THE ZEAL OF INSPECTOR TINKLER
The strange affair of Jentham's murder continued to occupy the attention
of the Beorminster public throughout the week; and on the day when the
inquest was held, popular excitement rose to fever heat. Inspector
Tinkler, feeling that the County expected him to do great things worthy
of his reputation as a zealous officer, worked his hardest to gather
evidence likely to elucidate the mystery of the death; but in spite of
the most strenuous exertions, his efforts resulted in total failure. The
collected details proved to be of the most meagre description, and when
the coroner sat on the body nothing transpired to reveal the name, or
even indicate the identity of the assassin who had provided him with a
body to sit on. It really seemed as though the Southberry murder would
end in being relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes.
'For I can't work miracles,' explained the indignant Tinkler, when
reproached with this result, 'and somehow the case has got out of hand.
The motive for the shooting can't be got at; the pistol used ain't to be
picked up, search how you may; and as for the murdering villain who
fired it, if he ain't down below where he ought to be, I'll take my oath
as a soldier he ain't above ground. Take it how you will, this case is a
corker and no mistake.'
It had certainly occurred to Tinkler's bothered mind that Miss Whichello
should be called as a witness, if only to prove that at one time the
dead man had occupied a better position in the world, but after a short
interview with her he had abandoned this idea. Miss Whichello declared
that she could throw no light on the affair, and that she had lost sight
of the quondam violinist for over thirty years. Her recognition of him
as Amaru had been entirely due to the description of his gipsy looks
and the noticeable cicatrice on his face; and she pointed out to Tinkler
that she had not seen the so-called Jentham till after his death;
moreover, it was unlikely that events which had occurred thirty years
before could have resulted in the man's violent death at the present
time; and Miss Whichello insisted that she knew nothing of the
creature's later circumstances or acquaintances. Being thus ignorant, it
was not to be expected that her evidence would be of any value, so at
her earnest request Tinkler held his tongue, and forebore to summon her
as a witness. Miss Whichello was greatly relieved in her own mind when
the inspector came to this conclusion, but she did not let Tinkler see
her relief.
From Mosk, the officer had learned that the vagabond who called himself
Jentham had appeared at The Derby Winner some three weeks previous to
the time of his death. He had given no information as to where he had
last rested, but, so far as Mosk knew, had dropped down from the sky.
Certainly his conversation when he was intoxicated showed that he had
travelled a great deal, and that his past was concerned with robbery,
and bloodshed, and lawlessness; but the man had talked generally as any
traveller might, had refrained from mentioning names, and altogether had
spoken so loosely that nothing likely to lead to a tangible result could
be gathered from his rambling discourses. He had paid his board and
lodging for the first week, but thereafter had lived on credit, and at
the time of his death had owed Mosk over two pounds, principally for
strong drink. Usually he slept at The Derby Winner and loafed about the
streets all day, but at times he went over to the gipsy camp near
Southberry and fraternised with the Romany. This was the gist of Mosk's
information, but he added, as an afterthought, that Jentham had promised
to pay him when certain monies which he expected came into his
possession.
'Who was going to pay him this money?' asked Tinkler, pricking up his
ears.
'Carn't y'arsk me somethin' easier?' growled Mosk; 'how should I know?
He said he was goin' to get the dibs, but who from, or where from, I
dunno', for he held his tongue so far.'
'There was no money in the pockets of the clothes worn by the body,'
said Tinkler, musingly.
'I dessay not, Mr Inspector. I don't b'lieve the cove was expecting any
money, I don't. 'Twas all moonshine--his talk, to make me trust him for
bed and grub, and a blamed fool I've bin doin' so,' grumbled Mosk.
'The pockets were turned inside out, though.'
'Oh, they was, was they, Mr Inspector? Well, that does look queer. But
if there was any light-fingered business to be done, I dessay them
gipsies hev somethin' to do with it.'
'Did the man go to the gipsy camp on Sunday night?'
'Bell ses he did,' replied Mr Mosk, 'but I went over to Southberry in
the arternoon about a little 'oss as I'm sweet on, so I don't know what
he did, save by 'earsay.'
Bell, on being questioned by the inspector, declared that Jentham had
loitered about the hotel the greater part of Sunday, but had taken his
departure about five o'clock. He did not say that he was going to the
camp, but as he often paid a visit to it, she presumed that he had gone
there during that evening. 'Especially as you found his corpse on the
common, Mr Tinkler,' said Bell, 'no doubt the poor wretch was coming
back from them gipsies.'
'Humph! it's not a bad idea,' said Tinkler, scratching his well-shaven
chin. 'Strikes me as I'll go and look up Mother Jael.'
