The Connecting Thread
“I don't see how you did it,” Markfield began, “but you got to the
root of things when you traced a connection between me and Yvonne
Silverdale. I'd never expected that. And considering how we'd kept our
affairs quiet for years, I thought I'd be safe at the end of it all.
“It was in 1925, as you said, that the thing began—just after
Silverdale came to the Croft-Thornton. There was a sort of amateur
dramatic show afoot then, and both Yvonne and I joined it. That
brought us together first. The rest didn't take long. I suppose it was
a case of the attraction of opposites. One can't explain that sort of
thing on any rational basis. It just happened.”
He hesitated for a moment, as though casting his mind back to these
earlier times; then he continued:
“Once it _had_ happened, I did the thinking for the pair of us.
Clearly enough, the thing was to avoid suspicion. That meant that
people mustn't couple our names even casually. And the way to prevent
that was to see as little of each other as possible in public. I
dropped out of things, cut dances, left the theatrical affair, and
posed as being engrossed in work. She advertised herself as dance-mad.
It suited her well enough. Result: we hardly ever were seen in the
same room. No one thought of linking our names in the remotest way. I
gave her no presents. . . .”
“Think again,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “You gave her at least one
present.”
Markfield reflected for some moments; then his face showed more than a
trace of discomfiture.
“You mean a signet-ring? Good Lord! I forgot all about it, that night
at the bungalow! So that's where you got your story about the initial
‘B.’ from? I never thought of that.”
Sir Clinton made no comment, and after a few seconds Markfield
continued.
“In the early days, we wrote letters to each other—just a few. Later
on, I urged her to burn them, for safety's sake. But she treasured
them, apparently; and she wouldn't do it. She said they were quite
safe in a locked drawer in her bedroom. Silverdale never entered her
room, you know. It seemed safe enough. It was these damned letters
that landed me in the end.
“Yvonne and I hadn't any reason to worry about Silverdale. He'd lost
all interest in her and gone off after Avice Deepcar. Oh, that was all
quite respectable and above-board. She's a decent girl—nothing against
her. We'd have been quite glad to see him marry her, except that it
wouldn't have suited our book. My screw was good enough for a single
man. It wouldn't have kept two of us—not on the basis we needed,
anyhow. And a divorce case might have got me chucked out of the
Croft-Thornton. Where would we have been then? So you see that alley
was barred.
“By and by, young Hassendean turned up. When I found he was getting
keen on Yvonne, I encouraged her to keep him on her string. She had no
use for the boy except as a dancing-partner; but we used him as a
blind to cover the real state of affairs. So long as people could talk
about him and her, they weren't likely to think of her and me. So she
led him on until the brat thought he was indispensable. I suppose he
fell in love with her, in a way. We never imagined he might be
dangerous.
“That was the state of things up to ten days before the affair at the
bungalow. There seemed to be no reason why it shouldn't have lasted
for years. But just then Yvonne got news of this money that had been
left her—about £12,000. That put a new light on the affair. It gave
her an income of her own. We could afford to let Silverdale divorce
her; then I could have chucked the Croft-Thornton, married her, and
set up in private practice somewhere. Her money would have kept us
going until I had scraped a business together; and no one cares a damn
about the matrimonial affairs of a chemical expert in private
practice.
“We talked it over, and we practically made up our minds to take that
course. It seemed a bit too good to be true. Anyhow it would have got
us out of all the hole-and-corner business. After three years of that,
we were getting a bit sick of it. Another week or two, and Westerhaven
would have had all the scandal it needed, if it was inclined that way.
We'd have got each other. And Silverdale could have married his girl
with all the sympathy of the town. Ideal, eh?”
He puffed savagely at his pipe for a moment or two before speaking
again.
“Then that young skunk Hassendean. . . . He must needs get above
himself and ruin the whole scheme, damn him! I can only guess what
happened. He got to know about the properties of hyoscine. There was
plenty of it at the Croft-Thornton. He must have stolen some of it and
used it to drug Yvonne that night. However, that's going a bit fast.
