” he went on grimly.
“There are going to be developments.”
“Really?”
Major Renshaw nodded.
“You’ll see,” he said. “I hope the jury won’t be long—though it really
doesn’t matter what verdict they bring in. I say—you won’t mind
waiting a few minutes before we start back?”
“Oh, dear, no.”
But the jury still remained out of the room. Presently a note was
handed in and given to the coroner, who opened it, read it and then
said:
“The jury wish to know whether the police are satisfied with the
evidence of Mr. Moss.”
He glanced at Moss as he spoke. The Jew’s face paled. The
superintendent whispered a word or two to him, and the Chief Constable
said to the coroner:
“You may tell the jury, sir, that we are perfectly satisfied. We have
nothing to bring against Mr. Moss.”
Moss gave a sigh of relief, and the coroner scribbled a note to the
jury. In about ten minutes’ time that body filed in, one or two of
them looking very heated.
The coroner addressed the foreman.
“Are you all agreed on your verdict?”
“We are, sir.”
“And it is?”
“Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”
“Very well. I agree with your finding. The inquiry is closed.”
After a few brief formalities the assembly broke up. Major Renshaw,
the superintendent and Colson detached themselves from the rest and
went outside the inn. Presently Proctor came out and was walking
across to his house opposite, when the Chief Constable spoke to him.
“We have a matter of business with you that is best discussed in
private, Mr. Proctor. May we come over to your house?”
He looked at the three men steadily, smiled slightly and said:
“By all means, Major. Come along.” As they walked across he said to
them, in quite a matter-of-fact way: “I had quite a little trouble
with that jury. Two or three of them were bent on returning a verdict
against the unfortunate Moss. Of course, he didn’t do it, but it
wasn’t till we had the note from the coroner that they fell in with
the rest.”
“No—he didn’t do it,” said the Major dryly.
The little man was opening his front door. He gave the Chief Constable
a quick glance, pursed up his mouth and smiled. He led the way into
the dining-room. The three policemen were silent. Then Major Renshaw
addressed him, his face very grave.
“Mr. Proctor, I fear I have a most unpleasant du——”
“I know exactly what you’re going to do,” broke in the little man
before the other could go on. “You’re going to arrest me for the
murder of Reginald Templeton, and then warn me that anything I say may
be used as evidence against me. Isn’t that so?”
For a moment or two Major Renshaw was silent with astonishment. The
superintendent gave a low whistle. Colson exclaimed:
“Great Scott!”
The Chief Constable recovered himself.
“You are right, Mr. Proctor,” he said sternly. “Take care what you
say, sir!” For Proctor was again about to speak, and he did speak, in
spite of the warning.
“One minute, Major—I beg of you, one minute. Oh, you may make use of
anything I say, and welcome. But it’s for your own sake. I’ve a strong
respect for the police. I knew you were going to arrest me. I expected
it before this.”
“You are only doing yourself harm, sir!” thundered the Chief Constable
in his best military style. “I warn you.”
“And I warn you, Major,” said the imperturbable little man, pointing
at the Chief Constable, “if you once formally arrest me, I shall
remain silent until I’m before the magistrates. And then you and your
police will be a laughing-stock. And I shan’t even have to employ a
lawyer. It’s true, Major.”
The astonished Chief Constable hesitated. He turned to the
superintendent, but the latter only shook his head in bewilderment.
Colson was hard at work biting his finger-nails. It was an
unprecedented scene.
“What do you mean, sir?” asked the Chief Constable, hesitating a
little.
“This, Major. I’ll go with you to Frattenbury with pleasure, and you
can detain me till you’re satisfied. I’ll explain everything, and you
may arrest me if you like when I’ve finished—though you won’t. But if
you do it now—I’m dumb.”
The Major took the superintendent to the other end of the room and
held a whispered conversation with him. Proctor calmly lighted a cigar
and handed his case to Colson. The latter refused it with a shake of
the head, and the little man only grinned exasperatingly at him.
