A Sinister Suggestion
For some moments the men stood, reverent, and bareheaded, looking down
at the motionless form. The face was disfigured, the left cheek from
the ear to the mouth being cut and bruised, evidently from contact
with a boulder. The left arm also was broken, and lay twisted at an
unnatural angle with the body.
At last Austin made a move. Taking out his handkerchief, he stooped
and reverently covered the dead face.
‘We must send for the police, I’m afraid.’ He spoke in a low tone, and
seemed deeply affected. ‘You go, Innes, will you? Take the large car
and run them back to the bridge. You had better bring Dr Ames too, I
suppose, and a stretcher. Also send this wire to Mr Cosgrove. We’ll
wait here till you come.’
He scribbled a telegram on a leaf of his pocket book:
‘To Cosgrove Ponson, 174B Knightsbridge, London.—Terrible accident.
My father drowned in river. Tell my mother at Lancaster Gate, then
come.—Austin.’
Cosgrove Ponson was the only son of Sir William’s younger brother, and
was consequently cousin to Austin and Enid. These three with Lady
Ponson were now the only living members of the family. Cosgrove was a
man of about five-and-thirty who had inherited some money from his
father, and lived the careless life of a man about town. Though he had
never got on well with Austin, he had been a favourite of Sir
William’s, and had spent a good deal of time, on and off, at Luce
Manor.
When the valet had gone Austin sat down on a rock and, leaning his
head in his hands, seemed to give himself up to profound meditation.
The others, uncertain what to do, withdrew to a short distance, not
liking either to intrude, or, after what Austin had said, to leave
altogether. So they waited until after about an hour Innes reappeared,
and with him Dr Ames, a sergeant of police, and two constables
carrying a stretcher.
‘Innes has told us, Mr Ponson. A truly terrible affair!’ said the
doctor, with real sympathy in his voice. He shook hands with Austin,
while the sergeant saluted respectfully.
‘I’m afraid, doctor, you can do nothing. He was dead when we found
him.’
‘Ah, I imagined so from what your man said.’ Dr Ames knelt down and
lifted the handkerchief from the battered features. ‘Yes, you are
right. He has been dead for some hours.’ He replaced the handkerchief,
and rose to his feet. ‘I suppose, Mr Ponson, you will have him taken
to Luce Manor? There is no reason why that should not be done at
once.’
‘I was only waiting for the stretcher.’
The doctor nodded and took charge.
‘Your stretcher, sergeant,’ he said.
The remains were lifted on, and slowly the melancholy little
procession started. Before they left, the sergeant asked who had made
the tragic discovery, and was shown exactly where the body had been
found. One constable was left with instructions to see that no one
touched the boat, and the sergeant and the other policeman walked with
the party, taking their turns in carrying the sad burden. After Austin
had instructed the butler to hurry on and prepare for them at the
house, no one spoke.
When the body had been laid on the bed in Sir William’s room, and the
little excitement caused by the arrival had subsided, the sergeant
approached Austin Ponson.
‘Beg pardon, Mr Ponson,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to
make a report about this, and I’m bound to ask a few questions. I
hope, sir, you won’t mind?’
‘Of course not, sergeant. I understand you must do your duty.’
‘Thank you, sir. May I ask then if you can explain how this accident
occurred?’
‘No more than you can, sergeant. I only know that Innes, Sir William’s
valet, came to my house when I was dressing this morning, to know if
Sir William was with me. He said he had gone out after dinner last
night without leaving any message, and they didn’t know where he was.
I came back with Innes, and they had just then learnt that the boat
was missing. We thought perhaps my father had rowed across the river
to see Dr Graham, and I sent round to inquire, but when we learnt he
hadn’t been there we began to fear the worst. We therefore went down
the river to see if we could find anything.’
‘And when, sir, did you see him last?’
‘On Sunday evening—three days ago. I dined here, and left about ten or
later.’
‘And was he in his usual health and spirits then?’