I'll tell you what happened, as it seemed to me.”
Markfield paused and glanced inquiringly at the Inspector.
“It's all right,” Flamborough reassured him. “If you don't speak
quicker than that, I can take it down easily.”
Markfield leaned over and gave the contents of his flask a gentle
shake before continuing his narrative.
“That night, I'd been out late at the Research Station on a piece of
work. I mean I'd gone there after dinner for a few minutes. When I
finished, I came in by the Lizardbridge Road in my car. It was a bit
foggy, and I was driving slowly. Just after I'd passed the bungalow, I
met an open car. We were both crawling, owing to the fog; and I had a
good look at the people in the other car. One was young Hassendean.
The other was Yvonne; and even as I passed them, I could see there was
something queer about the business. Besides, what would she be doing
with that young whelp away out of town? I knew her far too well to
think she was up to any hanky-panky with him.
“It looked queer. So as soon as I was past them, I turned my car,
meaning to follow them and stand by. Unfortunately in the fog, I
almost ditched my car in turning; and it gave me some trouble to swing
round—one wheel got into the trench at the edge of the road. It was a
minute or so before I got clear again. Then I went off after them.
“I saw the car at the door of the bungalow, and some lights on in the
place which hadn't been there when I'd passed it on my way down. So I
stopped my car at the gate and walked up to the bungalow door. It was
locked.
“I didn't care about hammering on the door. That would only have put
Hassendean on the alert and left me still on the wrong side of the
door. So I walked round to the lighted window and managed to get a
glimpse of the room through the curtains. Yvonne was lying back in an
armchair, facing me. I thought she'd fainted or something like that.
The whole affair puzzled me a bit, you see. That young skunk
Hassendean was wandering about the room, evidently in a devil of a
state of nerves about something or other.
“Just as I was making up my mind to break the window, he bolted out of
the room; and I thought he meant to clear off from the house, leaving
Yvonne there—ill, perhaps. That made me pretty mad; and I kept my eye
on the front door to see that he didn't get away without my catching
him. That prevented me from breaking the window and climbing into the
room.
“Then, a bit to my surprise, the young swine came back again with
something in his hand—I couldn't see what it was then. He walked over
to where Yvonne was, in the chair, lifted his arm, and shot her in the
head. Deliberately. Nothing like an accident, remember. And there,
before my eyes, I saw the whole of our dreams collapsing, just when we
thought they were going to come true. Pretty stiff, wasn't it?”
He bent forward and made a pretence of knocking the ashes from his
pipe. When he looked up again, his face was set once more.
“I'm no psychologist to spin you a yarn about how I felt just then,”
he continued. “In fact, I doubt if I felt anything except that I
wanted to down that young hound. Anyhow, I broke the glass, got my
hand inside, undid the catch, and was through the curtain before he
knew what was happening. I don't know what he thought when he saw me.
His face was almost worth it—sheer amazement and terror. He was just
bringing up his pistol when I dropped on him and got his wrist. Then
there was a bit of a struggle; but he hadn't a chance against me. I
shot him twice in the body and when he dropped, with blood coming from
his mouth, I knew I'd got him in the lung, and I didn't bother further
about him. He seemed done for. I hoped he was.”
Markfield's voice in the last few sentences had expressed the
bitterness of his emotions; but when he continued, he made a
successful effort to keep his tone level.
“One thinks quick enough in a tight corner. First thing I did was to
look at Yvonne.”
He shrugged his shoulders to express what he seemed unable to put into
words.
“That dream was done for. The only thing to do was to clear myself. I
had another look at Hassendean. He seemed to have had his gruel. I'd a
notion of shooting him again, just to make sure, but it didn't seem
worth while. Besides, there had been row enough already. A fourth shot
might draw some passer-by. So I left him. I picked up the pistol and
cleaned my finger-marks off it before putting it on the floor again.
