Mr. Justice
Just before entering the road in which Markfield lived, Sir Clinton
drew up his car; and as he did so, a constable in plain clothes
stepped forward.
“Dr. Markfield's in his house, sir,” he announced. “He came home just
before dinner-time.”
Sir Clinton nodded, let in his clutch, and drove round the corner to
Markfield's gate. As he stopped his engine, he glanced at the
house-front.
“Note that his garage is built into the house, Inspector,” he pointed
out. “That seems of interest, if there's a door from the house direct
into the garage, I think.”
They walked up the short approach and rang the bell. In a few moments
the door was opened by Markfield's housekeeper. Rather to her
surprise, Sir Clinton inquired about the health of her relation whom
she had been nursing.
“Oh, she's all right again, sir, thank you. I got back yesterday.”
She paused a moment as though in doubt, then added:
“I'm not sure if Dr. Markfield is free this evening, sir. He's
expecting a visitor.”
“We shan't detain him if his visitor arrives,” Sir Clinton assured
her, his manner leaving no doubt in her mind as to the advisability of
his own admission.
The housekeeper ushered them into Markfield's sitting-room, where they
found him by the fire, deep in a book. At the sound of Sir Clinton's
name he looked up with a glance which betrayed his annoyance at being
disturbed.
“I'm rather at a loss to understand this visit,” he said stiffly, as
they came into the room.
Sir Clinton refused to notice the obviously grudging tone of his
reception.
“We merely wish to have a few minutes’ talk, Dr. Markfield,” he
explained pleasantly. “Some information has come into my hands which
needs confirmation, and I think you'll be able to help us.”
Markfield glanced at the clock.
“I'm in the middle of an experiment,” he said gruffly. “I've got to
run it through, now that it's started. If you're going to be long. I'd
better bring the things in here and then I can oversee it while I'm
talking to you.”
Without waiting for permission, he left the room and came back in a
couple of minutes with a tray on which stood some apparatus.
Flamborough noticed a conical flask containing some limpid liquid, and
a stoppered bottle. Markfield clamped a dropping funnel, also
containing a clear liquid, so that its spout entered the conical
flask; and by turning the tap of the funnel slightly, he allowed a
little of the contents to flow down into the flask.
“I hope the smell doesn't trouble you,” he said, in a tone of sour
apology. “It's the triethylamine I'm mixing with the tetranitromethane
in the flask. Rather a fishy stink it has.”
He arranged the apparatus on the table so that he could reach the tap
conveniently without rising from his chair; then, after admitting a
little more of the liquid from the funnel into the flask, he seated
himself once more and gave Sir Clinton his attention.
“What is it you want to know?” he demanded abruptly.
Sir Clinton refused to be hurried. Putting his hand into his
breast-pocket, he drew out some sheets of typewriting which he placed
on the table before him, as though for future reference. Then he
turned to his host.
“Some time ago, a man Peter Whalley came to us and made a statement,
Dr. Markfield.”
Markfield's face betrayed some surprise.
“Whalley?” he asked. “Do you mean the man who was murdered on the
Lizardbridge Road?”
“He was murdered, certainly,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “But as I said,
he made a statement to us. I'm not very clear about some points, and I
think you might be able to fill in one or two of the gaps.”
Markfield's face showed a quick flash of suspicion.
“I'm not very sure what you mean,” he said, doubtfully, “If you're
trying to trap me into saying things that might go against Silverdale,
I may as well tell you I've no desire to give evidence against him.
I'm sure he's innocent; and I don't wish to say anything to give you a
handle against him. That's frank enough, isn't it?”
“If it relieves your mind, I may as well say I agree with you on that
point, Dr. Markfield. So there's no reason why you shouldn't give us
your help.”
Markfield seemed slightly taken aback by this, but he did his best to
hide his feelings.
“Go on, then,” he said. “What is it you want?”
Sir Clinton half-opened the paper on the table, then took away his
hand as though he needed no notes at the moment.
“It appears that on the night of the affair at the bungalow, when Mrs.