‘Yes, I noticed nothing out of the common.’
‘And he said nothing then, or indeed at any time, that would explain
the matter?’
‘Not a thing. He seemed perfectly normal in every way.’
‘Very strange affair, sir, where he could have been going to. Was he
skilful with a boat?’
‘No, I should say not. He could row a little, but not well. He did not
specially care for it. I rarely knew him to go out for pleasure.’
‘Thank you, sir. With your permission I will see now what Mr Parkes
and the other men can tell me.’
He heard the butler’s story, then Innes’s and lastly Smith’s. He was a
young and intelligent officer, and was anxious to send in a complete
explanation of the tragedy in his report, but he was almost equally
desirous not to inconvenience or offend Austin Ponson, whom he
supposed would succeed Sir William and become a magistrate and a
leading man in the district. Though he had admired Sir William and was
genuinely shocked and sorry about the accident, yet he was human, and
he could not but recognise the affair gave him a chance of coming
under the special notice of his superiors.
Up to a certain point he was clear in his own mind what had occurred.
Sir William had left his house sometime between 8.45 and 11.30 the
previous evening, and had gone down to the boathouse with his key,
entered, opened the water gate and taken out the _Alice_. In the
darkness, and probably underestimating the amount of fresh in the
river, he had allowed himself to be carried into the narrow channel.
Once there he had practically no chance. The place was notoriously
dangerous.
So much was plain enough, but the sergeant was bothered by the
question, what had Sir William gone out for? No one had as yet thrown
any light on this.
Calling Dr Ames, who, not having had any breakfast, was just finishing
a somewhat substantial snack in the dining-room, the sergeant
explained that he wished to go through Sir William’s pockets, if the
doctor would come and assist him. They accordingly made their way
upstairs and began their search.
The pockets contained just those articles which a man in Sir William’s
position would naturally be expected to carry, with one exception.
Besides the bunch of keys, handkerchief, watch, cigar-case, money and
such like, there was a very singular object—nothing more nor less than
a small-sized six-chambered Colt’s revolver, unloaded. There were no
shells, either full or empty, and the barrel was clean, showing it had
not been fired.
‘By Jove! Sergeant,’ Dr Ames exclaimed in a low tone. ‘That’s
surprising.’
‘Surprising, sir? I should just think so! You never know, sir, about
_anybody_. Sir William was the last man, I should have said, to go
about armed.’
‘But he wasn’t armed, sergeant,’ rejoined the doctor. ‘A man with a
revolver is not armed unless he has something to fire out of it.
That’s no more an arm than any other bit of old iron.’
The sergeant hesitated.
‘That’s so, sir, in a way, of course. Still—you can hardly think of
anyone carrying an empty revolver. I expect he must have had the habit
of carrying shells, but by some oversight forgot them yesterday.’
‘Possibly. There doesn’t seem to be much else of interest anyway.’
‘No, sir, that’s a fact.’ The sergeant, having emptied all the
pockets, began laboriously to make a list of the articles he had
found. Dr Ames had taken up a small diary or engagement book, and was
rather aimlessly turning over the sodden leaves. Suddenly he gave an
exclamation.
‘Look here, sergeant,’ he whispered. ‘Here’s what you have been
wanting.’
There was a division in the book for each day of the year, with notes
of engagements or other matters in most. At the bottom of the space
for the previous day—the portion which would probably refer to the
evening—was written the words: ‘Graham, 9.00 p.m.’
‘There it is,’ went on Dr Ames. ‘That’s where he was going last night.
He evidently intended to consult Dr Graham privately. As it was too
far to walk round by the road, and he didn’t want to get a car out, he
thought he would take a short cut by rowing across the river.’
The sergeant made a gesture of satisfaction.
‘You have it, sir. That’s just what he’s done. I don’t mind saying
that was bothering me badly. But now, thanks to you, sir, the whole
thing is cleared up. I’ll go over to Dr Graham’s directly, and see if
I can’t learn something about it from him.’