Then the Major came forward.
“Very well, Mr. Proctor,” he said stiffly, “we will take you into
Frattenbury, please, on detention for the present. But I warn you that
there are ugly facts against you.”
“I know there are,” said Proctor coolly, “and I was a bit glad to hear
that Jew’s evidence just now—and to hear the doctor repeat his. But
I’ve nothing to be afraid of. I’m quite ready, Major.”
It was when they arrived at the police station that Proctor explained.
Crosby was present. The Chief Constable had told him something about
the affair as he motored him into Frattenbury.
“You may as well hear what he’s got to say,” he said.
Proctor was accommodated with a chair in the private office at the
police station. The superintendent sat at his desk, pen in hand. Major
Renshaw began:
“Now, Mr. Proctor, we will hear what you have to say, if you please.”
“Very well, Major. Will you kindly send for Mr. Stephen Merrifield?
His place of business is just opposite here.”
“The corn merchant?”
“Exactly. You’ll take his word, I suppose?”
Without replying the Major sent for Merrifield. The little man went
on:
“When I first had a notion that you were suspecting me, Mr. Colson,”
he said, addressing the detective, “was that Monday morning when I
recovered my canoe. My nephew told me what you had asked him about
disturbing me in the dark hours, and so on, and I knew you wouldn’t
have said it without some reason. Also, I saw you were interested in
that canoe being taken away—though for the life of me I can’t guess
why. I put two and two together and came to the conclusion that you
were trying to find out whether I had run off with my own canoe, and
left it where it was pretty sure Phil would find it in the morning.
And it puzzled me. But it also put me on my guard.”
“Go on,” said the superintendent.
“Well, then came the inquest. When the doctor said that death might
have occurred after midnight, I was just a little perturbed—you’ll see
why presently. I suppose I was the nearest person to Templeton—his
yacht lay just opposite my house. And when Canon Fittleworth handed in
that cigar band, for the moment I was fairly alarmed.”
“That’s why you cha——” began the superintendent, but Colson stopped
him with a warning gesticulation.
“Eh?” asked Proctor.
“Oh—nothing,” said the superintendent. “Go on, please.”
“Although the Canon stated the cigar was one of his own special brand,
I knew I had the same brand in my house. Why,” he said to the
superintendent, “you smoked one yourself—on the Sunday morning, and
remarked how good it was. Don’t you remember?”
“I do,” said the superintendent, “but I never noticed the band.”
“I was wondering if you had,” went on Proctor, with a smile. “Then I
wanted the coroner to put a question to the Canon, but he wouldn’t
allow it.”
“What was the question?” asked Major Renshaw.
“I only wanted him to ask whether the Canon could remember to whom he
gave any of his cigars. But I concluded afterwards that you would
examine the reverend gentleman pretty closely on that point. I gather
you _did_, and came to the conclusion that it wasn’t in that quarter
that you had to make your investigations.”
“Meanwhile,” said Major Renshaw, “knowing you possessed the same brand
of cigar, and in order to put us off your track——”
But he was interrupted. A newcomer was shown in, a portly man with
grey moustache and short beard and a round, jovial face.
“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Merrifield,” said the Chief Constable. “Do
you mind waiting just a minute?”
“Certainly, sir.” He looked round the room, nodded affably to Mr.
Proctor, and took the seat which Colson offered him.
“Go on, Mr. Proctor.”
“Where was I? Oh, yes—I know. Well, very soon after the inquest, I
found I was being watched. That wasn’t much of a fisherman you sent
over to Marsh Quay, Mr. Colson! Oh, yes, I knew. When I went over to
Portsmouth last Monday on business, and found that this fisherman
travelled by the same train there and back, I was pretty certain.”
“We were bound to keep an eye on you,” said the superintendent.
