The Shot in the Clearing
When Sir Clinton reached his office on the morning after the murder at
Ravensthorpe, he found Inspector Armadale awaiting him with a number
of exhibits.
“I’ve brought everything that seemed worth while,” Armadale explained.
“I thought you might care to look at some of the things again,
although you’ve seen them already.”
“That’s very good of you, Inspector. I should like to see some of
them, as a matter of fact. Now suppose we begin with the
finger-prints. They might suggest a few fresh ideas.”
“They seem to suggest more notions than I have room for in my head,”
the Inspector confessed ruefully. “It’s a most tangled case, to my
mind.”
“Then let’s start with the finger-prints,” the Chief Constable
proposed. “At least they’ll settle some points, I hope.”
Armadale unwrapped a large brown-paper parcel.
“I got the lot without any difficulty; and last night we photographed
them all and enlarged the pictures. They’re all here.”
“You took Foss’s, I suppose?”
“Yes, and I managed to find some of Maurice Chacewater’s too.”
“That’s pretty sharp work,” Sir Clinton complimented his subordinate.
“How did you manage to make sure they were his?”
“I asked for his set of razors, sir, and took them from the blades.
He’d left prints here and there of his finger and thumb, either on the
blade or on the handle. Of course I couldn’t get anything else very
sharp; but there are quite enough for the purpose, as you’ll see.”
He laid out three enlarged photographs on the desk before Sir Clinton;
then, below each of the first two, he put down a second print.
“This first print,” he said, pointing to it, “represents the
finger-prints we found on the automatic pistol. You can see that it’s
the arch pattern on the thumb. Now here”—he indicated the companion
print—“is Foss’s thumb-print; and if you look at it, you’ll see almost
at a glance that it’s identical with the print on the pistol. They’re
identical. I’ve measured them. And there are no other prints except
Foss’s on the pistol.”
“Good,” said Sir Clinton. “‘And that, said John, is that.’ We know
where we are so far as the pistol’s concerned. Pass along, please.”
“I’ve examined the pistol,” the Inspector continued. “It’s fully
loaded in the magazine and has an extra cartridge in the barrel; but
it hasn’t been fired recently so far as I can see.”
“Now for the next pair of prints,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“This represents the thumb-print from the sword, or whatever you call
it,” said the Inspector. “Also prints of the two middle fingers of the
right hand, found on the weapon. The second print of the pair shows
identical finger-prints from a different source. The thumb-prints in
the two cases are not exactly alike, because you get only the edge of
the thumb marked in the grip of a sword, whereas the other specimen
gives a full imprint. But I think you’ll find they’re the same. I’ve
measured them, too. You can see that the thumb pattern is a loop type,
quite different from Foss’s prints; and there’s a trace of a tiny scar
at the edge of the thumb in both these prints. I’d like you to compare
them carefully, sir.”
Sir Clinton took up the two prints and scanned them with care,
comparing the images point by point.
“There’s no mistake possible,” he said. “The two sets are identical,
so far as I can see; and the scar on the thumb is a clinching bit of
evidence.”
“You admit they’re from the same hand?” asked the Inspector, with a
peculiar look at Sir Clinton.
“Undoubtedly. Now whose are the second set?”
The Inspector continued to look at his superior with something out of
the common in his expression.
“The second set of prints came from Maurice Chacewater’s razors,” he
said.
The Chief Constable’s lips set tightly and a touch of grimness showed
in his face.
“I see we shall have to be quite clear about this, Inspector,” he
said, bluntly. “By the look of you, you seemed to think I’d be taken
aback by this evidence, because Mr. Chacewater is a friend of mine. I
was taken aback—naturally enough. But if you think it’s going to make
any difference to the conduct of this case—and I seemed to see
something of the sort in your face—you can put that out of your mind
once for all. The business of the police is to get hold of the
murderer, whoever he may be. Friendship doesn’t come into these
affairs, Inspector. So kindly don’t suspect me of anything of that
kind in future. You know what I mean; I needn’t put it into words.”
Without giving Armadale time for reply, he picked up the last print.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the set of prints I took from the valet’s fingers,” the
Inspector hastened to explain. “It corresponds to nothing I’ve found
anywhere else. You can see it’s a whorl type on the thumb.”
Sir Clinton examined the print for a moment or two, then put it down.