‘I have an operation in an hour and I must go back to Halford, but
I’ll come out again in the afternoon, and have another look at the
body. If you call in with me tonight I’ll let you have the
certificate.’
‘There’ll have to be an inquest, of course, sir.’
‘Of course. It should be arranged for tomorrow.’
‘It’ll be for the coroner to fix the time, but I would suggest eleven
or twelve. I’ll call round tonight anyway sir, and let you know.’
Taking Smith, the gardener-boatman, and the constable who had helped
to carry the body, the sergeant returned to the site of the accident.
The river was falling rapidly, and with some trouble the four men
succeeded in getting the damaged boat ashore. Smith identified it
immediately as the _Alice_. A careful search in the neighbourhood
brought to light the rudder and bottom boards—each split and torn from
the rocks. But there was no sign of the oars or rowlocks.
It was useless, the sergeant thought, to look for the rowlocks. They
would be at the bottom of the river. But the oars should be
recoverable. Sending the two men downstream to search for them, he
himself took the Argyle, which Austin had left for the convenience of
the police, and drove to Dr Graham’s. That gentleman had not heard the
news and was profoundly shocked, but when the sergeant went on to ask
his question, he denied emphatically that there had been any
appointment for the previous evening. Sir William, he stated, was a
personal and valued friend, and they had often visited at each other’s
houses, but he had never met the deceased in a professional capacity.
He believed Dr Ames was Sir William’s medical adviser.
‘But, of course,’ Dr Graham concluded, ‘it is quite possible he may
have wished to consult privately. He knows I am usually to be found in
my study about nine, and he may have intended to walk up unobserved by
the path through the shrubbery, come to the study direct, and enter by
the French window.’
‘Very likely, sir,’ returned the sergeant, as he thanked Dr Graham and
took his leave.
His next visit was to the coroner, who also was much shocked at the
news. After some discussion the inquest was arranged for twelve
o’clock the following morning, provided this would suit the chief
constable of the district, who might wish to be present.
‘It will be a purely formal business, I suppose, sergeant?’ the
coroner observed as the other rose to take his leave. ‘There are no
doubtful or suspicious circumstances?’
‘None, sir. The affair is as clear as day. But, sir, I have been
thinking the question may arise as to whether boating should not be
prohibited altogether on that stretch of the river.’
‘Possibly it should, but I think we may leave that to the jury.’
The sergeant saluted and withdrew. Again taking the car, he reached
the police station as the clocks were striking half-past two. Going to
the telephone, he rang up the chief constable—to whom he had
telephoned immediately on hearing of the accident—and reported what he
had learnt. The official replied that he would be over in time for the
inquest.
An hour later the two constables who had been sent to search the lower
reaches of the river arrived at the police station. They had found the
missing oars, and had taken them to Luce Manor, where they had been
identified by Smith, the boatman. They had, it appeared, gone ashore
close beside each other nearly a mile below the falls, and two points
about the affair had interested the men. First, the oars had been
washed up on the left bank, while the other things had been deposited
on the right, and second, while all the latter were torn and damaged
by the rocks, neither oar was injured or even marked.
‘What do you make of that, Cowan?’ the sergeant asked when these facts
had been put before him.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what the boatman says, and it seems right enough.
You know that there road bridge above the falls? There’s two arches in
it. Well, Smith says he’ll lay ten bob the boat went through one arch
and the oars the other. That would look right enough to me too,
because the right side is more shallow and more rocky than the other,
and more likely for to break anything up. The left side is the main
channel, as you might say, and the oars might get down it without
damage. At least, that’s what Smith says, and it looks like enough to
me too.’