“I don’t dispute it. But I’m afraid, as an innocent man, I resented
it. My way of looking at it was that I’d have liked you to come and
have the whole thing out with me. Of course, you know your own methods
best. Anyhow, yesterday I set a little trap for you, Mr. Colson. I
hope you’ll forgive me.”
“A trap?” said Colson.
“In this way. I saw you lounging about at Marsh Quay. I imagined you
wanted me out of the way, so I started for Frattenbury. But I very
soon retraced my steps, and let myself in at the back door. Out of the
window I saw you in my garden. I came out and asked you in. Then I
made an excuse for leaving you in my dining-room, which was what you
wanted, I imagine.”
Colson looked very black, especially as the superintendent gave him an
amused glance.
“Well,” went on the little man, “while you were examining the contents
of my cigar cupboard I was watching you from outside, through the
window. I was behind the laurel bush opposite it! You took one of
those cigars. I’d counted ’em first. So I guessed you were going to
arrest me pretty soon.”
“That’s all very well, so far as it goes,” said the Chief Constable,
“but it’s only your own story. It doesn’t in any way clear you.”
“I know. But you’ll soon be satisfied. In the first place, the
evidence of Isaac Moss—which you allow—proves that the crime was
committed before one o’clock on the Sunday morning, eh, Major?”
“Yes, I concede that.”
“Very well. Now will you hear what Mr. Merrifield has to say?”
Merrifield was just going to speak, but the Chief Constable held up
his hand for silence.
“What do you wish me to ask him, Mr. Proctor?”
“Where I was on the Saturday night.”
“If you know that, Mr. Merrifield, perhaps you’ll tell us?”
“Why, of course I will. You don’t mean to say you’ve been thinking my
friend here committed a murder? Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! It’s all
right, Major Renshaw. Mr. Proctor had supper in my house on the
Saturday night in question. He and my wife and a friend staying with
us played bridge afterwards, and I’m ashamed to say we went on into
Sunday morning. It was close on one o’clock when we finished the last
rubber. It’s a lonesome sort of a walk to Marsh Quay, so I offered to
run Mr. Proctor back in my car—and did.”
The superintendent brought his hand down on the desk.
“That explains what Joe Thatcher said about a motor!” he exclaimed.
“Well, Mr. Merrifield?”
“That’s all there is, Superintendent. It didn’t take long to get down
there. I stopped the car opposite his gate, and he asked me to go in.
I went, and I don’t deny that we had a final whisky and soda to wind
up the evening. It was exactly half-past one by the clock on his
mantelpiece when I went out and came back to Frattenbury. I hope that
satisfies you?”
“Am I to be set at liberty?” asked Proctor dryly.
The little man looked so quaint, with his bald, egg-shaped head, that
Major Renshaw could scarcely restrain a smile.
“There’s nothing else we can do with you, Mr. Proctor. But I wish you
had told us all this before.”
Proctor drew himself up with an air of injured dignity.
“I objected to being shadowed,” he said. “It put my back up. You’ll
confess it wouldn’t have been wise to have arrested me?”
“Ah, don’t say any more, Mr. Proctor. We’ll try to forgive you this
time. I’m sorry we’ve upset you, but we’re quite satisfied now.”
“You don’t want me any longer, Major?” asked Merrifield. “All right.
Come along, Proctor, old chap. You’ll be wanting something to pick you
up after all this, and I’ve got it at my house.”
When they were gone the Major, the superintendent and Anthony Crosby
looked at each other for a moment or two, and then simultaneously
burst into a roar of laughter. But Colson did not join in. His face
was as black as a thunder-cloud.
“Come,” said Crosby to the Chief Constable, “you’ll admit he fairly
had you, Major Renshaw? Aren’t you glad you didn’t arrest him?”
“I am,” said the Major grimly. “I confess it. Conceited little beggar!
I’m glad he had a fright, though. He did, you know, or he wouldn’t
have changed that cigar band at the inquest.”
