The thin man wandered through the house without comment, Luke at his heels. The scene was just as stated. There was no sign of hurried flight, no evidence of packing, no hint of violence. The dwelling was not so much untidy as in the process of being used. There was a pair of man’s pyjamas on the stool in the bathroom and a towel hung over the basin to dry. The woman’s handbag on the coat on a chair in the bedroom contained the usual miscellany, and two pounds three shillings, some coppers and a set of keys. Mr Campion looked at everything, the clothes hanging neatly in the cupboard, the dead flowers still in the vases, but the only item which appeared to hold his attention was the wedding group which he found in a silver frame on the dressing-table. He stood before it for a long time, apparently fascinated, yet it was not a remarkable picture. As is occasionally the case in such photographs the two central figures were the least dominant characters in the entire group of vigorous, laughing guests. Maureen timid and gentle, with a slender figure and big dark eyes, looked positively scared of her own bridesmaids while Peter, although solid and with a determined chin, had a panic-stricken look about him which contrasted with the cheerful assured grin of the best man.
‘That’s Heskith,’ said Luke. ‘You can see the sort of chap he is – not one of nature’s great outstanding success types but not the man to go imagining things. When he says he felt the two were there that morning, perfectly normal and happy as usual, I believe him.’
‘No Miss Dove here?’ said Campion still looking at the group.
‘No. That’s her sister though, deputising for the bride’s mother. And that’s the girl from opposite, the one who thinks she saw Peter go up the road.’ Luke put a forefinger over the face of the third bridesmaid. ‘There’s another sister here and the rest are cousins. I understand the pic doesn’t do the bride justice. Everybody says she was a good-natured pretty girl …’ He corrected himself. ‘Is, I mean.’
‘The bridegroom looks a reasonable type to me,’ murmured Mr Campion. ‘A little apprehensive, perhaps.’
‘I wonder.’ Luke spoke thoughtfully. ‘The Heskiths had another photo of him and perhaps it’s more marked in that, but don’t you think there’s a sort of ruthlessness in that face, Campion? It’s not quite recklessness, more like decision. I knew a sergeant in the war with a face like that. He was mild enough in the ordinary way but once something shook him he acted fast and pulled no punches whatever. Well, that’s neither here nor there. Come and inspect the linen line, and then, Heaven help you, you’ll know just about as much as I do.’
He led the way out to the back and stood for a moment on the concrete path which ran under the kitchen window separating the house from the small rectangle of shorn grass which was all there was of a garden.
A high rose hedge, carefully trained on rustic fencing, separated it from the neighbours on the right; at the bottom there was a garden shed and a few fruit trees and, on the left, greenery in the neglected garden of the old lady who was in hospital had grown up high so that a green wall screened the lawn from all but the prying eyes of Miss Dove, who, even at that moment, Mr Campion suspected, was standing on a chair and clinging to a sash to peer at them.
Luke indicated the empty line slung across the green. ‘I had the linen brought in,’ he said. ‘The Heskiths were worrying and there seemed no earthly point in leaving it out to rot.’
‘What’s in the shed?’
‘A spade and fork and a hand-mower,’ said the Chief promptly. ‘Come and look. The floor is beaten earth and if it’s been disturbed in thirty years I’ll eat my ticket. I suppose we’ll have to fetch it up in the end but we’ll be wasting our time.’
Mr Campion went over and glanced into the tarred wooden hut. It was tidy and dusty and the floor was dry and hard. Outside a dilapidated pair of steps leaned against the six-foot brick wall which marked the boundary.
Mr Campion tried them gingerly. They held, but not as it were with any real assurance, and he climbed up to look over the wall to the narrow path which separated it from the tarred fence of the rear garden of a house in the next street.
‘That’s an odd right of way,’ Luke said. ‘It leads down between the two residential roads. These suburban places are not very matey, you know. Half the time one street doesn’t know the next. Chestnut Grove is classier than Philpott Avenue which runs parallel with it.’
Mr Campion descended, dusting his hands. He was grinning and his eyes were dancing.
‘I wonder if anybody there noticed her,’ he said. ‘She must have been carrying the sheets, you know.’
