Mr. Oakham did not discuss what had taken place in the prison as he and
Colwyn drove to the office of the chief constable after the interview.
He sat silent in his corner of the taxi, his hands clasped before him,
and gazing straight in front of him with the look of a man who sees
nothing. From time to time his lips moved after the fashion of the old,
when immersed in thought, and once he audibly murmured, "The poor lad;
the poor lad." Colwyn forbore to speak to him. He realised that he had
had a shock, and was best left to himself.
By the time the taxi reached the office of the chief constable Mr.
Oakham showed symptoms of regaining his self-possession. He felt for his
eye-glasses, polished them, placed them on his nose and glanced at his
watch. It was in something like his usual tones that he asked Colwyn, as
they alighted from the cab, whether he had an appointment with the chief
constable.
"I wired to you both at the same time," replied the detective. "I asked
him to keep this afternoon free," he explained with a smile.
A police constable in the outer office took in their names. He speedily
returned with the message that the chief constable would be glad to see
them, and would they step this way, please. Following in his wake, they
were conducted along a passage and into a large comfortably furnished
room, where Mr. Cromering was writing at a small table placed near a
large fire. He looked up as the visitors entered, put down his pen, and
came forward to greet them.
"I am pleased to see you again, Mr. Colwyn, and you also, Mr. Oakham.
Please draw your chairs near the fire gentlemen--there's a decided nip
in the air. I got your telegram, Mr. Colwyn, and I am at your disposal,
with plenty of time. Your telegram rather surprised me. What has
happened in the Glenthorpe case?"
"Fresh facts have come to light--facts that tend to prove the innocence
of Penreath, who was accused and convicted for the murder."
"Dear me! This is a very grave statement. What proofs have you?"
"Sufficient to warrant further steps in the case. It is a long story,
but I think when you have heard it you will feel justified in taking
prompt action."
Before Mr. Cromering could reply, the police constable who had shown in
Colwyn and Mr. Oakham entered the room and said that Superintendent
Galloway, from Durrington, was outside.
"Bring him in, Johnson," said Mr. Cromering. He turned to Colwyn and
added: "When I received your telegram I telephoned to Galloway and asked
him to be here this afternoon. As he worked up the case against
Penreath, I thought it better that he should be present and hear what
you have to say. You have no objection, I suppose?"
"On the contrary, I shall be very glad for Galloway to hear what I have
to say."
The police constable returned, ushering in Superintendent Galloway, who
looked rather surprised when he saw his superior officer's visitors. He
nodded briefly to Colwyn, and looked inquiringly at the chief constable.
"Mr. Colwyn has discovered some fresh facts in the Glenthorpe murder,
Galloway," explained Mr. Cromering. "I sent for you in order that you
might hear what they are."
"What sort of facts?" asked Galloway, with a quick glance at the
detective.
"That is what Mr. Colwyn proposes to explain to us."
"I shall have to go back to the beginning of our investigations to do
so--to the day when we motored from Durrington to Flegne," said the
detective. "We went there with the strong presumption in our minds that
Penreath was the criminal, because of suspicious facts previously known
about him. He was short of money, he had concealed his right name when
registering at the hotel, and his behaviour at the breakfast table the
morning of his departure suggested an unbalanced temperament. It is a
legal axiom that men's minds are influenced by facts previously known or
believed, and we set out to investigate this case under the strong
presumption that Penreath, and none other, was the murderer.
"The evidence we found during our visit to the inn fitted in with this
theory, and inclined the police to shut out the possibility of any
alternative theory because of the number of concurrent points which
fitted in with the presumption that Penreath was the murderer. There
was, first, the fact that the murderer had entered through the window.
Penreath had been put to sleep in the room next the murdered man, in an
unoccupied part of the inn, and could easily have got from one window to
the other without being seen or heard. Next was the fact that the murder
had been committed with a knife with a round end. Penreath had used such
a knife when dining with Mr. Glenthorpe, and that knife was afterwards
missing. Next, we have him hurriedly departing from the inn soon after
daybreak, refusing to wait till his boots were cleaned, and paying his
bill with a Treasury note.
