New Theories
“You’ve just got to solve it, Bob, and you’re going to solve it,” said
Mrs. Colson that night to her somewhat disconsolate husband. “And that
for two reasons: first because such a wicked wretch ought to be
punished, and secondly because you’re my dear hubby. So there now!”
She gave him a kiss and took a chair by him in front of the fire.
“I’ve got to begin all over again,” he said moodily.
“Of course you have, dear. And what of that? You’ve ever so much
better a chance now you’ve cleared away the hindrances. Now, let’s
begin. We’re going to talk it over, Bob, and your wife is going to
help you with her big brain—oh, ever so much!”
“Well, I’ve got a week’s probation, so to speak,” he said, “and I’ll
jolly well try. All right, we’ll talk it over. You shall begin.”
She put her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on her hands.
“First of all, then, let’s get rid of all the old theories. You’ve
gone on the supposition that the murderer was near the spot all the
time, haven’t you?”
“Well, it looked like it.”
“I know. Now, is there anyone else living there whom you could
suspect?”
By this time he had a mental category of every man, woman and child at
Marsh Quay. He turned it over.
“No,” he said, “only boatmen and labourers—and a retired parson who
lives near, a very nice chap. Rule him out.”
“Very well. Then we’ll begin by assuming that the murderer came from a
distance.”
“Frattenbury?”
“Possibly. We’ll get back to that later on. Next point—the motive. Up
to now you’ve thought it was to get the diamonds. Let’s throw that
out; I’m sick of the diamonds.”
“You wouldn’t be if you had ’em, dear. All right, then the diamonds
shall go. Let’s say he was after something else.”
“And that something else was Templeton’s life.”
“Eh?”
“Why not? There is such a thing as premeditated murder, isn’t there?”
“You may be right,” he assented, “or Templeton may have been possessed
of something else——”
“That was worth taking his life to get! Remember _that_!” she said,
lifting a warning finger. “People don’t generally commit murder for
the sake of killing anyone, you know. Now, let’s get on. Let’s try and
picture how it was done.”
“I told you last night how I’d worked it out, dear. The murderer went
on board in the dinghy——”
“Stop, stop. Now remember, Bob, that’s an old theory. Everything we
discuss to-night must be a new idea. That theory presupposes that the
murderer was on the yacht first. Put it away. Tell me what other
alternatives were there? I’m out of my depth here.”
He thought carefully for a few minutes and replied:
“Only three, as far as I can see. First, some boat from outside came
in. Not likely, because one of the canoes was found unfastened in the
morning. Mrs. Yates told me this. Secondly, that the murderer went out
to the yacht in the canoe after Templeton had returned. Also unlikely,
because he would scarcely have transferred his stick to the dinghy.
Thirdly, that hardly seems probable.”
“Then it’s worth consideration, Bob. You’ve gone, too much, on
probabilities. Let’s have this ‘thirdly,’ please.”
She had never heard of the theologian’s famous dictum, “_Credo, quia
incredibile est_,” but it was the same line of reasoning.
“It’s this, then. Templeton himself rowed the murderer out in the
dinghy, the latter sitting in the stern and laying his stick down as
he sat. They both went on board and the murder was committed. Now
comes the improbable part. The murderer rowed back to shore in the
dinghy, ran the canoe down to the water, paddled back towing the
dinghy, made the latter fast again to the yacht, and finally returned
in the canoe, dragging her up again, but forgetting to fasten her
painter to the post as before.”
For some minutes Mrs. Colson gazed steadily into the fire in silence.
Colson refilled and lighted his pipe, and waited. Then she said:
“I see. But he might have had a very artful object in doing this. If
he went on board with Templeton, and he didn’t live at Marsh Quay, he
must have met him somewhere else first—and gone with him. Well, if
he’d only landed in the dinghy and left it on the shore, it would have
been a clear proof that Templeton had taken him on board—and if, by
any chance, they had happened to be seen by anybody _first_—he would
naturally have been suspected. His very best plan would be to leave
the dinghy fast to the yacht, and he could only have done so in the
way you say.”
Colson smoked for a moment or two.
“It was taking a big risk—risking time for getting clear away.”
“It was worth it, Bob. Would it make much noise—getting the canoe down
to the water?”
