Colson’s “Imagination”
The maid who opened the door looked a little surprised when she found
herself confronted with the four men.
“I think the Canon is engaged,” she began, “he has someone——”
“Oh, he’s expecting us—one of us, at least,” said the Chief Constable.
“I think he’ll see us. Who is with him?”
“Mr. Norwood, sir.”
“Very well, will you show us in, please? Except this gentleman—he will
wait in the hall.”
The Canon rose from his seat as the three policemen entered. Neither
of them was in uniform. Major Renshaw, a punctilious man, wore evening
dress. He always dressed for dinner.
Francis Norwood, seated in an arm-chair near the fire, also rose when
he saw Major Renshaw. The Canon held out his hand in greeting.
“This is a surprise,” he said; “I hardly expected——”
“You must forgive this intrusion, Canon,” interrupted the Chief
Constable. “Sergeant Colson mentioned that he was going to see you
this evening, and we’ve taken the liberty of coming with him.”
As he spoke he did not take the Canon’s proffered hand. Instead, he
bowed stiffly to him and Francis Norwood—who sat down once more.
Indeed, the whole attitude of Major Renshaw savoured of officialism.
The Canon apparently, noticed it. He stiffened slightly.
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked.
The Chief Constable and the superintendent took the chairs he offered
near the middle of the room. Colson, who had one hand behind his back,
sat down in a chair near the door. When he had done so, he stooped to
lay down his hat and stick, which he placed on the floor, behind a
sofa.
“If I’m in the way, Fittleworth——” began Norwood.
“Not at all,” broke in the Chief Constable; “don’t let us disturb
you.”
Canon Fittleworth sat down again, wiped his pince-nez with his
handkerchief, and adjusted them on his nose, and said, addressing the
Major:
“Well now, Major, I don’t know the purpose of your visit, but can only
presume you have some news to impart. Is it about my late cousin?”
“Yes, it is—something you ought to know.”
“In that case,” said the Canon, “Mr. Norwood will be interested too.”
Norwood nodded his head slightly, and said in his judicial manner:
“Naturally. My business with the unhappy affair ended, of course, with
the verdict that was returned. But, as a private individual, I may be
allowed some curiosity. Is there anything fresh, Major?”
“There is,” said the Chief Constable, but addressing his remarks to
the Canon as he spoke. “Detective-Sergeant Colson, as you know, has
had the case in hand, and I’m going to ask you to let him tell you in
his own way.”
“Very well,” said the Canon to Colson, “we shall be pleased to hear
you.”
Colson’s face flushed slightly; he glanced round the room, and finally
fixed his gaze on Canon Fittleworth. It was some moments before he
began—the Chief Constable had even to say to him:
“Go on, Colson.”
“Well, sir,” said Colson, addressing the Canon, and never looking at
anyone else, “this has not been an easy case at all, and I don’t mind
confessing that I’ve blundered considerably.”
“You’ve done your best, sergeant, I’m sure. And no man can do more.”
It was Norwood who spoke, but Colson took no notice of him. He only
seemed to be aware of Canon Fittleworth’s presence. He went on:
“My initial mistake, which led to others, was in taking it for granted
that robbery was the motive for the murder—I allude to the diamonds.
There were three persons who came under suspicion—there were ugly
facts against each of them, especially as one of them was possessed of
cigars of the same brand as those which you smoke, sir. And, in spite
of the band being changed—or, rather, because of it—we felt quite sure
that this individual was our man.”
“What do you mean by the cigar band being changed?” asked Norwood.
But the detective never removed his eyes from the Canon.
“Yes—it was changed,” he said. “I’ll come to that later on. Well, as I
was saying, these three men were cleared of all complicity with the
crime. As for your cigars, Canon Fittleworth”—and he took a paper from
his pocket—“I have a list here of all the persons to whom you gave any
of those particular cigars, and I am satisfied that not one of them
committed the murder, or knew anything about it.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” said the Canon, a little uncomfortably,
for the detective’s fixed gaze was beginning to fascinate him
strangely.
“It’s true,” went on Colson. “Well, the time came when I dismissed
from my mind the idea that the robbery of the diamonds was the motive.
I had to begin all over again. And now, Canon Fittleworth, I want to
tell you how I imagine in my own mind that your cousin was done to
death.”
“Do you _know_?”
“I said ‘imagine,’ sir. Few people have ever witnessed the actual
committal of a murder. Mr. Templeton, I think, was killed because he
was a very foolish man. I would go so far as to say that he probably
brought it on himself.”
“But——” began the Canon.
“Please, sir,” said the detective, holding up his hand, “let me tell
my story in my own way. I want you to follow your cousin’s movements
in your mind from the time he left this house on the Saturday night.”
“This is all imagination, I think you said?” asked Francis Norwood.
“This is all imagination, yes. But imagination often helps to
reconstruct a crime. Well, sir, he left your house to keep an
appointment.”