"Then came the discovery of the footprints to the pit where the body had
been thrown, and those footprints were incontestably made by Penreath's
boots. The stolen notes suggested a strong motive in the case of a man
badly in need of money, and the payment of his bill with a Treasury note
of the first issue suggested--though not very strongly--that he had
given the servant one of the stolen notes. These were the main points in
the circumstantial evidence against Penreath. The stories of the
landlord of the inn, the deaf waiter, and the servant supported that
theory in varying degrees, and afforded an additional ground for the
credibility of the belief that Penreath was the murderer. The final and
most convincing proof--Penreath's silence under the accusation--does not
come into the narrative of events at this point, because he had not been
arrested.
"It was when we visited the murdered man's bedroom that the first doubts
came to my mind as to the conclusiveness of the circumstantial evidence
against Penreath. The theory was that Penreath, after murdering Mr.
Glenthorpe, put the body on his shoulder, and carried it downstairs and
up the rise to the pit. The murderer entered through the window--the
bits of red mud adhering to the carpet prove that conclusively
enough--but if Penreath was the murderer where had he got the umbrella
with which he shielded himself from the storm? The fact that the
murderer carried an umbrella is proved by the discovery of a small patch
of umbrella silk which had got caught on a nail by the window. Again,
why should a man, getting from one window to another, bother about using
an umbrella for a journey of a few feet only? He would know that he
could not use it when carrying the body to the pit, for that task would
require both his hands. And what had Penreath done with the umbrella
afterwards?
"The clue of the umbrella silk, and the pool of water near the window
where the murderer placed the umbrella after getting into the room,
definitely fixed the time of the murder between eleven and 11.30 p.m.,
because the violent rainstorm on that night ceased at the latter hour.
If Penreath was the murderer, he waited until the storm ceased before
removing the body. There were no footprints outside the window where the
murderer got in, because they were obliterated by the rain. On the other
hand, the footsteps to the pit where the body was thrown were clear and
distinct, proving conclusively that no rain fell after the murderer left
the house with his burden. It seemed to me unlikely that a man after
committing a murder would coolly sit down beside his victim and wait for
the rain to cease before disposing of the body. His natural instinct
would be to hide the evidence of his crime as quickly as possible.
"These points, however, were of secondary importance, merely tending to
shake slightly what lawyers term the probability of the case against
Penreath. But a point of more importance was my discovery that the
candle-grease dropped on the carpet was of two different kinds--wax and
tallow--suggesting that two different persons were in the room on the
night of the murder. Mr. Glenthorpe did not use a candle, but a reading
lamp. Neither did Mr. Glenthorpe use the gas globe in the middle of the
room. Yet that gas tap was turned on slightly when we examined the room,
and the globe and the incandescent burner smashed. Who turned on the
tap, and who smashed the globe? Penreath is not tall enough to have
struck it with his head. Superintendent Galloway's theory was that it
might have been done by the murderer when throwing the body of his
victim over his shoulder.
"An ideal case of circumstantial evidence may be weakened, but not
destroyed, by the destruction of one or more of the collateral facts
which go to make it up. There are two kinds of circumstantial evidence.
In one kind presumption of guilt depends on a series of links forming a
chain. In the other, the circumstances are woven together like the
strands of a rope. That is the ideal case of circumstantial evidence,
because the rope still holds when some of the strands are severed. The
case against Penreath struck me as resembling a chain, which is no
stronger than its weakest link. The strongest link in the chain of
circumstances against Penreath was the footprints leading to the pit.
They had undoubtedly been made by his boots, but circumstances can lie
as well as witnesses, and in both cases the most plausible sometimes
prove the greatest liars. Take away the clue of the footprints, and the
case against Penreath was snapped in the most vital link. The remaining
circumstances in the case against him, though suspicious enough, were
open to an alternative explanation. The footprints were the damning
fact--the link on which the remaining links of the chain were hung.
"But the elimination of the clue of the footprints did not make the
crime any easier of solution. From the moment I set foot in the room it
struck me as a deep and baffling mystery, looking at it from the point
of view of the police theory or from any other hypothesis. If Penreath
had indeed committed the murder, who was the second visitor to the room?
And if Penreath had not committed the murder, who had?