“Oh, no; it was lying on a patch of grass—the grass grows right down
to the water’s edge, you know—and if the tide wasn’t quite up—and it
wasn’t—there would be soft, sandy mud just there between the green and
the water’s edge. The stony part of the beach is nearer the quay. And
the canoe is almost light enough for a strong man to carry. No, there
needn’t have been any noise.”
She looked at him and smiled.
“We’re getting on, then.”
“There’s another point in favour—ah, you’ve scored again, dear—I was
just going to say that it would make things look so improbable.”
They both laughed heartily. Suddenly a little shadow came over her
face.
“My dear,” she said, “he’s a very clever man—I’m sure he is. Do take
care, Bob.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you match your wits against a man like this you have to be
careful. And he probably knows you’re doing it.”
“That’s all right,” he said; “he’s put me down as a blunderer long
ago. Remember, he knows nothing about the walking-stick or the cigar.
He can’t suspect.”
“Don’t let him, then. Well—let’s follow it up. He walked out with
Templeton from Frattenbury.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It don’t know—just because I’m a woman, and you can’t expect me
always to reason things out and say why. But I am going to think
now—don’t speak, Bob.”
There was a long silence. She suddenly turned towards him, gripped his
hand, and said:
“Bob!”
“What?”
“Suppose you’re mistaken again! And by our plan you _are_, you
know—because we’re trying everything fresh.”
“I don’t see what——”
“Don’t interrupt, dear. Suppose those stick marks were not made by
Templeton going _into_ Frattenbury, but were made by the murderer
walking out with him.”
“But that’s not likely. They were on the right side of the path coming
in, and——”
“You silly dear! But they were on the left-hand side going out.
Bob—look out for a left-handed man!”
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s something in that. In that case
Templeton _carried_ his stick in with him and didn’t put it to the
ground.”
“Was he short or tall?”
“Medium—inclined to be short.”
She clapped her hands.
“That’s it, dear!—look out for a tall, left-handed man. If only you
could find out whether Templeton _carried_ his stick—for certain——?”
“Stop—stop a bit!”
He got up and paced the little room, smoking furiously.
“I know!” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly. “There _is_ a chance of
finding out. If only he remembers.”
“Who?”
“I won’t tell you till I’m certain. Go on, dear.”
She waited a little.
“I can’t think of any more, Bob. Is there anything else
_new_—anything, I mean, that you haven’t followed up yet?”
“There’s that blotting-pad,” he said. “I don’t know that there’s
anything in it——”
“Then for goodness’ sake follow it up, Bob. That’s what I _mean_.”
“Well, the lawyer from London, Mr. Crosby, gave me a hint about that.
I’ll tell you.”
He produced his copy and showed her what Crosby had pointed out.
“Ezra Price—or Ezra Grice,” she said, “let’s take it then. How would
you work on it?”
After a bit he said:
“Well, the only way is this. If we take the letter at all as part of
the business, and fit it in with these new theories, we must assume
that the man to whom it was written knows something about Ezra. And we
are assuming that this man lives—or was at the time—in Frattenbury.
But I’ve never heard the name of Ezra—Price or Grice.”
“But you’ve only lived in Frattenbury six years, dear. Of course you
can’t expect to have heard of him. Can’t you find out if he was ever
here, or if anyone knew anything about him?”
“I might,” he said. “Mr. Buckland, the chemist, has got a pretty fair
memory of all kinds of people. He’s lived here all his life. We often
go to him when we want to find out the past of anyone. I’ll try him
to-morrow.”
She jumped up from her seat. “I’m going to get supper now, Bob. We’ve
done enough for to-night. Yes, we’ll have it early because you’re
going to be a nice old dear and take me to the pictures, and forget
there was ever a murder at Marsh Quay and a detective who did his
best, and then—even though he was a brainy, oh, ever so clever a man,
and wanted to be an inspector one day—had to take his little wife’s
advice, and pay for it in kisses—oh—that’s enough, Bob—it wasn’t worth
_all_ those.”
“The overplus were for yourself,” said Colson, “and I still owe a
heavy bill.”
Next day Colson, in a far more cheery mood, after seeing Constable
Gadsden for a moment and consulting the latter’s ponderous and
well-thumbed notebook, cycled once more on the now familiar road to
Marsh Quay, where he inquired at a cottage for one George Simmonds,
and was told by his wife that he was helping to load the _Lucy_, which
had returned once more for a cargo of gravel. He very soon found the
man and said to him:
“Have you got a good memory, Simmonds?”