“What about the box and the wrist-watch?” he asked.
Inspector Armadale’s face showed that here he was puzzled.
“There’s nothing on either of them—not a recent mark of any
description. And yet the man who packed them up must have fingered
both things.”
“With gloves on, evidently.”
“But why gloves?” the Inspector demanded.
“Why gloves?” Sir Clinton echoed, rather sarcastically. “To avoid
leaving finger-prints, of course. That’s obvious.”
“But why avoid leaving finger-prints on a thing that you’re sending to
a jeweller for repair?”
“Think it over, Inspector. I won’t insult you by telling you my
solution. Let’s take another point. Have you the watch itself here?”
The Inspector produced it and handed it over. Sir Clinton took out a
pocket-knife and opened the back of the case.
“No use,” he announced, after examining the back cover carefully.
“It’s never been repaired. There are no reference marks scratched on
the inside of the back as there usually are when a watch has gone back
to the watch-makers. If there had been, we might have found out
something about Foss in that way, by getting hold of the watch-makers.
By the way, have you timed this thing as I asked you to do?”
“It’s running on time,” Armadale answered. “It hasn’t varied a rap in
the last twelve hours.”
“A practically new watch; running to time; never needed repair so far;
dispatched by post with no finger-marks of the dispatcher: surely you
can see what that means?”
Inspector Armadale shook his head.
“It might be a secret message,” he hazarded, though without much
confidence. “I mean a prearranged code.”
“So it might,” Sir Clinton agreed. “The only thing against that in my
mind is that I’m perfectly sure that it wasn’t.”
Armadale looked sulky.
“I’m hardly clever enough to follow you, sir, I’m afraid.”
Sir Clinton’s expression grew momentarily stern; but the shade passed
from his face almost instantly.
“This is one of these cases, Inspector, where I think that two heads
are better than one. Now if I tell you what’s in my mind, it might
tempt you to look at things exactly as I do; and then we’d have lost
the advantage of having two brains at work on the business
independently. We’re more likely to be usefully employed if we pool
the facts and keep our interpretations separate from each other.”
The tone of the Chief Constable’s voice went a good way towards
soothing the Inspector’s ruffled feelings, the more so since he saw
the weight of Sir Clinton’s reasoning.
“I’m sorry, sir. I quite see your point now.”
Sir Clinton had the knack of leaving no ill-feelings in his
subordinates. By an almost imperceptible change of manner, he
dismissed the whole matter and restored cordiality again.
“Let’s get back to the pure facts, Inspector. Each of us must look at
them in his own way; but we can at least examine some of them without
biasing each other. Did you get any more information out of that
chauffeur?”
Inspector Armadale seemed glad enough to forget the slight friction
between himself and his Chief, as the tone of his voice showed when he
replied.
“I could get nothing out of him at all, sir. He seems a stupid sort of
fellow. But it was quite clear that somehow or other he’d picked up
the idea that Foss meant to leave Ravensthorpe for good yesterday
afternoon. He stuck to that definitely; and the packing up of his
traps shows that he believed it.”
“We can take it, then, that Foss gave reason for the man thinking that
he was going away. Put your own interpretation on that, Inspector; but
you needn’t tell me what you make of it.”
The Inspector’s smile showed that ill-feeling had gone.
“Very well, Sir Clinton. And I’ll admit that I had my suspicions of
the valet. He seems to have a clear bill now in the matter of the
finger-prints on the weapon. Perhaps I was a bit rough on the man; but
he annoyed me—a cheeky fellow.”
“Oh, don’t let’s use hard words about him,” Sir Clinton suggested
chaffingly. “Let’s call him cool, simply.”
“Well, his finger-prints weren’t on the handle of the sword, anyhow,”
the Inspector admitted.
“I hardly expected them to be,” was all the comment Sir Clinton saw
fit to make. “Now what about friend Foss? By the way, I don’t mind
saying that I still think these two affairs at Ravensthorpe are
interconnected. And one thing’s clear at any rate: Foss wasn’t the man
in white. You remember he was wearing a cow-boy costume according to
the valet’s evidence; and we found that costume in his wardrobe, which
confirms Marden.”
The Inspector seemed to be taking a leaf out of Sir Clinton’s book. He
refrained from either acquiescing in or contradicting the Chief
Constable’s statement that the two cases were linked.