Silverdale met her death, Peter Whalley was walking along the
Lizardbridge Road, coming towards town,” Sir Clinton began. “It was a
foggy night, you remember. He'd just passed the bungalow gate when he
noticed, ahead of him, the headlights of a car standing by the
roadside; and he appears to have heard voices.”
The Inspector listened to this with all his ears. Where had Sir
Clinton fished up this fresh stock of information, evidently of
crucial importance? Then a recollection of the Chief Constable's
warning flashed through his mind and he schooled his features into a
mask of impassivity. A glance at Markfield showed that the chemist,
though outwardly uninterested, was missing no detail of the story.
“It seems,” Sir Clinton went on, “that the late Mr. Whalley came up to
the car and found a man and a girl in the front seat. The girl seemed
to be in an abnormal state; and Mr. Whalley, from his limited
experience, inferred that she was intoxicated. The man, Whalley
thought, had stopped the car to straighten her in the seat and make
her look less conspicuous; but as soon as Whalley appeared out of the
night, the man started the car again and drove slowly past him towards
the bungalow.”
Sir Clinton mechanically smoothed out his papers, glanced at them, and
then continued:
“The police can't always choose their instruments, Dr. Markfield. We
have to take witnesses where we can get them. Frankly, then, the late
Mr. Whalley was not an admirable character—far from it. He'd come upon
a man and a girl alone in a car, and the girl was apparently not in a
fit state to look after herself. An affair of this sort would bring
two ideas into Mr. Whalley's mind. Clothing them in vulgar language,
they'd be: ‘Here's a bit o’ fun, my word!’ and ‘What is there in it
for me?’ He had a foible for trading on the weaknesses of his
fellow-creatures, you understand?”
Markfield nodded grimly, but made no audible comment.
“The late Mr. Whalley, then, stared after the car; and, to his joy, no
doubt, he saw it turn in at the gate of the bungalow. He guessed the
place was empty, since there hadn't been a light showing in it when he
passed it a minute or two before. Not much need to analyse Mr.
Whalley's ideas in detail, is there? He made up his mind that a
situation of this sort promised him some fun after his own heart,
quite apart from any little financial pickings he might make out of it
later on, if he were lucky. So he made his best pace after the car.”
Sir Clinton turned over a page of the notes before him and, glancing
at the document, knitted his brows slightly.
“The late Mr. Whalley wasn't a perfect witness of course, and I'm
inclined to think that at this point I can supply a missing detail in
the story. A second car came on the scene round about this period—a
car driving in towards town—and it must have met the car with the man
and the girl in it just about this time. But that's not in Mr.
Whalley's statement. It's only a surmise of my own, and not really
essential.”
Inspector Flamborough had been growing more and more puzzled as this
narrative unfolded. He could not imagine how the Chief Constable had
accumulated all this information. Suddenly the explanation crossed his
mind.
“Lord! He's bluffing! He's trying to persuade Markfield that we know
all about it already. These are just inferences of his; and he's put
the double bluff on Markfield by pretending that Whalley's statement
wasn't quite full and that he's filling the gap with a guess of his
own. What a nerve!” he commented to himself.
“By the time the late Mr. Whalley reached the bungalow gate,” Sir
Clinton pursued, “the man had got the girl out of the car and both of
them had gone into the house. Mr. Whalley, it seems, went gingerly up
the approach, and, as he did so, a light went on in one of the front
rooms of the bungalow. The curtains were drawn. The late Mr. Whalley,
with an eye to future profit, took the precaution of noting the number
of the motor, which was standing at the front door.”
Flamborough glanced at Markfield to see what effect Sir Clinton was
producing. To his surprise, the chemist seemed in no way perturbed.
With a gesture as though asking permission, he leaned over and ran a
little of the liquid from the funnel into the flask, shook the mixture
gently for a moment or two, and then turned back to Sir Clinton. The
Inspector, watching keenly, could see no tremor in his hand as he
carried out the operations.
“The late Mr. Whalley,” Sir Clinton continued, when Markfield had
finished his work. “The late Mr. Whalley did not care about hanging
round the front of the bungalow. If he stood in front of the lighted
window, anyone passing on the road would be able to see him outlined
against the glare; and that might have led to difficulties. So he
passed round to the second window of the same room, which looked out
on the side of the bungalow and was therefore not so conspicuous from
the road. Just as he turned the corner of the building, he heard a
second car stop at the gate.”
