this one, Fortune,” he said. “Lady Chantry took out her car the day
before yesterday. Yesterday morning the car was found in a lane above
Haslemere. Lady Chantry was inside. She wore chauffeur’s uniform. She
was shot through the head.”
“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune.
“I want you to come down and look at the body.”
“Is the body the only evidence?”
“We know where she bought the coat and cap. Her own coat and hat were
under the front seat. She told her servants she might not be back at
night. No one knows what she went out for or where she went.”
“Yes. Yes. When a person is shot, it’s generally with a gun. Have you
found it?”
“She had an automatic pistol in her hand.”
Reggie Fortune rose. “I had better see her,” he said sadly. “A
wearing world, Lomas. Come on. My car’s outside.”
Two hours later he stood looking down at the slight body and the
scorched wound in that pale face while a police surgeon demonstrated
to him how the shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the rigour
of death in the woman’s right hand, the bullet that was taken from
the base of the skull fitted it, the muzzle--remark the stained,
scorched flesh--must have been held close to her face when the shot
was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. “Yes, yes. All very clear,
isn’t it? A straight case.” He drew the sheet over the body and paid
compliments to the doctor as they went out.
Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie shook his head. “There’s
nothing for me, Lomas. And nothing for you. The medical evidence is
suicide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain on its character.”
“No sort of doubt?” said Lomas.
“You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see her. You’ll get
nothing else.”
And so they climbed into the car again. “Finis, thank God!” said Mr.
Fortune as the little town ran by.
Lomas looked at him curiously. “Why did she commit suicide, Fortune?”
he said.
“There are also other little questions,” Reggie murmured. “Why did
she murder Bigod? Why did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try
to murder the child?”
Lomas continued to stare at him. “How do you know she did?” he said
in a low voice. “You’re making very sure.”
“Great heavens! You might do some of the work. I know Scotland Yard
isn’t brilliant, but it might take pains. Who was present at all the
murders? Who was the constant force? Haven’t you found that out yet?”
“She was staying near Bigod’s place. She was at the orphanage. She
was at the child’s party. And only she was at all three. It staggered
me when I got the evidence complete. But what in heaven makes you
think she is the murderer?”
Reggie moved uneasily. “There was something malign about her.”
“Malign! But she was always doing philanthropic work.”
“Yes. It may be a saint who does that--or the other thing. Haven’t
you ever noticed--some of the people who are always busy about
distress--they rather like watching distress?”
“Why, yes. But murder! And what possible motive is there for killing
these different people? She might have hated one or another. But not
all three.”
“Oh, there is a common factor. Don’t you see? Each one had somebody
to feel the death like torture--the girl Bigod was engaged to, the
girl who was devoted to the lady doctor, the small Gerald’s mother.
There was always somebody to suffer horribly--and the person to be
killed was always somebody who had a young good life to lose. Not at
all nice murders, Lomas. Genus diabolical, species feminine. Say that
Lady Chantry had a devilish passion for cruelty--and it ended that
night in the motor-car.”
“But why commit suicide? Do you mean she was mad?”
“I wouldn’t say that. That’s for the Day of Judgment. When is cruelty
madness? I don’t know. Why did she--give herself away--in the end?
Perhaps she found she had gone a little too far. Perhaps she knew you
and I had begun to look after her. She never liked me much, I fancy.
She was a little--odd--with me.”
“You’re an uncanny fellow, Fortune.”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I’m wholly normal. I’m the natural
man,” said Reggie Fortune.
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