“I remember the last man as stood me a pint o’ beer, guv’nor,” was the
response.
“Well, perhaps you’ll have the same cause to remember me when we’ve
finished. Anyhow, on the morning when the murder was discovered here
you told the police-constable you’d met Mr. Templeton the previous
afternoon—going into Frattenbury.”
“That’s right, guv’nor. ’Twarn’t he as give me that pint, though.”
“Quite so. Now, let’s see if you can tell me how he was dressed.”
The man described him pretty accurately.
“Good,” said the detective; “had he got anything in his hand?”
The man thought a moment.
“Yes—a stick. I didn’t take no notice on it, though—I can’t say what
’twas like.”
“Never mind that. Was he carrying it or walking with it?”
Simmonds grinned sheepishly and shook his head.
“Look here,” said Colson, picking up a bit of stick that was lying on
the ground, “this is what I mean. Did he hold it by the handle and
stick it in the ground like _this_—or carry it, by the middle, _so_?”
“Oh, I can easily tell ’ee that. He had it by the middle, same as you
have now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sartain, guv’nor—I see him a-doin’ on it.”
“All right. Here you are then.”
The man spat on the coin, pocketed it, and grinned.
“Thankee, guv’nor—that’s good for a quart, that is. I shan’t forget
_you_—if anyone wants to pay me for rememberin’.”
“_One_ to the wife,” said Colson as he sped back to Frattenbury. “Now
for Mr. Buckland.”
He found the chemist standing behind his counter, a grave-looking man
with wrinkled forehead and a big walrus moustache.
“I want a bit of information, if you can give it to me, Mr. Buckland.”
“Certainly. Come inside, won’t you?”
“Inside” was a tiny, dingy parlour at the back of the shop. The
chemist closed the door.
“Well, Mr. Colson?”
“You know most people who’ve lived here the last forty years, Mr.
Buckland. Did you ever hear of anyone by the name of Ezra Price?”
“Ezra Price,” reflected the chemist—“the name has a sort of familiar
sound. There aren’t many Ezras about, either. Ezra _Price_—it—somehow
doesn’t seem right—yet——”
“Ezra Grice, then.”
“Ezra _Grice_—that seems more like it—yes—now let me think—it must
have been a long time ago——Grice—yes—I know now. He was a lawyer’s
clerk—or something—I’m beginning to remember—a bad lot, wasn’t he? I’m
not sure. Stop, though—I know who’d tell you more about him. He was in
Mr. Norwood’s office—so far as I can recollect.”
“Mr. Norwood?”
“That’s it—you’d better try him.”
“All right, I will,” said the detective. “Thank you very much for
putting me on the scent.”
“Not at all.”
As he passed down the street, however, he saw Mr. Norwood hurrying
into the Magistrates’ Court which was then sitting. So, wishing to see
him at leisure, he called at the lawyer’s house in the evening, when
he felt pretty certain of finding him at home. He waited in the hall
while the maid tapped at the dining-room door and announced him.
“Oh—show him in here,” came a voice from the room.
Francis Norwood had just finished his solitary dinner and was draining
his glass of port.
“Good evening, sergeant,” he said in his formal manner. “Something you
want to see me about? Another inquest?”
“No, sir. But I thought you could give me some information—I was told
you could. I understand there was a young man employed by you—many
years ago.”
“I’ve employed a number of young men in my time—some of them to my
cost! What was his name?”
“Ezra Grice, sir.”
“Oh—oh—yes, I think I remember him. Of course I do.”
He reached for the decanter, noticed it was empty, and said:
“I was going to offer you a glass of port, sergeant, but I see there’s
none left. Will you have a whisky and soda?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Francis Norwood rose stiffly from his chair and opened the door of a
sideboard just behind him.
“Tut, tut!” he exclaimed, “there isn’t any decanter—oh, here’s a
bottle.”
He took a corkscrew from a drawer and drew the cork from the bottle,
Colson looking on in silence. Then he produced two tumblers and poured
whisky into both, filling them up with soda.
One he gave to Colson, and the other he kept for himself. First taking
a drink from it, he said:
“Well, now, I dare say I can help you. May I ask what you want to know
about Ezra Grice?”