‘H’m,’ the sergeant mused, ‘seems reasonable.’ The sergeant knew more
about sea currents than river. He had been brought up on the coast,
and he had learnt that tidal currents having the same set will deposit
objects at or about the same place. It seemed to him likely that a
similar rule would apply to rivers. The body, boat, rudder, and bottom
boards had all gone ashore at one place. The oars also were found not
far apart, but they were a long way from the other things. What more
likely than the boatman’s suggestion that the two lots of objects had
become sufficiently divided in the upper reach to pass through
different arches of the bridge? This would separate them completely
enough to account for the positions in which they were found. Yes, it
certainly seemed reasonable.
And then another idea struck him, and he slapped his thigh.
‘By Jehosaphat, Cowan!’ he cried, ‘that’s just what’s happened, and it
explains the only thing we didn’t know about the whole affair. Those
oars went through the other arch right enough. And why? Why, because
Sir William had lost them coming down the river. That’s why he was
lost himself. I’ll lay you anything those oars got overboard, and he
couldn’t find them in the dark.’
To the sergeant, who was not without imagination, there came the dim
vision of an old, grey-haired man, adrift, alone and at night, in a
light skiff on the swirling flood—borne silently and resistlessly
onward, while he struggled desperately in the shrouding darkness to
recover the oars which had slipped from his grasp, and which were
floating somewhere close by. He could almost see the man’s frantic,
unavailing efforts to reach the bank, almost hear his despairing cries
rising above the rush of the waters and the roar of the fall, as more
and more swiftly he was swept on to his doom. Almost he could
visualise the tossing, spinning boat disappear under the bridge,
emerge, hang poised as if breathless for the fraction of a second
above the fall, then with an unhurried, remorseless swoop, plunge into
the boiling cauldron below. . . . A horrible fantasy truly, but to the
sergeant it seemed a picture of the actual happening.
But why, he wondered, had both the oars taken the other arch? It would
have been easier to explain the loss of one. With an unskilful boatman
such a thing not unfrequently occurred. But to lose both involved some
special cause. Possibly, he thought, Sir William had had some sudden
start, had moved sharply, almost capsizing the boat, and in making an
involuntary effort to right it had let go with both hands.
He was still puzzling over the problem when a note was handed him
which, when he had read it, banished the matter of the oars from his
mind, and turned his thoughts into a fresh direction. It ran:
Luce Manor, Thursday.—Please come out here at once. An unfortunate
development has arisen.—Walter Ames.
Without loss of time the sergeant took his bicycle and rode out the
two miles to Luce Manor. Dr Ames was waiting impatiently, and drew the
officer aside.
‘Look here, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’m not very happy about this
business. I want a post-mortem.’
‘A post-mortem sir?’ the other repeated in astonishment. ‘Why, sir, is
there anything fresh turned up, or what has happened?’
‘Nothing has happened, but’—the doctor hesitated—‘the fact is I’m not
certain of the cause of death.’
The sergeant stared.
‘But is there any doubt, sir—you’ll excuse me, I hope—is there any
doubt that he was drowned?’
‘That’s just what there is—a doubt and no more. A post-mortem will set
it at rest.’
The sergeant hesitated.
‘Of course, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘if you say that it ends the matter.
But it’ll be a nasty shock for Mr Austin, sir.’
‘I can’t help that. See here,’ the doctor went on confidentially,
‘some of the obvious signs of drowning are missing, and he has had a
blow on the back of the head that looks as if it might have killed
him. I want to make sure which it was.’
‘But might he not have got that blow against a rock, sir?’
‘He might, but I’m not sure. But we’re only wasting time. To put the
matter in a nutshell, I won’t give a certificate unless there is a
post-mortem, and if one is not arranged now, it will be after my
evidence at the inquest.’
‘Please don’t think, sir, I was in any way questioning your decision,’
the sergeant hastened to reply. ‘But I think I should first
communicate with the chief constable. You see, sir, in the case of so
prominent a family—’
‘You do what you think best about that, but if you take my advice
you’ll ask the Scotland Yard people to send down one of their doctors
to act with me.’
‘Bless me, sir! Is it as serious as that?’
‘Of course it’s serious,’ rapped out the doctor. ‘Sir William may have
been drowned, in which case it’s all right; or he may not, in which
case it’s all wrong—for somebody.’