“Foss had more ready money in his pocket than most people carry; he
was in a position to clear out of Ravensthorpe at any moment without
needing to go back to his flat or even to a bank. I think these facts
are plain enough,” he pointed out. “And they fit in with the
chauffeur’s evidence, such as it is.”
“And he had no latch-key of his flat with him,” Sir Clinton
supplemented. “Of course it was a service flat and he may have left
the key behind him instead of carrying it with him. One could find
that out if it were worth while.”
“There’s a good deal that needs explaining about Foss,” the Inspector
observed. “I’ve got his photograph here, taken from the body
yesterday.”
He produced it as he spoke.
“Send a copy to Scotland Yard, Inspector, please, and ask if they have
any information about him. Considering everything, it’s quite likely
we might learn something. You might send his finger-prints also, to
see if they have them indexed there.”
“I’ll send Marden’s too, when I’m at it,” the Inspector volunteered,
“and the chauffeur’s. We might as well be complete when we’re at it.”
Sir Clinton indicated his agreement without saying anything. He
changed the subject when he next spoke.
“We’ve agreed to pool the facts, Inspector, and I’ve got a
contribution—two contributions in fact—towards the common stock.
Here’s the first.”
He laid a telegraph form on the desk before Armadale, and the
Inspector read the wording:
Have no agent named Foss am not negotiating for Leonardo medallions.
Kessock.
“Well, that’s a bit of a surprise!” ejaculated the Inspector. “It was
obvious that there was something fishy; but I hadn’t imagined it was
as fishy as all that. Kessock knows nothing about him, then?”
“My cable was fairly explicit. It’s clear that friend Foss had no
authority from Kessock.”
“But what about all that correspondence between Maurice Chacewater and
Kessock that we saw?”
“Forgeries, so far as the Kessock letters were concerned, obviously.
One of Kessock’s household must have been in league with Foss and
intercepted Maurice Chacewater’s letters. Then replies were forged and
dispatched. I’ve cabled Kessock about it this morning, so as to get
the news in at once. The confederate may hear of Foss’s murder through
the newspapers in four or five days when our papers get across there.
He might bolt when he got the news. I’ve given Kessock a chance to
forestall that if he wants to.”
“That puts a new light on things, certainly,” Armadale said when he
had considered the new facts. “Foss was a wrong ’un masquerading here
for some purpose or other—the medallions, probably. That fits in with
all the unmarked linen and the rest of it. But why was he murdered?”
Sir Clinton disregarded the question.
“I’ve got another fact to contribute,” he went on. “You remember that
Marconi Otophone in Foss’s room? I’ve made some inquiries about it.
It’s a thing they make for the use of deaf people—a modern substitute
for the ear-trumpet.”
The Inspector made a gesture of bewilderment.
“But Foss wasn’t deaf! He admitted to you that he had good enough
hearing, when he was telling you about overhearing Foxton Polegate in
the winter-garden.”
“That’s quite true,” Sir Clinton rejoined. “But he evidently needed an
Otophone for all that.”
The Inspector pondered for a few moments before speaking.
“It beats me,” he said at last.
Sir Clinton dismissed the subject without further discussion.
“Now what about Maurice Chacewater?” he inquired. “There’s no great
difficulty in suggesting _how_ he disappeared from the museum. It’s
common talk hereabout that Ravensthorpe has secret passages; and one
of them may end up in the wall of the museum.”
It was the turn of Armadale to contribute a fresh fact.
“He didn’t appear at any local station yesterday or this morning; and
he didn’t use a motor of any sort that I’ve been able to trace. I’ve
had men on that job and it’s been thoroughly done.”
“Congratulations, Inspector.”
“If he hasn’t got away, then he must be somewhere in the neighborhood
still.”
“I should say that was indisputable, if not certain,” commented Sir
Clinton, with a return of his faintly chaffing manner. “A man can only
be in one place at once, if you follow me. And if he’s not there, then
he must be here.”
“Yes. But where is ‘here,’ in this particular case?” inquired
Armadale, following his Chief’s mood. “I expect he’s hiding somewhere
around. It’s what any one might do if they found themselves up to the
hilt in a case of murder”—he paused for an instant—“or manslaughter,
and got into a panic over it.”
Sir Clinton ignored the Inspector’s last sentence.
