The Threefold Cord

by Francis Vivian

  Knollis got to his feet and knocked out his pipe in the grate. “Don’t be an idiot, Bam. I’m coming out with you. A busman’s holiday won’t do me any harm for once in a way.”

  “Decent of you,” Bamford said with a relieved air.

  As he backed his car from the drive to the main road and slid the gears into top, he briefly sketched the setting of the tragedy for Knollis’s benefit.

  “Three-Acre Dam is on this side of the town, about two miles on and lying between two hills. We shall turn right and descend Coleby Rise, a gradient of one-in-nine. The hill then facing us is Hampton Knoll, a one-in-seven slope. The dam lies between them, to the left of the road. The by-road over the hills leads into the urban district of Norton Birchfield. The stretch of water is at the northern end of a Forestry Commission plantation, amply shrouded by conifers, most of them about ten to twelve feet high.”

  And then, as Knollis’s eyes were closed, Bamford asked if he was bored.

  “Carry on, Bam,” said Knollis. “I’m vastly interested. You possess the worthy gift of being able to describe in the vivid manner.”

  “Well,” continued Bamford, “the trees come down to about twenty yards of the water’s edge, and that twenty yards is thick with hawthorn and gorse bushes—an ideal spot for a murder. The water passes through a small sluice-gate and is culverted under the road. The resulting stream meanders for a mile to join the river that flows through the town—you’ll remember that we passed over it in Bridge Street on our way from the railway station.”

  Knollis nodded. “The dead man. Who and what is he?”

  “Richard Huntingdon,” said Bamford. “It would be quicker to tell you what he isn’t than what he is. His name is to be found in the local paper practically every week. He makes speeches—lots of ’em. Made a pile in engineering and then retired, although he still has a seat on the board and draws a retainer as consultant. He spends his time doing good works, playing golf, and imploring the youth of the town to grow into good and righteous men. His favourite speech is Chivalry in this Modern Age. It is alleged that the compositors on the Herald staff keep the speech made up in type and merely alter the name of the hall in which the thing is made, and the group he happens to be addressing. That is by the way. He is people’s warden at his church, president of about five youth clubs, an athletic club, the town cricket club, the church football club, a Rotarian, amateur operatic singer—quite a decent baritone—member of the Borough Council, alderman, and has been mayor.”

  “Pooh Bah?” commented Knollis.

  “Something like that, yes, except that he is possessed of great dignity and glories in his own good works.”

  “When social service becomes self-conscious it loses its virtue,” Knollis remarked quietly. “Anyway, he’s dead and beyond all that now. Murdered, eh?”

  “Drayton seems to think so.”

  “Sounds like being an interesting case,” Knollis said in a too-casual voice. “The more connections a man has, the more angles there are to explore. What is your county superintendent like?”

  Bamford chuckled. “He won’t want to handle the case, if that is what you are getting at. He has never handled a murder case—apart from the usual infanticide cases—and he has more sense than to want to take the case for the sake of his pride. He’s one of those level-headed fellows who appreciates the difference between the general practitioner and the specialist. I’ll wager a fiver that the Yard will be asked to assist. Still, it may not be murder. We don’t know yet.”

  Knollis settled deeper into his seat as the car sped along the road. “They’ll assign me to it as I happen to be in the district.”

  “Don’t be a darned hypocrite,” returned Bamford. “The light of battle was in your eyes almost before I had mouthed the word murder. You are itching to get at it.”

  Knollis gave a sheepish smile. “Well, I must admit that I am interested,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “Personally, I hope you do get it,” said Bamford. “I’d like to see you at work. You’ve gained something of a reputation for your work on your last three cases, and I’m keen on seeing how you do it.”

  “Heaven forbid that you should watch me,” Knollis exclaimed in a tone of alarm. “I’m horribly self-conscious.”

  “Nuts!” said Bamford. He put out an arm and swung the car to the right to begin the descent of Coleby Rise.

  “How far is it from here to Norton Birchfield?” Knollis asked idly.

  “Two miles and a half. A mile and a half to the so-called level crossing in a slow right-hand curve, and then a straight mile into the sleepiest and worst-planned little industrial town in the whole of England. I hate the place! It is a stretched-out ribbon of shops and houses; an urban district formed from what were once three hamlets.”

  “And the main road we have just left leads on to the county town?”

  “Fourteen miles straight on to Hedenham.”

  “I see,” said Knollis, which he could not have done because his eyes were closed again. “This plantation? Any footpaths or bridle-paths through it?”

  “Not officially. It is forbidden land, well-fenced and liberally bespattered with notices warning off the general public, although I dare say that they can still claim way-leave on the paths which are established by long custom.”

  “Any angling in the dam?”

  “Only by children, for tiddlers.”

  “The water? How does it get here?”