The sergeant’s manner changed.
‘I’ll go immediately, sir, and phone the chief constable, and then, if
he approves, Scotland Yard. Where will you be, sir?
‘I have my work to attend to; I’m going home. You’ll find me there any
time during the evening. And look here, sergeant. I’d rather you said
nothing about this. There may be nothing at all in it.’
‘Trust me, sir,’ and with a salute the officer withdrew.
He rode rapidly back to Halford, and once again calling up the chief
constable, repeated what Dr Ames had said.
The two men discussed the matter at some length, and it was at last
decided that the chief constable should ring up the Yard and ask the
opinion of the Authorities about sending down a doctor. In a short
time there was a reply. Dr Wilgar and Inspector Tanner were motoring
down, and would be at Luce Manor about eight o’clock. The sergeant
went round to tell Dr Ames, and it was arranged that the latter should
meet the London men there. In the meantime the sergeant was to see
Austin Ponson, and break the disagreeable news to him.
This programme was carried out, and shortly after ten o’clock five men
met at the police station at Halford. There were the medical men,
Inspector Tanner, the sergeant, and Chief Constable Soames, who had
motored over.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the latter, when the preliminary greetings
were past, ‘we are met here under unusual and tragic circumstances,
which may easily become more serious still.’ He turned to the doctors.
‘You have completed the post-mortem, I understand?’
‘We have,’ replied Dr Wilgar.
‘And are you in agreement as to your conclusions?’
‘Completely.’
‘Perhaps then you would tell us what they are?’
Wilgar bowed to Dr Ames, and the latter replied:
‘The first moment I glanced at the body the thought occurred to me
that it had not exactly the appearance of a drowned man. But at that
time I did not seriously doubt that death had so occurred. When,
however, I came to make a more careful examination, the uncertainty
again arose in my mind. There was none of the discolouration usual in
such cases, and the wounds on the side of the face did not look as if
they had been inflicted before death. But, as a result of the long
continued washing they had had, I could not be certain of this. When
in addition I discovered a bruise on the back of the head which might
easily have caused death, I felt I would not be justified in giving a
certificate without further examination.’
The chief constable bowed and Dr Wilgar took up the story.
‘When I saw the corpse I quite agreed with my colleague’s views, and
we decided the post-mortem must be carried out. As a result of it we
find the man was not drowned.’
His hearers stared at him, but without interrupting.
‘There was no water in the lungs or stomach,’ went on Dr Wilgar. ‘The
wounds on the face occurred after death, and were doubtless caused by
the boulders in the river, but the cause of death was undoubtedly the
blow on the back of the head to which my colleague has referred.’
‘You amaze me, gentlemen,’ the chief constable remarked, and a similar
emotion showed on the sergeant’s expressive face. Inspector Tanner, a
fair haired, blue eyed, clean-shaven man of about forty, merely looked
keenly interested.
‘Do I understand you to say that the late Sir William was killed
before falling into the river?’ went on Mr Soames.
‘There is no doubt of it.’
‘That means, I take it, that he was flung out of the boat in such a
way that the back of his head struck a rock, killing him before he
dropped into the stream?’
‘We do not think so, sir,’ Dr Wilgar answered. ‘In that case he would
certainly have swallowed water. Besides, the blow was struck square on
with a blunt, smooth-surfaced implement. The skin was not cut as a
boulder would have cut it. No, we regret to say so, but the only
hypothesis which seems to meet the facts is that Sir William was
deliberately murdered.’
‘Good gracious, gentlemen, you don’t say so!’ The chief constable
seemed shocked, while the sergeant actually gasped.