“With whom?” asked the Canon.
“Ah,” replied Colson, “there is no one to tell us that. There were no
witnesses, we will suppose. Imagination, sir! He kept the appointment
then. In Frattenbury. As this is imagination, we will call the person
with whom he had an appointment ‘Mr. Blank.’ The end of this
appointment was, that he and ‘Mr. Blank’ walked back together to Marsh
Quay.”
“Why?” asked the Canon.
“Probably—for I don’t know—because your cousin asked him to go,” said
Colson. “I told you he was a very foolish man. I believe he had faced
many dangers in the course of his life, but he was never in so much
danger as when he took that walk back to his yacht. Shall I tell you
the way the two men went? Yes? Imagination, remember, sir! Well, they
didn’t start along the well-lighted South Street. They went down the
parallel street—only two lamps in it, sir—and hardly a soul there at
that time of night. Then they went on to the Canal Basin—‘Mr. Blank’
had chosen the route—turned sharply to the right, crossed the main
road, and took the field path leading to Marsh Quay.
“When they reached the shore your cousin pulled ‘Mr. Blank’ out to the
yacht in his dinghy. ‘Mr. Blank’ was smoking a cigar at the time—or
lighted it when he got on board the yacht.”
“Why do you imagine that my cousin took him on board?”
“My fancy, sir, if you like. Let us say that there was something on
board which your cousin had promised to show ‘Mr. Blank’—or to give to
him. And as soon as he produced it, ‘Mr. Blank,’ who, I think, must
have armed himself with a weapon for the purpose, killed your cousin.”
“But why——”
“Stop a moment, sir. Hear me out. ‘Mr. Blank,’ who had not noticed
that the band had dropped off his cigar, very quickly relieved your
cousin of any papers he had on him—we will imagine there was a reason
for this—then he rowed ashore in the dinghy and did a very curious
thing—it puzzled my imagination—at first. But I thought out a reason
for it. He got hold of a canoe and took the dinghy back to the yacht
again, making her fast, and finally paddled himself to shore in the
canoe and walked back to Frattenbury, where he let himself into his
house before, we will imagine, the theatrical performance at the Town
Hall was quite over. Well, sir, _that’s_ my theory of how your cousin
was murdered.”
He paused. The Chief Constable and the superintendent sat like two
statues. Francis Norwood leaned a little forward in his chair, and
remarked, with a touch of sarcasm:
“A very lucid story, sergeant. I hope you may be successful in
tracking down this ‘Mr. Blank.’”
But, again ignoring the coroner, Colson went on—to the Canon:
“What do you think of it, sir?”
“I don’t know what to think. It’s so very strange. But, to confine
ourselves to your definition, can you imagine the motive?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Colson, very quietly. “I think I can.”
“What was it?”
“Something that the law would call by a very ugly name—‘blackmail.’
That’s what I think, sir.”
“Blackmail!—this ‘Mr. Blank’?”
“No, sir. Mr. Templeton!”
“My cousin a blackmailer!” exclaimed Canon Fittleworth.
“Preposterous!”
“I said that’s what the law would call him, sir. Please—let me go on.
I haven’t quite finished. Let me imagine something further.”
For the first time since he had begun to speak, he took his eyes off
the Canon, and gave a rapid glance at Superintendent Norton. Then he
looked at the Canon again.
“What I am about to imagine now,” he said slowly, “is first that the
Dean gave ‘Mr. Blank’ one of the Canon’s cigars, secondly that ‘Mr.
Blank’ was a left-handed man, and thirdly that he made one fatal
mistake—he left his walking-stick in the dinghy—and this is it!”
He lifted the walking-stick, suddenly, from behind the sofa and held
it out to the Canon. Then he turned in a flash, and sprang across the
room.
“Mr. Norwood, I arrest you for the murder of Reginald Templeton.”
There was a flash of steel and a click. Francis Norwood, who had risen
to his feet when Colson had darted towards him, stood there, the
handcuffs on his wrist.
“Damn you!” he exclaimed, for once losing his frigidity. “What do you
mean? That isn’t my stick. I had one like it, it is true, but I know
that isn’t mine—I——”
“Norwood,” broke in the Chief Constable sternly, “it is my duty to
warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be given in
evidence.”
“It _is_ your stick,” said Colson gravely. “Your housekeeper
recognised it this evening. I’ve had it from the first. The one you
removed from the dinghy the next night was a dummy. I put it there.”
The astonished Canon looked from one to the other, and exclaimed to
Major Renshaw:
“Is this—is this extraordinary action countenanced by _you_, Major?”
“I fear it is, Canon,” replied Major Renshaw. “Knowing what we do—and
there is a great deal more—I have no option in the matter.”
“But this is terrible—terrible!”
Francis Norwood, still deadly pale, recovered a little from the shock.
“This is unpardonable of you, Major Renshaw. I demand an explanation.”