  “The draining of the surrounding hills. You do ask a lot of questions, don’t you!”

  They reached the bottom of the hill, and pulled in to the grass verge, a few yards from the first of the four cars that faced them. There was a small group of people on the bank of the dam.

  “Sergeant Drayton and P.C. Harrison,” explained Bamford. “The woman leaning on the shoulder of the other woman must be Mrs. Huntingdon, although I’m blessed if I know how she’s got here so soon.”

  “The little fellow in chauffeur’s uniform; who is he?” murmured Knollis.

  “Haven’t a notion. The car looks like the Bishop of Northcote’s, but I’m not sure.”

  “And there lies the body,” said Knollis. He indicated a blue melton cape which lay outspread, and from beneath which stretched a pair of tweed-trousered legs.

  As they walked from the car Knollis caught at Bamford’s arm. “Look!”

  A green-and-white model yacht was riding on the dam, drifting slowly towards them, towards the sluice-gate and the culvert.

  “Was the man a model yacht enthusiast by any chance?”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” said Bamford. “Queer. Still, we shall learn about it eventually.”

  Drayton came forward, vaulting the fence, a three-barred affair of a rickety nature. He saluted Bamford, and grimaced. “A nasty job, sir. Shot through the back, between the shoulder-blades. The bullet has lodged inside him, or seems to have done, because I can’t find any second wound.”

  “Not shot at close quarters then,” commented Knollis.

  “That Mrs. Huntingdon?” asked Bamford, nodding towards the woman he had pointed out to Knollis.

  “Mrs. Huntingdon and Mrs. Frampton, sir,” said Drayton. “The story goes like this as far as I can make out. The Huntingdons have a little girl of eleven years of age. She is at a party in town—at Mrs. Castle’s, just above your own house. She went alone, and there doesn’t appear to be anything out of the way in that as she takes herself to school every day. Anyway, she had a birthday a fortnight ago, and among her presents was a model yacht. She took this to the party with her, as kids will, and left home about half-past three—”

  Knollis glanced at his watch and remarked that it was now twenty-one minutes past four.

  “Yes, sir,” said Drayton. “Her mother was playing golf on the town course, and she left home about half-past one, straight after an early lunch. Mr. Huntingdon stayed home to prepare a speech for a meeting of the Young Templars to-night—him and the mayor and the Bishop of Northcote were all sp
eaking at the same meeting. According to Mrs. Huntingdon, a message was brought to her from the club-house about ten to four. It was from her husband, and it was to say that the kiddie had met with a serious accident down here, and would she meet him. She had a fair distance to walk back to the car-park, and then she and Mrs. Frampton set out.

  “Harrison and myself were patrolling the top road when she passed us doing about fifty-five, and of course we went after her. She took the corner on two wheels, and we fully expected her to turn over, but she made it, and just pelted down the Rise. We were forty-five seconds behind her when she drew in. She jumped out, scrambled over the fence, and was dashing about among the bushes. We hurried after her. Mrs. Frampton was standing by the car and said something about an accident. Then Mrs. Huntingdon came to a sudden halt, screamed, and went down in a heap. And then we found him; she had fallen over his body. It didn’t take many seconds to decide that he was dead, and so we haven’t disturbed his position.”

  Knollis touched Drayton lightly on the sleeve to engage his attention. “The yacht, Sergeant; how did she react to that?”

  Drayton nodded significantly. “That was what came next, sir. She was muttering her husband’s name when she came out of the faint, and then she saw the little boat and started chasing round and calling the child’s name—Dorrie it is. She went hysterical, and Mrs. Frampton smacked her face until she was quiet enough to question. It seems that the kiddie’s name was painted on both sides of her own yacht, and even from here I could see that there was no name on the one on the water, so she calmed down a bit at that. Once I found out where the child was supposed to be, I sent Harrison down to the Three Crows at the cross-roads to ’phone Mrs. Castle. She reported that the child was safe at the party, and that the boat was with her.”

  “Who is the fellow in livery?” asked Knollis.

  “Chauffeur to the Bishop of Northcote, sir. He was driving down the hill, and pulled in when he saw that something was going off.”

  “Suppose you dismiss the two ladies, Bamford,” Knollis murmured quietly. “We can’t examine the body while they are on the scene.”

  Bamford climbed the fence and had a word with them, as a result of which Mrs. Frampton led her friend back to the car and drove away.

  Knollis joined Bamford beside the body. “So that’s the widow, eh? Age about forty, and attempts to disguise the fact. The dark hair shows signs of dye which is growing out, and her complexion is too sallow for a younger woman in good health. Loud check tweeds and brogues naturally indicate the woman-about-town.”