Sir Clinton paused here, as though undecided about the next part of
his narrative. He glanced at Markfield, apparently to see whether he
was paying attention; then he proceeded.
“The late Mr. Whalley tip-toed along to this side-window of the
lighted room, and, much to his delight, I've no doubt, he found that
the curtains had been carelessly drawn, so that a chink was left
between them through which he could peep into the room. He stepped on
to the flower-bed, bent down, and peered through the aperture. I hope
I make myself clear, Dr. Markfield?”
“Quite,” said Markfield curtly.
Sir Clinton nodded in acknowledgment, glanced once more at his papers
as though to refresh his memory, and continued:
“What he saw was this. The girl was lying in an arm-chair near the
fireplace. The late Mr. Whalley, again misled by his limited
experience, thought she'd fallen asleep—the effects of alcohol, he
supposed, I believe. The young man who was with her—we may save the
trouble by calling him Hassendean, I think—seemed rather agitated, but
not quite in the way that the late Mr. Whalley had anticipated.
Hassendean spoke to the girl and got no reply, evidently. He shook her
gently, and so on; but he got no response. I think we may cut out the
details. The net result was that to Mr. Whalley's inexperienced eye,
the girl looked very far gone. Hassendean seemed to be thunderstruck
by the situation, which puzzled the late Mr. Whalley considerably at
the time.”
Markfield, apparently unimpressed, leaned across and ran some more of
the liquid out of his funnel. Flamborough guessed the movement might
be intended to conceal his features from easy observation.
“The next stage in the proceedings took the late Mr. Whalley by
surprise, it seems,” Sir Clinton went on. “Leaving the girl where she
was, young Hassendean left the room for a minute or two. When he came
back, he had a pistol in his hand. This was not at all what the late
Mr. Whalley had been expecting. Least of all did he expect to see
young Hassendean go up to the girl, and shoot her in the head at close
quarters. I'm sure you'll appreciate the feelings of the late Mr.
Whalley at this stage, Dr. Markfield.”
“Surprising,” Markfield commented abruptly.
Sir Clinton nodded in agreement.
“What must have been even more surprising was the sequel. The glass of
the front window broke with a blow, and from behind the curtains a man
appeared, who fell upon Hassendean. There was a struggle, a couple of
shots from Hassendean's pistol, and then Hassendean fell on the
ground—dead, as Whalley supposed at the time.”
Flamborough stared hard at Markfield, but at that moment the chemist
again turned in his chair, ran the remainder of the liquid from the
funnel into his flask, and then refilled the funnel from the bottle on
the tray. This done, he turned once more with an impassive face to Sir
Clinton.
“By this time, the late Mr. Whalley seems to have seen all that he
wanted. Just as he was turning away from the window, he noticed the
new-comer take some small object from his waistcoat pocket and drop it
on the floor. Then Mr. Whalley felt it was time to make himself
scarce. He stepped back on to the path, made his way round the
bungalow, hurried down the approach to the gate. There he came across
a car—evidently the one in which the assailant had arrived. The late
Mr. Whalley, even at this stage, was not quite free from his second
idea: ‘What is there in it for me?’ He took the number of the car, and
then he made himself scarce.”
Sir Clinton stopped for a moment or two and gazed across at Markfield
with an inscrutable face.
“By the way, Dr. Markfield,” he added in a casual tone, “what was the
pet name that Mrs. Silverdale used to call you when you were alone
together—the one beginning with ‘B’?”
This time, it was evident to the Inspector, Sir Clinton had got home
under Markfield's guard. The chemist glanced up with more than a shade
of apprehension on his face. He seemed to be making a mental estimate
of the situation before he replied.
“H'm! You know that, do you?” he said finally. “Then there's no use
denying it, I suppose. She used to call me ‘Bear’ usually. She said I
had the manners of one, at times; and perhaps there was something in
that.”
Sir Clinton showed no sign that he attached much importance to
Markfield's explanation.