"That night, in my room, I sought to construct two alternative theories
of the murder. In the first place, I examined the case thoroughly from
the police point of view, with Penreath as the murderer. In view of what
has come to light since the trial, there is no need to take up time with
giving you my reasons for doubting whether Penreath had committed the
crime. I explained those reasons to Superintendent Galloway at the time,
pointing out, as he will doubtless remember, that the police theory
struck me as illogical in some aspects, and far from convincing as a
whole. There were too many elements of uncertainty in it, too much
guess-work, too much jumping at conclusions. Take one point alone, on
which I laid stress at the time. The police theory originally started
from the point of Penreath's peculiar behaviour at the Durrington hotel,
which, from their point of view, suggested homicidal mania. To my mind,
there was no evidence to prove this, although that theory was actually
put forth by the defence at Penreath's trial. I witnessed the scene at
the breakfast table, and, in my opinion, Sir Henry Durwood acted hastily
and wrongly in rushing forward and seizing Penreath. There was nothing
in his behaviour that warranted it. He was a little excited, and nothing
more, and from what I have heard since he had reason to be excited.
Neither at the breakfast table nor in his room subsequently did his
actions strike me as the actions of a man of insane, neurotic, or
violent temperament. He was simply suffering from nerves. It is
important to remember, in recalling the events which led up to this
case, that Penreath was invalided out of the Army suffering from
shell-shock, and that two nights before the scene at the hotel there was
an air raid at Durrington. Shell-shock victims are always prejudicially
affected by air raids.
"Even if the police theory had been correct on this point, it seemed
inconceivable to me that a man affected with homicidal tendencies would
have displayed such cold-blooded caution and cunning in carrying out a
murder for gain, as the murderer at the _Golden Anchor_ did. The Crown
dropped this point at the trial. I merely mention it now in support of
my contention that the case of circumstantial evidence against Penreath
was by no means a strong one, because it originally depended, in part,
on inferred facts which the premises did not warrant.
"Next, the discoveries made in the room where the murder was committed,
and certain other indications found outside, did not fit in with the
police case against Penreath. Superintendent Galloway's reconstruction
of the crime, after he had seen the body and examined the inn premises,
did not account for the existence of all the facts. There were
circumstances and clues which were not consistent with the police theory
of the murder. The probability of the inference that Penreath was the
murderer was not increased by the discoveries we made. I am aware that
absolute proof is not essential to conviction in a case of
circumstantial evidence, but, on the other hand, to ignore facts which
do not accord with a theory is to go to the other extreme, for by so
doing you are in danger of excluding the possibility of any alternative
theory.
"On the other hand, when I sought to account for the crime by any other
hypothesis I found myself puzzled at every turn. The presence of two
persons in the room was the baffling factor. The murderer had entered
through the window in the storm, lighted the tallow candle which he
brought with him, walked straight to the bed and committed the murder.
Then he had waited till the rain ceased before carrying the body
downstairs to the pit. But what about the second person--the person who
had carried the wax candle and dropped spots of grease underneath the
broken gas globe? Had he come in at a different time, and why? Why had
he sought to light the gas, when he carried a candle? Why had he--as I
subsequently ascertained--left the room and gone downstairs to turn on
the gas at the meter?
"Eliminating Penreath for the time being, I tried next to fit in the
clues I had discovered with two alternative theories. Had the murder
been committed from outside by a villager, or by somebody in the inn?
There were possibilities about the former theory which I pointed out to
Superintendent Galloway, who subsequently investigated them, and
declared that there was no ground for the theory that the murder had
been committed from outside. The theory that the murder had been
committed by somebody inside the inn turned my attention to the inmates
of the inn. Excluding Penreath for the time being, there were five
inmates inside the walls the night the murder was committed--the
innkeeper, his daughter, his mother, the waiter, and Ann, the servant.
The girl could hardly have committed the murder, and could certainly not
have carried away the body. The old mad woman might have committed the
murder if she could have got out of her room, but she could not have
carried the body to the pit--neither could the servant. By this process
of elimination there remained the landlord and the deaf waiter.
"For a reason which it is not necessary to explain now, my thoughts
turned to the waiter when I first saw the body of the murdered man. The
possibility that he was the murderer was strengthened by the slight clue
of the line in the clay which I found underneath the murdered man's
bedroom window. That window is about five feet from the ground outside,
and the waiter, who is short and stout, could not have climbed through
the window without something to stand on. But the waiter could not
possibly have carried the body to the pit. His right arm is malformed,
and only a very strong man, with two strong arms, could have performed
that feat.