The chief turned round slowly and stared at him.
‘You’re not suggesting that she simply walked down here over the wall and out! In the clothes she’d been washing in? It’s crazy. Why should she? Did her husband go with her?’
‘No. I think he went down Chestnut Grove as usual, doubled back down this path as soon as he came to the other end of it near the station, picked up his wife and went off with her through Philpott Avenue to the bus stop. They’d only got to get to the Broadway to find a cab, you see.’
Luke’s dark face still wore an expression of complete incredulity.
‘But for Pete’s sake why?’ he demanded. ‘Why clear out in the middle of breakfast on a wash-day morning? Why take the sheets? Young couples can do the most unlikely things but there are limits. They didn’t take their savings bank books you know. There’s not much in them but they’re still there in the writing desk in the front room. What are you getting at, Campion?’
The thin man walked slowly back on to the patch of grass.
‘I expect the sheets were dry and she’d folded them into the basket before breakfast,’ he began slowly. ‘As she ran out of the house they were lying there and she couldn’t resist taking them with her. The husband must have been irritated with her when he saw her with them but people are like that. When they’re running from a fire they save the oddest things.’
‘But she wasn’t running from a fire.’
‘Wasn’t she!’ Mr Campion laughed. ‘There were several devouring flames all round them just then I should have thought. Listen, Charles. If the postman called he reached the house at seven-twenty-five. I think he did call and with an ordinary plain business envelope which was too commonplace for him to remember. It would be the plainest of plain envelopes. Well, who was due at seven-thirty?’
‘Bert Heskith. I told you.’
‘Exactly. So there were five minutes in which to escape. Five minutes for a determined, resourceful man like Peter McGill to act promptly. His wife was generous and easygoing, remember, and so, thanks to that decision which you yourself noticed in his face, he rose to the occasion. He had only five minutes, Charles, to escape all those powerful personalities with their jolly, avid faces, whom we saw in the wedding group. They were all living remarkably close to him, ringing him round as it were, so that it was a ticklish business to elude them. He went the front way so that the kindly watchful eye would see him as usual and not be alarmed. There wasn’t time to take anything at all and it was only because Maureen flying through the back garden to escape the back way saw the sheets in the basket and couldn’t resist her treasures that they salvaged them. She wasn’t quite so ruthless as Peter. She had to take something from the old life however glistening were the prospects for—’ He broke off abruptly. Chief Inspector Luke, with dawning comprehension in his eyes, was already halfway to the gate on the way to the nearest police telephone box.
Mr Campion was in his own sitting-room in Bottle Street, Piccadilly, later that evening when Luke called. He came in jauntily, his black eyes dancing with amusement.
‘It wasn’t the Irish Sweep but the Football Pools,’ he said. ‘I got the details out of the promoters. They’ve been wondering what to do ever since the story broke. They’re in touch with the McGills, of course, but Peter had taken every precaution to ensure secrecy and is insisting on his rights. He must have known his wife’s tender heart and have made up his mind what he’d do if ever
a really big win came off. The moment he got the letter telling him of his luck he put the plan into practice.’ He paused and shook his head admiringly. ‘I hand it to him,’ he said. ‘Seventy-five thousand pounds is like a nice fat chicken, plenty and more for two but only a taste for the whole of a very big family.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Us? The police? Oh, officially we’re baffled. We shall retire gracefully. It’s not our business.’ He sat down and raised the glass his host handed to him.
‘Here’s to the mystery of the Villa Marie Celeste,’ he said. ‘I had a blind spot for it. It foxed me completely. Good luck to them, though. You know, Campion, you had a point when you said that the really insoluble mystery is the one which no one can bring himself to spoil. What put you on to it?’
‘I suspect the charm of relatives who call at seven-thirty in the morning,’ said Mr Campion simply.
The Blue Scarab
R. Austin Freeman
Medico-legal practice is largely concerned with crimes against the person, the details of which are often sordid, gruesome and unpleasant. Hence the curious and romantic case of the Blue Scarab (though really outside our speciality) came as somewhat of a relief. But to me it is of interest principally as illustrating two of the remarkable gifts which made my friend, Thorndyke, unique as an investigator: his uncanny power of picking out the one essential fact at a glance, and his capacity to produce, when required, inexhaustible stores of unexpected knowledge of the most out-of-the-way subjects.