The result of an interview with that iniquitous old beldame proved that
Jentham had certainly been the guest of the gipsies on Sunday evening
but had returned to Beorminster shortly after nine o'clock. He had
stated that he was going back to The Derby Winner, and as it was his
custom to come and go when he pleased, the Romany had not taken much
notice of his departure. A vagrant like Jentham was quite independent of
time.
'He was one of your lot, I suppose?' said Mr Inspector, taking a few
notes in his pocket-book--a secretive little article which shut with a
patent clasp.
'Yes, dearie, yes! Lord bless 'ee,' mumbled Mother Jael, blinking her
cunning eyes, 'he was one of the gentle Romany sure enough.'
'Was he with you long, granny?'
'Three week, lovey, jus' three week. He cum to Beorminster and got
weary like of you Gentiles, so he made hisself comforbal with us.'
'Blackguards to blackguards, and birds of a feather' murmured Tinkler;
then asked if Jentham had told Mother Jael anything about himself.
'He!' screeched the old hag, 'he niver tol' me a word. He cum an' he
go'd; but he kep his red rag to himself, he did. Duvel! he was a cunning
one that Jentham.'
'Was his name Jentham, mother; or was it something else?'
'He called hisself so, dearie, but I niver knowed one of that gentle
Romany as had a Gentile name. We sticks to our own mos'ly. Job! I shud
think so.'
'Are you sure he was a gipsy?'
'Course I am, my noble Gorgio! He could patter the calo jib with the
best of 'um. He know'd lots wot the Gentiles don' know, an' he had the
eagle beak an' the peaked eye. Oh, tiny Jesus was a Romany chal, or may
I die for it!'
'Do you know who killed him?' asked Tinkler, abruptly.
'No, lovey. 'Tweren't one of us, tho' you puts allays the wust on our
backs. Job! dog do niver eat dog, as I knows, dearie.'
'He left your camp at nine o'clock?'
'Thereabouts, my lamb; jes' arter nine!'
'Was he sober or drunk?'
'Betwix' an' between, lovey; he cud walk straight an' talk straight, an'
look arter his blessed life.'
'Humph! seems as though he couldn't,' said Mr Inspector, dryly.
'Duvel! that's a true sayin',' said Mother Jael, with a nod, 'but I don'
know wot cum to him, dearie.'
At the inquest Mother Jael was called as a witness, and told the jury
much the same story as she had related to Tinkler, with further details
as to the movements of the gipsies on that night. She declared that none
of the tribe had left the camp; that Jentham had gone away alone,
comparatively sober; and that she did not hear of his murder until late
the next day. In spite of examination and cross-examination, Mother Jael
could give no evidence as to Jentham's real name, or about his past, or
why he was lingering at Beorminster. 'He cum'd an' he go'd,' said
Mother Jael, with the air of an oracle, and that was the extent of her
information, delivered in a croaking, shuffling, unconvincing manner.
The carter, Giles Crake, who had found the body, was a stupid yokel
whose knowledge was entirely limited to his immediate surroundings.
Perched on his cart, he had seen the body lying in a ditch half full of
water, on the other side of an earthen mound, which extended along the
side of the main road. The spot where he discovered it, was near
Beorminster, and about five miles from the gipsy camp. The man had been
shot through the heart; his pockets had been emptied and turned inside
out; and evidently after the murder the robber had dragged the body over
the mound into the ditch. Giles had not touched the corpse, being
fearful of getting into trouble, but had come on at once to Beorminster
to inform the police of his discovery.
It was Dr Graham who had examined the body when first discovered, and
according to his evidence the man had been shot through the heart
shortly before ten o'clock on Sunday night. The pistol had been fired so
close that the clothing of the deceased over the heart was scorched and
blackened with the powder of the cartridge. 'And from this fact,' added
Graham, with one of his shrewd glances, 'I gather that the murderer must
have been known to Jentham!'
'How is that, doctor?' asked one of the jury.
'Because he must have held him in talk while contemplating the crime,
sir. The murderer and his victim must almost have been breast to breast,
and while the attention of the latter was distracted in some way, the
assassin must have shot him at close quarters.'
'This is all theory, Dr Graham,' said the coroner, who was a rival
practitioner.
'It seems to me that the whole case rests on theory,' retorted Graham,
and shrugged his shoulders.
Before the evidence concerning the matter closed, Inspector Tinkler
explained how difficult it had been to collect even the few details
which the jury had heard. He stated also that although the strictest
search had been made in the vicinity of the crime, the weapon with which
it had been committed could not be found. As the shooting had been done
during a downfall of rain, the assassin's and his victim's footmarks
were visible in the soft clay of the roadway; also there were the marks
of horses' hoofs, so it was probable that the murderer had been mounted.
If this were so, neither gipsies nor harvesters could have killed the
wretched man, as neither the one lot nor the other possessed horses
and--'
'The gipsies have horses to draw their caravans!' interrupted a
sharp-looking juryman.