Then I did the same for the window-hasp. These were the only two
things I'd touched, so I wasn't leaving traces.
“Then I remembered something. Silverdale was always leaving his
cigarette holder lying about the lab. He'd put it down on a bench or a
desk and wander off, leaving the cigarette smouldering. That happened
continually. That very afternoon, he'd left the thing in my room and
I'd pocketed it, meaning to give it back to him when I saw him again.
There it was, in my vest-pocket.
“In this world, it's a case of every man for himself. My business was
to get out of the hole I was in. If Silverdale got into a hole
himself, it was his affair to get out of it. Besides, he'd probably
have an alibi, whereas I hadn't. In any case, the more tangled the
business was, the better chance you fellows had of getting off my
scent. If the whole story came out, I didn't see how I was to persuade
a jury it had been pure self-defence when I knew myself that it wasn't
that really. Besides, there were these infernal love-letters waiting
at Yvonne's house, all ready for the police and pointing straight to
me as a factor in the affair. I'd have had awkward questions to answer
about the contents of them.
“The net result was that I cleaned Silverdale's cigarette-holder with
my handkerchief to take off any finger-prints; and I dropped it on the
floor to amuse you people. It had that fly in the amber—absolutely
unique and easily identifiable.
“Then I switched off the lights, got out of the window again, closed
it behind me in case it should attract a passer-by. I used my
handkerchief to grip the hasp when I closed it, so as not to leave any
finger-prints there. In fact, as I walked down to my car, I felt I’d
done remarkably well on the spur of the moment.
“As I drove in toward Westerhaven, I conned things over; and it struck
me I'd be none the worse of seeing someone as soon as I could. My
housekeeper was away nursing a sick relation, so no one could swear
whether I'd been at home in the evening or not. If I could drop in on
someone, there was always the chance of creating some sort of alibi.
The bother was, I knew I wasn't quite normal. That was only natural.
But if I called on someone who saw me every day, they might spot that
I was a bit on edge and that might lead to anything, you know. Then it
flashed into my mind that Ringwood had come here lately. I hadn't seen
him for years. He wouldn't see anything funny in my manner, even if I
was a bit abnormal.
“I drove to his house, and there I had a bit of luck—a perfect gift
from the gods. From a telephone message he got while I was in the room
with him, I learned that Silverdale was out that night, one of his
maids was in bed, and the maid wanted Ringwood to call at once. One's
mind works quickly, as I told you, and I saw in five seconds what a
chance I'd got. I offered to pilot Ringwood over to Heatherfield. That
meant I'd a perfectly sound excuse if I was seen in the neighbourhood
of the house.
“I dropped him at the end of Lauderdale Avenue, as I expect he told
you. During the run, I'd had time to think over things. There was only
one solution that I could see. I had to get hold of these letters,
cost what it might. I calculated that Ringwood's visit wouldn't be a
long one; and as soon as he'd gone, I meant to drop into Heatherfield,
silence the maid, and get the packet of letters.
“I must have run a bigger risk than I intended; for evidently I got
into Heatherfield between Ringwood's visit and yours. Can you wonder I
was a bit pleased with my luck, when it all came out? I made the
tourniquet while I was waiting about. Then I went up to Silverdale's
house, rang the bell, and asked for Silverdale. Of course he wasn't
there; but the maid knew me and let me in to write a note for him.
Once she'd seen my face and recognised me, it was all up with her.
One's own skin comes first. I might have risked it if it hadn't been
that the drawer was locked and I had to burst it open. That meant
leaving traces. And, since she knew me, that meant losing the game.
So . . .”
He made a gesture as if using the tourniquet.
“I went home after that and destroyed these letters. Then I sat down
to do the hardest bit of thinking I've done in my life. Time meant a
good deal to me just then, for I had to have everything cut and dried
before any questions were asked.