It was late in the afternoon when Mr James Blowgrave arrived, by appointment, at our chambers, accompanied by his daughter, a rather strikingly pretty girl of about twenty-two; and when we had mutually introduced ourselves, the consultation began without preamble.
‘I didn’t give any details in my letter to you,’ said Mr Blowgrave. ‘I thought it better not to, for fear you might decline the case. It is really a matter of a robbery, but not quite an ordinary robbery. There are some unusual and rather mysterious features in the case. And as the police hold out very little hope, I have come to ask if you will give me your opinion on the case and perhaps look into it for me. But first I had better tell you how the affair happened.
‘The robbery occurred just a fortnight ago, about half-past nine o’clock in the evening. I was sitting in my study with my daughter, looking over some things that I had taken from a small deed-box, when a servant rushed in to tell us that one of the outbuildings was on fire. Now, my study opens by a French window on the garden at the back, and, as the outbuilding was in a meadow at the side of the garden, I went out that way, leaving the French window open; but before going I hastily put the things back in the deed-box and locked it.
‘The building – which I used partly as a lumber store and partly as a workshop – was well alight and the whole household was already on the spot, the boy working the pump and the two maids carrying the buckets and throwing water on the fire. My daughter and I joined the party and helped to carry the buckets and take out what goods we could reach from the burning building. But it was nearly half an hour before we got the fire completely extinguished, and then my daughter and I went to our rooms to wash and tidy ourselves up. We returned to the study together, and when I had shut the French window my daughter proposed that we should resume our interrupted occupation. Thereupon I took out of my pocket the key of the deed-box and turned to the cabinet on which the box always stood.
‘But there was no deed-box there.
‘For a moment I thought I must have moved it, and cast my eyes round the room in search of it. But it was nowhere to be seen, and a moment’s reflection reminded me that I had left it in its usual place. The only possible conclusion was that during our absence at the fire, somebody must have come in by the window and taken it. And it looked as if that somebody had deliberately set fire to the outbuilding for the express purpose of luring us all out of the house.’
‘That is what the appearances suggest,’ Thorndyke agreed. ‘Is the study window furnished with a blind, or curtains?’
‘Curtains,’ replied Mr Blowgrave. ‘But they were not drawn. Anyone in the garden could have seen into the room; and the garden is easily accessible to an active person who could climb over a low wall.’
‘So far, then,’ said Thorndyke, ‘the robbery might be the work of a casual prowler who had got into the garden and watched you through the window, and assuming that the things you had taken from the box were of value, seized an easy opportunity to make off with them. Were the things of any considerable value?’
‘To a thief they were of no value at all. There were a number of share certificates, a lease, one or two agreements, some family photographs and a small box containing an old letter and a scarab. Nothing worth stealing, you see, for the certificates were made out in my name and were therefore unnegotiable.’
‘And the scarab?’
‘That may have been lapis lazuli, but more probably it was a blue glass imitation. In any case it was of no considerable value. It was about an inch and a half long. But before you come to any conclusion, I had better finish the story. The robbery was on Tuesday, the 7th of June. I gave information to the police, with a description of the missing property, but nothing happened until Wednesday, the 15th, when I received a registered parcel bearing the Southampton postmark. On opening it I found, to my astonishment, the entire contents of the deed-box, with the exception of the scarab, and this rather mysterious communication.’
He took from his pocket and handed to Thorndyke an ordinary envelope addressed in typewritten characters, and sealed with a large, elliptical seal, the face of which was covered with minute hieroglyphics.
‘This,’ said Thorndyke, ‘I take to be an impression of the scarab; and an excellent impression it is.’
‘Yes,’ replied Mr Blowgrave, ‘I have no doubt that it is the scarab. It is about the same size.’
Thorndyke looked quickly at our client with an expression of surprise. ‘But,’ he asked, ‘don’t you recognise the hieroglyphics on it?’