“I wish I could get into touch with Cecil Chacewater. He ought to be
at home just now. He’s the only man in the family now, and he ought to
take charge of things up there.”
“You haven’t got his address yet, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Sir Clinton put the subject aside.
“Now, Inspector, let me remind you of what’s wanted:
What was the crime, who did it, when was it done, and where,
How done, and with what motive, who in the deed did share?
You put it down as murder?”
“Or manslaughter,” corrected Armadale. “And we know When, How, and
Where, at any rate.”
“Do we?” Sir Clinton rejoined. “Speak for yourself. I’m not so sure
about When and Where yet, and How is still a dark mystery so far as
I’m concerned. I mean,” he added, “so far as legal proof goes.”
The Inspector was about to say something further when a knock at the
door was heard and a constable appeared in answer to Sir Clinton’s
summons.
“The Ravensthorpe head keeper wants to see you, Sir Clinton, if you
can spare him a moment. He says it’s important.”
The Chief Constable ordered the keeper to be admitted.
“Well, Mold, what’s your trouble?” he inquired, when the man appeared.
“It’s this way, Sir Clinton,” Mold began. “Seein’ the queer sort o’
things we’ve seen lately, it seemed to me that maybe another queer
thing that’s happened might be important. So I thought it over, and I
made bold to come and tell you about it.”
He seemed to lose confidence a little at this point; but Sir Clinton
encouraged him by a show of interest.
“Last night,” he went on, “I was goin’ through the wood at the back o’
the house—about eleven o’clock it was, as near as I can make it. At
the back o’ the house there’s a strip of woodland, then a little bit
of a clearin’, and then the rest of the wood. I’d come out o’ the
bigger bit o’ the wood and got most o’ the way across the clearin’
when it happened. I can tell you just where it was, for I was passin’
the old ruin there—the Knight’s Tower they call it.”
He paused for a moment or two, evidently finding continuous narrative
rather a strain.
“The moon was well up by that time. It’s just past the full these
days; and the place was as clear as day. Everythin’ was quiet, except
an old owl that lives in a hollow tree up by there. I could hear the
swish of my feet in the grass and mighty little else; for the grass
was dewy and made a lot o’ noise with my stepping through it. Well, as
I was goin’ along, all of a sudden I heard a shot. It sounded close by
me; an’ I turned at once. There’s a poachin’ chap that’s given me a
lot o’ trouble, an’ I didn’t put it past him to think he might be
tryin’ to give me a scare. But when I turned round there was nothin’
to be seen. There was nothin’ there at all; an’ yet that shot had come
from quite close by.”
“Did it sound like the report of a shot-gun?” Sir Clinton asked.
Mold seemed to be in a difficulty.
“Shot-gun sounds I know fairly well. ’T weren’t from a shot-gun. More
like a pistol-shot it sounded, when I’d had time to think over it. An’
yet it weren’t altogether like a pistol-shot, neither. That’s a sharp
sound. This was more booming-like, if you understand me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite see it yet, Mold,” Sir Clinton admitted. “I
know how difficult it is to describe sounds, though. Have another try.
Did it remind you of anything?”
A light seemed to flicker for a moment in Mold’s memory.
“I know!” he exclaimed. “It was like this. I’ve got it! Did you ever
stand at the door of our Morris-tube range in the village while there
was firin’ goin’ on inside? Well, this was somethin’ like that, only
more so. I mean as if they’d fired somethin’ a bit heavier than a
miniature rifle. That’s it! That’s just how it sounded.”
He was evidently relieved by having found what he considered an apt
simile.
“What happened after that?” Sir Clinton demanded.
“When I saw nobody near me I’ll admit I felt a bit funny. Here was a
shot comin’, so it seemed, out o’ the empty air, with nothin’ to
account for it. Straight away, I’ll admit, sir, I began thinkin’ of
that Black Man that little Jennie Hitchin has been spreadin’ the story
about lately . . .”
Sir Clinton pricked up his ears.
“We’ll hear about the Black Man later on, Mold, if you please. Tell us
what you did at that moment.”
“Well, sir, I searched about. The moon was clear of clouds and the
place was just an open glade. The shot had come from quite near by, as
I said. But when I hunted I could find nothing. There wasn’t a track
in the dew on the grass. My own tracks showed up in the moonlight as
clear as clear. There wasn’t any one hiding in the old ruin; I went
through and around it twice. There wasn’t a sound; for the shot had
frightened the owl. I found nothing. And yet I’d take my oath that
shot was fired not more than ten or a dozen yards away from me.”