‘I am afraid, and Dr Ames agrees with me, that there is no
alternative. The blow on the back of the head was struck while Sir
William was alive, and it could not have been self inflicted. It would
have been sufficient to kill him. The other injuries occurred after
death, and it is certain he was not drowned. There is no escape from
the conclusion that I have stated. On the contrary, there is every
reason to believe a deliberate and carefully thought out crime has
been committed. Though it is hardly our province, it seemed to us the
whole episode of the boat and the river was merely an attempt to hide
the true facts by providing the suggestion of an accident. And I may
perhaps be permitted to say that had a less observant and
conscientious man than my colleague been called in, the ruse might
easily have succeeded.’
‘You amaze me, sir,’ exclaimed Mr Soames. ‘A terrible business! I knew
the poor fellow well. I met him in Gateshead before he moved to these
parts, and we have been good friends ever since. A sterling, good
fellow as ever breathed! I cannot imagine anyone wishing him harm.
However, it shows how little we know’ . . . He turned to Inspector
Tanner. ‘I presume, Inspector, you came here prepared to take over the
case?’
‘Certainly, sir; I was sent for that purpose.’
‘Well, the sooner you get to work the better. And now about the
inquest. With the medical evidence there can be but one verdict.’
‘I think, sir,’ observed Tanner, ‘that with your approval it might be
wiser to hold that evidence back. It might put some one on his guard,
who would otherwise give himself away. I should suggest formal
evidence of identification, and an adjournment.’
‘Very possibly you are right, Inspector. What reason would you give
for that procedure?’
‘I would say, sir, that it is desirable on technical grounds that some
motive for Sir William’s taking out the boat should be discovered, and
that the inquest is being adjourned to enable inquiries on this point
to be made.’
‘Very well. I shall see the coroner and arrange it with him. It is not
of course necessary for me to remind you of the importance of
secrecy,’ and with a bow Chief Constable Soames took his leave, and
the meeting broke up.
‘Come along round and have some supper at the George,’ Inspector
Tanner invited the sergeant. ‘I’ve got a private room, and I want a
talk over this business.’
The sergeant, flushed with the honour, and delighting in his feeling
of importance, accepted, and the two went out together.
An hour later they lit up their pipes, and Tanner listened while the
sergeant told him in detail all he knew of the affair. Then the
Inspector unrolled a large-scale map he had brought, and spread it on
the table.
‘I want,’ he said, ‘to learn my way about. Just come and point out the
places on the map. Here,’ he pointed as he spoke, ‘is Halford, a place
of, I suppose, 3000 inhabitants.’ The sergeant nodded and the other
resumed. ‘This road running through the town from north to south is
the main road from Bedford to London. Now, let’s see. Going towards
London it crosses the Cranshaw River at the London side of Halford,
and for about a mile both run nearly parallel. Then at the end of the
mile, what’s this? A lane leading from the road to the river?’
‘Yes, that’s what we call the Old Ferry. It’s a grass-grown lane
through trees, and there’s a broken-down pier at the end of it.’
‘H’m. Then the river bears away towards the south-east; while the road
continues almost due south. Luce Manor is here in this vee between
them?’
‘Yes, that’s it, sir.’
‘I see. Then at the end of Luce Manor, a cross road runs from the
Bedford-London road eastwards, crossing the river just above the falls
and leading to Hitchin?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right.’
‘So that the Luce Manor grounds make a triangle bounded by the main
London road, the cross road to Hitchin and the river.’
The Inspector smoked in silence for some minutes. Then, rolling up the
map, he went on:
‘Now I want to learn my dates, and also what weather you have been
having. This is Thursday night, and it was, therefore, Wednesday night
or early this morning the affair happened. Now what about the
weather?’
‘We’ve had a lot of rain lately. It was wet up to last Monday. In the
afternoon it cleared up, and it has been fine since—that is, here. But
farther up the country there has been a lot of thunder and heavy rain.
That has left the river full for this time of year.’
‘Wet up till Monday afternoon, and fine since, I see. Well, sergeant,
I think that’s about all we can do tonight. By the way, could you lend
me a bicycle for the morning?’
‘Certainly, I’ll leave it round now,’ and with an exchange of
good-nights the men separated.