“Eh? Oh—yes. Anything you can tell me, sir.”
“And why?”
“It concerns a case we have in hand, sir.”
Colson never gave anything away if he could help it.
“I see. Well, it’s years ago now—quite twenty years, sergeant. Grice
was my clerk. He must have been three or four and twenty at the time.
A sharp young fellow. His parents kept a little bookshop in the North
Street—they’re both dead now. Do you want to know why he left me?”
“If you please, sir.”
“I’m sorry to say I had to dismiss him; I ought to have prosecuted
him, but I didn’t. He robbed me, sergeant. For the sake of his
parents, who were respectable people and implored me not to put him in
prison, I spared him. He left Frattenbury at once, and, so far as I
know, he’s never entered it again.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I believe he emigrated—the best thing he could do. But, mind you,
I’ve never seen him since.”
“Have you ever heard of him, sir?”
“In a way. A rumour reached me some time ago that he was dead, but I
can’t vouch for it.”
“We should like to get hold of him if he’s alive,” said the detective,
after a short pause.
The lawyer took a sip at his glass, and replied in his dry, precise
manner:
“If you really want him, sergeant, I’d do anything I can in the
matter. Why not advertise for him? You’re quite welcome to use my name
in an advertisement—unless you think if he _is_ alive and sees the
advertisement it might frighten him? But, pray do what you think best.
If you like to step into my office in the morning I can show you his
record—and I may have notes about him you might like to see. Any way,
I’m quite at your service.”
“That is very kind of you, sir. We may try advertising.”
“Do—by all means. I hope it may be successful—if you want him. Good
evening, sergeant. Come to my office in the morning, then.”
When the detective had departed, the lawyer lighted a cigarette and
slowly finished his whisky; then he took up a newspaper he had laid
down on the table when Colson came in, and was studying it when the
maid announced:
“Dr. Hazell, sir.”
“Come in, Hazell.”
The little doctor entered. He was a bit flustered.
“Good evening, Norwood. I haven’t come in to stay. I say, you remember
when I was dining here some nights back Sir Peter told us about
‘Virginian Reefs’—said they were good, don’t you know?”
“Well?”
“I hope to the Lord you won’t get any, Norwood.”
The lawyer laughed his dry, short laugh.
“Why?”
“I was fool enough to buy five hundred of ’em, and they’re down to
fifteen shillings in to-night’s paper.”
“Perhaps they’ll pick up,” said Norwood. “Sir Peter seemed to think
so.”
“The worst of it is there’s another report. Not the one Sir Peter
spoke of, you know—and it’s a bad one. I can’t afford to lose the
money—I shall have to cut the loss. I’ve been a damn fool, Norwood.”
“I’m sorry,” said the lawyer, “but I’m afraid you have.”
“Well, at all events, I thought I’d warn you. Good night. I’ve got a
patient to see.”
“Good night, Doctor. Thank you very much.”
Meanwhile, Colson was making his way to the police station, which was
at the bottom of the South Street. He seemed a little lost in thought,
for he nearly ran into Canon Fittleworth, who was coming out of the
Close to post a letter.
“Oh,” said the Canon, recognising him, “have you got five minutes to
spare? Thanks. If you don’t mind coming round to my house a minute,
I’ve got that list ready.”
“I should like to have it very much, sir,” replied Colson.
The worthy Canon prided himself on his accuracy of detail. In his
study he produced his list.
“Mrs. Fittleworth and my daughter have carefully refreshed my memory,”
he said. “Half a dozen times we’ve gone over all the men who dined
here—or smoked with me—since I received that box of cigars. Here’s the
list. I hope it won’t help you in one way—I mean, they are all my
intimate friends!”
He handed a paper to the detective, who ran his eye down the names
eagerly. They were all prominent Frattenbury gentlemen—Dr. Hazell, Sir
Peter Birchnall, Cathedral dignitaries, and so on.
“I suppose you can’t remember if anyone here took away a cigar without
smoking it, sir?”
“Yes, I can,” said the Canon. “One of them who was dining here a few
weeks ago was so struck with the flavour, that I gave him a dozen of
them—put ’em in an empty box, and he took them with him.”
“Indeed. Who was he?”
And the Canon replied dryly, a twinkle in his eye:
“The Dean!”
Colson waited till he got outside the house. Then he said what he
thought:
“Damn these parsons!”