Mr Blowgrave smiled deprecatingly. ‘The fact is,’ said he, ‘I don’t know anything about hieroglyphics, but I should say, as far as I can judge, these look the same. What do you think, Nellie?’
Miss Blowgrave looked at the seal vaguely and replied, ‘I am in the same position. Hieroglyphics are to me just funny things that don’t mean anything. But these look the same to me as those on our scarab, though I expect any other hieroglyphics would, for that matter.’
Thorndyke made no comment on this statement, but examined the seal attentively through his lens. Then he drew out the contents of the envelope, consisting of two letters, one typewritten and the other in a faded brown handwriting. The former he read through and then inspected the paper closely, holding it up to the light to observe the watermark.
‘The paper appears to be of Belgian manufacture,’ he remarked, passing it to me. I confirmed this observation and then read the letter, which was headed ‘Southampton’ and ran thus:
DEAR OLD PAL,
I am sending you back some trifles removed in error. The ancient document is enclosed with this, but the curio is at present in the custody of my respected uncle. Hope its temporary loss will not inconvenience you, and that I may be able to return it to you later. Meanwhile, believe me,
Your ever affectionate,
RUDOLPHO.
‘Who is Rudolpho?’ I asked.
‘The Lord knows,’ replied Mr Blowgrave. ‘A pseudonym of our absent friend, I presume. He seems to be a facetious sort of person.’
‘He does,’ agreed Thorndyke. ‘This letter and the seal appear to be what the schoolboys would call a leg-pull. But still, this is all quite normal. He has returned you the worthless things and has kept the one thing that has any sort of negotiable value. Are you quite clear that the scarab is not more valuable than you have assumed?’
‘Well,’ said Mr Blowgrave, ‘I have had an expert’s opinion on it. I showed it to M. Fouquet, the Egyptologist
, when he was over here from Brussels a few months ago, and his opinion was that it was a worthless imitation. Not only was it not a genuine scarab, but the inscription was a sham, too; just a collection of hieroglyphic characters jumbled together without sense or meaning.’
‘Then,’ said Thorndyke, taking another look at the seal through his lens, ‘it would seem that Rudolpho, or Rudolpho’s uncle, has got a bad bargain. Which doesn’t throw much light on the affair.’
At this point Miss Blowgrave intervened. ‘I think, father,’ said she, ‘you have not given Dr Thorndyke quite all the facts about the scarab. He ought to be told about its connection with Uncle Reuben.’
As the girl spoke Thorndyke looked at her with a curious expression of suddenly awakened interest. Later I understood the meaning of that look, but at the time there seemed to me nothing particularly arresting in her words.
‘It is just a family tradition,’ Mr Blowgrave said deprecatingly. ‘Probably it is all nonsense.’
‘Well, let us have it, at any rate,’ said Thorndyke. ‘We may get some light from it.’
Thus urged, Mr Blowgrave hemmed a little shyly and began:
‘The story concerns my great-grandfather Silas Blowgrave, and his doings during the war with France. It seems that he commanded a privateer of which he and his brother Reuben were the joint owners, and that in the course of their last cruise they acquired a very remarkable and valuable collection of jewels. Goodness knows how they got them; not very honestly, I suspect, for they appear to have been a pair of precious rascals. Something has been said about the loot from a South American church or cathedral, but there is really nothing known about the affair. There are no documents. It is mere oral tradition and very vague and sketchy. The story goes that when they had sold off the ship, they came down to live at Shawstead in Hertfordshire, Silas occupying the manor house – in which I live at present – and Reuben a farm adjoining. The bulk of the loot they shared out at the end of the cruise, but the jewels were kept apart to be dealt with later – perhaps when the circumstances under which they had been acquired had been forgotten. However, both men were inveterate gamblers and it seems – according to the testimony of a servant of Reuben’s who overheard them – that on a certain night when they had been playing heavily, they decided to finish up by playing for the whole collection of jewels as a single stake. Silas, who had the jewels in his custody, was seen to go to the manor house and return to Reuben’s house carrying a small, iron chest.
Murder in Midsummer Page 10