“You became intimate with her some time in 1925, I think, just after
the Silverdales came here?”
Markfield nodded his assent.
“And very shortly after that, you and she thought it best to conceal
your liaison by seeing as little of each other as possible in public,
so as not to draw attention to your relations?”
“That's true.”
“And finally she got hold of young Hassendean to serve as a blind?
Advertised herself with him openly, whilst you stayed in the
background?”
“You seem to know a good deal about it,” Markfield admitted coldly.
“I think I know all that matters,” the Chief Constable commented.
“You've lost the game, Dr. Markfield.”
Markfield seemed to consider the situation rapidly before he spoke
again.
“You can't make it worse than manslaughter,” he said at last. “It's no
more than that, on the evidence you've given me just now. I saw him
shoot Yvonne, and then, in the struggle afterwards, his pistol went
off twice by accident and hit him. You couldn't call that a case of
murder. I shall plead that it was done in self-defence; and you
haven't Whalley to put into the box against me.”
Sir Clinton took no pains to conceal a sardonic smile.
“It won't do, Dr. Markfield,” he pointed out. “You might get off on
that plea if it were only the bungalow business that you were charged
with. But there's the murder of the maid at Heatherfield as well. You
can't twist that into a self-defence affair. No jury would look at it
for a moment.”
“You seem to know a good deal about it,” Markfield repeated
thoughtfully.
“I suppose what you really wanted at Heatherfield was a packet of your
love-letters to Mrs. Silverdale?” Sir Clinton asked.
Markfield confirmed this with a nod.
“That's all you have against me, I suppose?” he demanded after a
pause.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“No,” he said, “there's the affair of the late Mr. Whalley as well.”
Markfield's face betrayed neither surprise nor chagrin at this fresh
charge.
“That's all, then?” he questioned again, with apparent unconcern.
“All that's of importance,” Sir Clinton admitted. “Of course, in the
guise of our friend Mr. Justice, you did your best to throw suspicion
on Silverdale. That's a minor point, so far as you're concerned now.
It's curious how you murderers can't leave well alone. If you hadn't
played the fool there, you'd have given us ever so much more trouble.”
Markfield made no answer at the moment. He seemed to be reviewing the
whole situation in his mind, thinking hard before he broke the
silence.
“Good thing, a scientific training,” he said at length, rather
unexpectedly. “It teaches one to realise the bearing of plain facts.
My game seems to be up. You've been too smart for me.”
He paused, and a grim smile crossed his face, as though he found
something humorous in the situation.
“You seem to have enough stuff there to pitch a tale to a jury,” he
continued, “and I daresay you've more in reserve. I'm not inclined to
be dragged squalling to the gallows—too undignified for my taste. I'll
tell you the facts.”
Flamborough, eager that things should be done in proper form,
interposed the usual official cautionary statement.
“That's all right,” Markfield answered carelessly. “You'll find paper
over yonder on my desk, beside the typewriter. You can take down what
I say, and I'll sign it afterwards if you think that necessary when
I've finished.”
The Inspector crossed the room, picked up a number of sheets of
typewriting paper, and returned to the table. He pulled out his
fountain-pen and prepared to take notes.
“Mind if I light my pipe?” Markfield inquired.
As the chemist put his hand to his pocket, Flamborough half-rose from
his seat; but he sank back again into his chair when a tobacco-pouch
appeared instead of the pistol which he had been afraid might be
produced. Markfield threw him a glance which showed he had fathomed
the meaning of the Inspector's start.
“Don't get nervous,” he said contemptuously. “There'll be no shooting.
This isn't a film, you know.”
He reached up to the mantelpiece for his pipe, charged it
deliberately, lighted it, and then turned to Sir Clinton.
“You've got a warrant for my arrest, I suppose?” he asked in a tone
which sounded almost indifferent.
Sir Clinton's affirmative reply did not seem to disturb him. He
settled himself comfortably in his chair and appeared interested
chiefly in getting his pipe to burn well.
“I'll speak slowly,” he said at last, turning to the Inspector. “If I
go too fast, just let me know.”
Flamborough nodded and sat, pen in hand, waiting for the opening of
the narrative.