"There remained the innkeeper. He was the only person on the inn
premises that night, except Penreath, who could have carried the corpse
downstairs and thrown it into the pit. Although thin, I should say he is
a man of great physical strength. It is astonishing to think, in looking
back over all the circumstances of this extraordinary case, that some
suspicion was not diverted to him in the first instance. He was very
hard-pressed for money, and he knew for days beforehand that Mr.
Glenthorpe was going to draw £300 from the bank--a circumstance that
Penreath could not possibly have known when he sought chance shelter at
the inn that night. He was the only person in the place tall enough to
have smashed the gas globe and incandescent burner in Mr. Glenthorpe's
room by striking his head against it. He knew the run of the place and
the way to the pit intimately--far better than a stranger like Penreath
could. I was struck with that fact when we were examining the
footprints. The undeviating course from the inn to the mouth of the pit
suggested an intimate acquaintance with the way. The man who carried the
body to the pit in the darkness knew every inch of the ground.
"It is easy to be wise after the event, but my thoughts and suspicions
were centering more and more around the innkeeper when Penreath was
arrested. His attitude altered the whole aspect of the case. His
hesitating answers to me in the wood, his fatalistic acceptance of the
charge against him, seemed to me equivalent to a confession of guilt,
so I abandoned my investigations and returned to Durrington.
"I was wrong. It was a mistake for which I find it difficult to forgive
myself. Penreath's hesitation, his silence--what were they in the
balance of probabilities in such a strange deep crime as this murder? In
view of the discoveries I had already made--discoveries which pointed to
a most baffling mystery--I should not have allowed myself to be swerved
from my course by Penreath's silence in the face of accusation,
inexplicable though it appeared at the time. You know what happened
subsequently. Penreath, persisting in his silence, was tried, convicted,
and sentenced to death--because of that silence, which compelled the
defence to rely on a defence of insanity which they could not sustain.
"I went back to the inn a second time, not of my own volition, but
because of a story told me by the innkeeper's daughter, Peggy, at
Durrington four days ago. The night before the inquest Peggy paid a
visit to the room in which the murdered man lay. I did not see her go
in, but I saw her come out. She went downstairs and hurried across the
marshes and threw something into the sea from the top of the breakwater.
The following day, after Penreath's arrest, I questioned her. She gave
me an explanation which was hardly plausible, but Penreath's silence,
coming after the accumulation of circumstances against him, had caused
me to look at the case from a different angle, and I did not
cross-examine her. The object of her visit to me after the trial was to
admit that she had not told me the truth previously. Her amended story
was obviously the true one. She and Penreath had met by chance on the
seashore near Leyland Hoop two or three weeks before, and had met
secretly afterward. The subsequent actions of these two foolish young
people prove, convincingly enough, that they had fallen passionately in
love with each other. Peggy, however, had never told Penreath her name
or where she lived--because she knew her position was different from
his, she says--and she could not understand how he came to be at the inn
that night. Naturally, she was very much perturbed at his unexpected
appearance. She waited for an opportunity to speak to him after hearing
his voice, but was compelled to attend on her mad grandmother until it
was very late.
"Before going to bed she went down the passage to see if by any chance
he had not retired. There was a light in Mr. Glenthorpe's room, and,
acting on a sudden girlish impulse, she ran along the passage to Mr.
Glenthorpe's door, intending to confide her troubles in one who had
always been very good and kind to her. The door was partly open, and as
she got no reply to her knock, she entered. Mr. Glenthorpe was lying on
his bed, murdered, and on the floor--at the side of the bed--she found
the knife and this silver and enamel match-box. She hid the knife behind
a picture on the wall. She did a very plucky thing the following night
by going into the dead man's room and removing the knife in order to
prevent the police finding it, for by that time she was aware that the
knife formed an important piece of evidence in the case against her
lover. It was the knife she threw into the sea, but she kept the
match-box, which she recognised as Penreath's. When she came to me she
did not intend to tell me anything about the match-box if she could help
it. She was frank enough up to a point, but beyond that point she did
not want to go.
"After Penreath's conviction she began, womanlike, to wonder if she had
not been too hasty in assuming his guilt, and as the time slipped by and
brought the day of his doom nearer she grew desperate, and as a last
resource she came to me. It was a good thing she did so. For her story,
though apparently making the case against Penreath blacker still,
incidentally brought to light a clue which threw a new light on the case
and decided me to return to Flegne. That clue is contained in the
match-box."