“Ah,” said the lawyer reflectively, “it was only natural, I suppose. A
sudden impulse, you know. I can quite understand that even an innocent
man, suddenly confronted with such a damning bit of evidence against
him, should succumb to the temptation and take advantage of his
peculiar opportunity. How do you think he did it?”
“I know,” said Colson gloomily—“there were several bands from
Grayson’s cigars lying in the grate. He picked up one of those. I
remembered afterwards—I could almost swear I saw him do it. That was
what put us on to Grayson. We’ve taken all three suspects—and now
there’s an end of them.”
The Chief Constable, beneath his somewhat stiff military bearing, was
a kindly man. He put his hand on the detective’s shoulder.
“Come, Colson,” he said, “you couldn’t help it. It’s a bit of a
set-back, I know; but after all, it’s cleared the ground.”
Colson looked up, and blurted out what was on his mind:
“Are you going to call in Scotland Yard, sir?”
The superintendent looked hard at Major Renshaw, but said nothing. The
Major reflected. Then he said:
“You shall have another week, Colson. Get on with the job and see what
you can do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Look here,” broke in Crosby. “I’ve got a train to catch, and I’d
almost forgotten—I want to have a look at that blotting-pad. I’ve got
the copy, but I want to see the original.”
The superintendent produced it. The lawyer took it to the light,
pulled a big magnifying glass out a of his pocket, and examined it
carefully.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “my guess is correct. Who made the copy?”
“I did,” said Colson.
“You’ve left out something. Look here—through my glass. Take that word
ICES. Do you notice, first of all, that there’s a slightly bigger
space between the E and the S than there is between the other
letters?”
“Y-e-s,” admitted the detective.
“And can you see, with the help of the glass, anything between the E
and the S?”
“There’s the faintest little mark—not between them, but just over the
space.”
“Exactly. And that’s a comma—an apostrophe. It isn’t EZRA’S ICES at
all; it’s EZRA, then three spaces, then ICE’S. The first space
represents the division between the two words, so we want two letters
before ICES. EZRA being a Christian name, it follows in all
probability that the other is a surname. Now, what surnames of five
letters end in ICE? Take the supposition first, that the second
missing letter is a vowel. You might have ‘Daice,’ ‘Laice,’
‘Maice’—they don’t look likely, eh?—or ‘Reice,’ or ‘Joice’—generally
spelt with a ‘y’—or ‘Juice.’ I’ve tried every consonant as a first
letter. Take consonants as the second letter, and put any vowels as
the first, and you don’t make much either. But there are just two
fairly common surnames that you can get by using two consonants as the
first two letters, and they are ‘PRICE’ and ‘GRICE.’ If I were working
on this clue, I should go for Ezra Price or Ezra Grice.”
The three men followed him closely.
“Now take the next two words, connected by the ‘&.’ I’ve only time to
give you a hasty deduction. There are two words which would agree with
the spaces in the first word—‘profession’ or ‘confession.’ ‘ROO’ is at
the end of the line of writing. It has obviously only one letter in
front of it, and one, or perhaps two, after it. I’ve tried every
consonant as the first letter—with only one result. And I make the
word ‘PROOF’ or ‘PROOFS.’ There you are—‘Ezra Price’s (or Grice’s)
confession and proof.’ It looks interesting. Whoever it was to whom
Templeton wrote that letter, he knew something about Ezra Price—or
Grice.”
“That looks feasible,” said the Chief Constable.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” went on the lawyer. “As Templeton’s
representative—he’s made me his executor—I’ll put an advertisement in
the papers asking anyone who heard from him since he returned to
England to communicate with me and tell me the nature of the
correspondence. If a reference to this letter turns up, well and good.
If not, it’s a process of elimination, and we can assume that the
recipient doesn’t want to give it away. Let me do this—then there
won’t be a question of the police having anything to do with it. I
must run; I’ve only just time to catch my train. I’ll let you know the
result.”