“Did you hear any whistle of shot or a bullet?”
“No, sir.”
“H’m! That’s the whole story? Now, tell us about this Black Man you
mentioned.”
Mold seemed rather ashamed.
“Oh, that’s just child’s chatter, Sir Clinton. I oughtn’t to have
mentioned it.”
“I’m quite willing to listen to ‘child’s chatter,’ Mold, if it happens
to be unusual.”
Mold evidently decided to take the plunge, though obviously he
regretted having mentioned the matter at all.
“This Jennie Hitchin’s a child that lives with her grandmother on the
estate. The girl’s there at night in case anything goes wrong with the
old woman. Old Mrs. Hitchin was taken ill one night lately, about the
middle of the night. Pretty bad she seemed; and Jennie had to dress
and go off for the doctor in a hurry. That took her through the
woods—it’s a short cut that way and the moonlight was bright. An’ as
she was goin’ along . . .”
“What night was this,” Sir Clinton interrupted.
The keeper thought for a moment or two.
“Now I come to think of it,” he said, “’t was the night of that
robbery up at Ravensthorpe. So it was. An’ as Jennie was goin’ along
through the woods she saw—so she says—a Black Man slippin’ about from
tree to tree.”
“A man in dark clothes?”
“No, sir. If I understood rightly, ’t was a black man. I mean a naked
man with a black skin, black all over.”
“Did he molest the child?”
“No, sir. He seemed to be tryin’ to keep out of her road if anythin’.
But o’ course it gave her a start. She took and ran—and small blame to
her, I think. She’s only eleven or so, an’ it gave her a dreadful
fright. An’ of course next day this tale was all over the
country-side. I wonder if you didn’t hear it yourself, sir.”
“It’s news to me, Mold, I’m afraid. Even the police can’t know
everything, you see. Now before you go I want something more from you.
That night when you were on guard in the museum, you remember. Do you
recall seeing any one there at any time during the evening dressed in
cow-boy clothes? You know, the kind of thing in the Wild West films.”
Mold pondered for a time, evidently racking his memory.
“No, sir. I remember nobody like that. I think I’d have recalled it if
I had. I’m rather keen on films about cow-boys myself, and if I’d seen
a cow-boy I’d have had a good look at him, just out o’ curiosity.”
Sir Clinton had apparently got all he needed from Mold just then; and
he sent him away quite reassured that his visit had not been wasted.
“What do you make of all that, Inspector?” he inquired with a faintly
quizzical expression on his face, as soon as the door had closed
behind the keeper.
Armadale shook his head. Then, seeing a chance of scoring, he smiled
openly.
“I was to keep my ideas to myself, you remember, Sir Clinton.”
The Chief Constable gave him smile for smile.
“That arrangement must be especially useful when you’ve no ideas at
all, Inspector.”
Armadale took the thrust with good humour.
“Give me time to think, Sir Clinton. You know I’ve only a slow mind,
and perhaps this isn’t one of my bright days.”
Before Sir Clinton could retort the desk telephone rang and the Chief
Constable lifted the receiver.
“Yes, I am . . . Thanks very much. I’ll take down the address if
you’ll read it to me.”
He jotted something down on a sheet of paper.
“Thanks. Good-bye, Joan.”
He flicked the note over to Armadale.
“Would you mind seeing if we can get on to that house by ’phone,
Inspector? Hunt up the London Directory for it.”
“It’s Cecil Chacewater’s address?” said Armadale, glancing at the
slip.
“Yes. The man he’s staying with may be on the ’phone.”
In a few minutes the Inspector came back with the number and Sir
Clinton rang up. After a short talk he put down the receiver and
turned to Armadale.
“He says he can’t come to-day. You heard me explaining that we want
that secret passage opened, if there is one. But he doesn’t seem to
think there’s any hurry. He has some business which will keep him till
to-morrow.”
“I heard you tell him that his brother’s disappeared,” the Inspector
commented. “I’d have thought that would have brought him back quick
enough.”
“It hasn’t, evidently,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it necessary
to say. There seemed to be no reason for admitting the Inspector into
the secret of the Ravensthorpe quarrels.