'To draw their caravans I admit,' said the undaunted Tinkler, 'but not
to ride on. Besides, I would remind you, Mr Jobson, as Mother Jael
declares, that none of her crowd left the camp on that night.'
'Oh, she'd declare anything,' muttered Jobson, who had no great opinion
of Tinkler's brains. 'Have the footmarks in the road been measured?'
'No, they haven't, Mr Jobson!'
'Then they should have, Mr Inspector; you can tell a lot from a
footmark, as I've heard. It's what the French call the Bertillon system
of identification, that's what it is.'
'I don't need to go to France to learn my business,' said Tinkler,
tartly, 'and if I did get the measurements of them footmarks, how am I
to know which is which--Jentham's or his murderer's? and how can I go
round the whole of Beorminster to see whose feet fit 'em? I ask you
that, Mr Jobson, sir.'
At this point, judging that the discussion had gone far enough, the
coroner intervened and said that Mr Inspector had done his best to
unravel a very difficult case. That he had not succeeded was the fault
of the case and not of Mr Inspector, and for his part, he thought that
the thanks of the Beorminster citizens were due to the efforts of so
zealous and intelligent an officer as Tinkler. This sapient speech
reduced the recalcitrant Jobson to silence, but he still held to his
opinion that the over-confident Tinkler had bungled the matter, and in
this view he was silently but heartily supported by shrewd Dr Graham,
who privately considered that Mr Inspector Tinkler was little better
than an ass. However, he did not give vent to this offensive opinion.
The summing-up of the coroner called for little remark. He was a worthy
country doctor, with as much brains as would cover a sixpence, and the
case was beyond him in every way. His remarks to the jury--equally
stupid, with the exception of Jobson--were to the effect that it was
evidently impossible to find out who had killed Jentham, that the man
was a quarrelsome vagabond who probably had many enemies; that no doubt
while crossing the common in a drunken humour he had met with someone as
bad as himself, and had come to high words with him; and that the
unknown man, being armed, had no doubt shot the deceased in a fit of
rage. 'He robbed the body, I daresay, gentlemen,' concluded the coroner,
'and then threw it into the ditch to conceal the evidence of his crime.
As we don't know the man, and are never likely to know him, I can only
suggest that you should find a verdict in accordance with the evidence
supplied to you by the zeal of Inspector Tinkler. Man has done all he
can to find out this Cain, but his efforts have been vain, so we must
leave the punishment of the murderer to God; and as Holy Scripture says
that "murder will out," I have no doubt that some day the criminal will
be brought to justice.'
After this wise speech it was not surprising that the jury brought in a
verdict, 'That the deceased Jentham met with a violent death at the
hands of some person or persons unknown,' that being the kind of verdict
which juries without brains--as in the present instance--generally give.
Having thus settled the matter to their own bovine satisfaction, the
jury went away after having been thanked for their zeal by the coroner.
That gentleman was great on zeal.
'Hum! Hum! Hum!' said Dr Graham to himself, 'there's too much zeal
altogether. I wonder what M. de Talleyrand would have thought of these
cabbages and their zeal. Well, Mr Inspector,' he added aloud, 'so you've
finished off the matter nicely.'
'We have done our best, Dr Graham, sir.'
'And you don't know who killed the man?'
'No, sir, I don't; and what's more, I don't believe anybody ever will
know.'
'Humph, that's your opinion, is it? Do you read much, Mr Inspector?'
'A novel at times, sir. I'm fond of a good novel.'
'Then let me recommend to your attention the works of a French author,
by name Gaboriau. There's a man in them called Lecoq, who would have
found out the truth, Mr Inspector.'
'Fiction, Dr Graham, sir! Fiction.'
'True enough, Mr Inspector, but most fiction is founded on fact.'
'Well, sir,' said Tinkler, with a superior wise smile, 'I should like to
see our case in the hands of your Mr Lecoq.'
'So should I, Mr Inspector, or in the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Bless
me, Tinkler, they'd do almost as much as you have done. It is a pity
that you are not a character in fiction, Tinkler.'
'Why, sir? Why, may I ask?'
'Because your author might have touched you up in weak parts, and have
gifted you with some brains. Good-day, Mr Inspector.'
While Graham walked away chuckling at his banter of this red-tape
official, the official himself stood gasping like a fish out of the
water, and trying to realise the insult levelled at his dignity.
Jobson--a small man--sidled round to the front of him and made a comment
on the situation.
'It all comes of your not measuring them footmarks,' said Jobson. 'In
detective novels the clever fellows always do that, but you'd never be
put into a book, not you!'
'You'll be put into jail,' cried the outraged inspector.
'It's more than Jentham's murderer will if you've got the catching of
him,' said Jobson, and walked off.