“Colson will give you one, Mr. Norwood. But I fear it will not help
you.”
He nodded to the detective, who opened the door. A thin, white-faced,
emaciated man came into the room. Norwood regarded him with horror.
“Ezra Grice!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “I—I thought he was dead!”
“I know you did,” said Colson, “or you wouldn’t have been so eager to
help with that advertisement. Shall I ask Grice to tell his story?”
“No—no,” said the lawyer. “No—yes—I don’t care if he does. It’s all a
pack of lies, and he can’t prove anything.”
“It doesn’t matter whether he can or not,” said Colson. “I haven’t
arrested you because of something you did twenty years ago. You are
charged with murder—not embezzlement. May I go on, sir?” he asked the
Chief Constable.
“It is irregular, Colson,” said the Major stiffly.
“I should very much like to know more,” put in the bewildered Canon.
“I think I have a right to ask. You’ve arrested one of my friends in
my own house—charged with the murder of my cousin. Norwood,” and he
went up to the lawyer, “won’t you tell me you didn’t do this awful
thing? I can’t believe it!”
“You’ve heard what Major Renshaw said,” replied Norwood. “Anything I
say may incriminate me. I have no desire to discuss the matter further
at this point.”
“We owe you a further explanation, Canon, as you say,” remarked the
Chief Constable, “and with your permission, Colson shall remain—and
Mr. Grice.”
The Canon nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “They may stay.”
“Come!” said the superintendent. Between him and the Chief Constable
the coroner walked out of the room, and a motor was heard a few
moments later. Canon Fittleworth sat down and buried his head in his
hands. Presently he said:
“I’m thankful my wife and daughter are not at home.”
“It wouldn’t have happened here, sir, if they had been, I assure you.
You told me, you know, that you were alone.”
The Canon nodded.
“Go on,” he said. “I want to hear it all—poor Reginald!”
“It’s a long story, sir, but I’ll try to make it as short as possible.
The first idea that set me on the right track was that the murderer
was a left-handed man. I found out that Mr. Templeton did not walk
with a stick—I mean, didn’t put the point to the ground. There were
square tracks of the stick’s ferrule on the path to Marsh Quay, on the
left side as you go out.”
“But what made you suspect the stick had anything to do with it?”
Colson told him how the dummy one had been removed on the night after
the murder, and then went on.
“I was on the look-out for a left-handed man, and one day I saw Mr.
Norwood draw a cork from a bottle. He held the bottle with his right
hand and drew it with his left. It seemed preposterous, but when I
noticed him another day walking down the street with a stick in his
left hand it set me thinking. I got the report of the inquest, and
studied it carefully, noting all the coroner’s questions. And it
seemed to me that he was particularly anxious to find out whether
anyone had an idea as to your cousin’s appointment. Also, when Jim
Webb mentioned that he had read the address on the letter to you, he
questioned him narrowly as to whether he had read any other addresses.
Then he must have felt secure until you produced that cigar band. I
thought for a long time that Proctor had changed it, but when I found
he hadn’t, I knew it could only have been the coroner himself.”
“Why?”
“There were several old bands off cigars that had been smoked by
Grayson, lying in the grate. Don’t you remember that the coroner
dropped some papers in the grate, and stooped down to get them? So did
Proctor. That’s why I suspected him first. Afterwards I saw it all.
While that cigar band was passing round the jury, the coroner picked
up one from the grate and changed it. Clever! But it was a foolish
thing to do, as it turned out.
“You told me you gave a dozen of your cigars to the Dean. He
remembered that when Norwood was dining with him afterwards—just a day
or two before the murder—he smoked one of them, and liked it so much
that the Dean gave him a couple, which he put in his case.
“Well, in Norwood’s hall, when I went to see him one day, I noticed
several queer photographs and old weapons—three or four small daggers
among them—hanging on the wall. Then Mr. Crosby was a great help; he
put me on the track of finding Ezra Grice. There was a letter partly
blotted on Mr. Templeton’s blotting-pad that gave us the clue. And Mr.
Crosby also found out the beginning of the whole story, and
accidentally discovered that the coroner was speculating heavily—and
that had a lot to do with things. He wanted money.”
“Dear me,” said the Canon. “I imagined him to be a wealthy man.”
“So did most people, sir, but after what we heard we made inquiries,
and found out a lot about him. And I assure you that even if I hadn’t
arrested him to-night, he’d very soon have been in the bankruptcy
court.”
“You astonish me.”
“It’s true, sir. Now, when our friend Ezra Grice here arrived from
South Africa, he solved the rest of the mystery. We have his sworn
statement. Will you tell the Canon, Mr. Grice?”
Grice, who had not spoken hitherto, said:
“Yes, I will. Where shall I begin?”
“At the beginning—twenty years ago.”
“You’ll find it a strange story, sir,” said Colson. “And it will
explain why I said the law would have called your cousin a
blackmailer.”