“Then the notion of a double game came into my mind. Why not follow up
the cigarette-holder move and do my best to throw discredit on
Silverdale. It was up to him to clear himself. That gave me the notion
of anonymous letters. And obviously if I wanted any attention paid to
them, I'd have to make a good start. That suggested giving the police
the earliest information about the bungalow affair. If they got that
from ‘Justice’ then they'd pay real attention to anything else he
liked to send them. So I hit on the telegram idea as being the safest
and the quickest. And, as a sequel to that, the obvious thing was to
make a show in public of being on Silverdale's side, so that you
wouldn't suspect me of having any possible connection with the
anonymous letters.”
“You overdid it just a trifle,” Sir Clinton commented in a dry tone.
Markfield made a non-committal gesture, but did not argue the point.
“Then,” he continued, “just as I thought I'd fixed everything neatly,
this creature Whalley descended on me. He'd taken the number of my car
at the gate and faked up a yarn about an accident, so that he could
get me identified for him. He called on me and started blackmail. I
paid him, of course, to keep him quiet. But naturally I couldn't let
him stand in my way after all I'd gone through safely. He wasn't a
very valuable life at the best, I gather.
“Anyhow, I got him up here one night—my housekeeper was still away—and
throttled him without too much trouble. Then I took the body down into
the garage, put it into my car, and drove out the Lizardbridge Road a
bit before tipping him into the ditch. I left the tourniquet beside
his body. It was a specially-contrived one, meant to throw some more
suspicion on Silverdale. I forgot to say that I borrowed Silverdale's
lab. coat to wear during the operation, in case of there being any
blood. And I tore off a button and left it in Whalley's hand. Then I
put the torn jacket back on Silverdale's peg, ready for the police.
“Naturally I was quite pleased to hear that Silverdale had been
arrested. That was his look-out, after all. And he seemed to be in
trouble over an alibi, which was better news still. The next thing was
to clinch the business, if possible.
“I've told you that once upon a time I played some parts in an amateur
dramatic show. I was really not bad. And it struck me, after I'd seen
you once or twice, Sir Clinton, that I could make myself up into a
very fair copy of you. We're about the same height to start with. I
wouldn't have risked it with anyone who knew both of us; but I'd
learned that Avice Deepcar was out of town, and I thought I could
manage to take in her maid easily enough.
“So I raided her place, posing as Sir Clinton Driffield—I'd had some
notion of the sort in my mind for a while and had cards printed in
London all ready: one of these print-’em-while-you-wait places which
left no traces behind in the way of an address or an account. In my
raid, I got a valuable document.”
“It was a clever enough fake, Dr. Markfield,” Sir Clinton said
reflectively. “But you left one or two things in it that we took hold
of easily enough. By the way, I suppose you simply traced Mrs.
Silverdale's writing from some old letters when you put the faked
address on the code advertisements you sent to the newspapers?”
Markfield nodded.
“You don’t seem to have missed much,” he admitted.
He rose slowly to his feet and put down his pipe.
“I think that's the whole story,” he said indifferently. “If you've
got it all down now, Inspector, I'll sign it and initial it for you.
Then I suppose it'll be a case of ringing up the Black Maria or
something like that.”
He glanced at Sir Clinton.
“You wouldn't care to tell me how you worried the thing out, I
suppose?”
“No,” said the Chief Constable bluntly. “I don't feel inclined to.”
Markfield made a gesture as though regretting this decision. He drew
his fountain pen from his pocket, unscrewed the cap deliberately, and
moved round the table towards the sheets of paper which the Inspector
had spread out for signature. A thought seemed to occur to him as he
did so, and he bent forward to the apparatus on the tray. His manner
was so unconcerned and the gesture so natural that neither Sir Clinton
nor the Inspector thought of interfering before it was too late.
Markfield put his hand on the tap of the funnel, and as he did so, his
face lighted up with malicious glee.
“Now!” he exclaimed.
He turned the tap, and on the instant the whole house shook under a
terrific detonation.