  “Secretary or chairman of every club not monopolized by her husband,” Bamford supplemented. “She’s noted for spending more time out of the house than in it. Huntingdon is a second husband, and the child is by the first marriage. Isn’t there some tragedy connected with that first marriage, Drayton? I seem to recall something of the kind.”

  “First husband committed suicide on the south coast, sir,” said Drayton. “The child was born after his death, and Mr. Huntingdon married her about a year later.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Knollis. “Let’s have a look at the body before the photographers and the surgeon get working on him.”

  Drayton removed the cape, revealing the corpse. It was lying face down. There was a broad splurge of blood between the shoulder-blades, from which stretched seven narrow streams, so that it looked as if an evil blood-red spider was sitting on the dead man and endeavouring to embrace his body.

  Huntingdon was about five feet eleven in height, and exceptionally broad. His head was large, well-shaped, and covered with dark brown hair. The ears were large and somewhat coarse in texture, and set low over a short and very thick neck.

  “How old was he?” asked Knollis.

  “About fifty-one, I believe.”

  “Considerably older than the wife, eh?”

  Bamford nodded. “He was, but I don’t see that the fact is in any way significant.”

  “Neither do I,” Knollis admitted. “I’m merely collecting data. I take it that he was well on the way to success when she met and married him?”

  “Drayton has been in the town longer than myself.” Drayton pushed back his cap and scratched his head.

  “I seem to remember that they were married some ten and a half years ago, sir. He retired five years ago, so I think you are correct.”

  “Been through his pockets?” asked Knollis.

  Drayton had not, so they went to work, examining the pockets after they had turned him over, and replacing each article when it had been listed. Knollis did the work. He was already right inside the skin of the case, and identifying himself with the investigation.

  “Pipe and matches in left jacket pocket. Handkerchief tucked up right sleeve. Money in left trousers. Small bunch of keys in right trousers. Wallet in right inside breast pocket. Five one-pound notes and cheque-book. Light gold half-hunter. The man travelled light. Over with him. Now replace the cape, Drayton.”

  He got to his feet, his features tense, and his eyes mere slits. “He was left-handed, and he wasn’t killed for his money.”

  He turned to the chauffeur, who up to now had been a mere interested onlooker. “Who are you?”

  “Burton, the Bishop of Northcote’s chauffeur, sir. I dropped him down the road some time ago. He wanted to walk among the trees while he meditated on his speech for to-night’s meeting. I forgot about him when I dropped across this business, so I expect he’ll be waiting for me on the main road.”

  “I’ve very much afraid that he’ll have to wait a little longer,” said Knollis. “Does he usually walk in plantations when he wants to meditate?”

  Burton, a little man with querulous eyebrows, shook his head. “As a matter of fact, he doesn’t, sir. It’s the first time I’ve known him to do it. The Old Dear generally prefers the comfort of his study.”

  “I can understand that,” said Knollis.

  At that moment the ‘Old Dear’ emerged from the plantation, an expression of wide-eyed astonishment on his bland features. He walked round the southern end of the dam in a dignified and stately manner, treading as daintily as a cat on the springy turf, an incongruous figure in his frock coat, gaiters, and top hat.

  Burton bobbed obsequiously as he joined the group. “My lord, I was—”

  “Seemingly delayed, Burton,” said the Bishop solemnly. He glanced round the assembled figures and indicated the covered body with a cautious finger. “An—er—accident?”

  Knollis removed the cape as deftly as a matador performing a veronica. “Do you happen to recognize him, my lord?”

  The Bishop blinked at the blood, and his jaw tightened. He removed his hat, and bent over the body, his wispy grey hair frisking frivolously in the light breeze that was running through the valley.

  “Mr. Richard Huntingdon. Dear, dear!”

  “You know him, of course?” asked Knollis.

  The Bishop did not heed Knollis’s question. Instead he stared fixedly at the corpse. “God has a way of sending His angel Azrael when the time is—”

  He broke off in some embarrassment and glanced uncomfortably at Knollis. He coughed apologetically behind his hand. “‘Life,’ said the Immortal Bard, ‘is but a poor player upon the stage—a brief candle.’”

  “Which has been abruptly snuffed,” said Knollis.

  The Bishop turned his eyes to the heavens, where great creamy cumulous clouds sailed majestically against a filmy blue backcloth. “It would seem that Richard Huntingdon has had his hour upon the stage. Requiescat in pace!”

  He shook his head sorrowfully, replaced his hat, and walked sedately to the car, Burton following respectfully. Once the Bishop had negotiated the fence, Burton hurried forward, opened the door of the car, tucked a rug round his gaitered legs, and drove away.

  Knollis watched the whole performance through near-shut eyes. As the car rolled smoothly up the hill towards the main Hedenham-Coleby road, he sniffed cautiously. “Candle-snuffers have been made in fine porcelain
.”

  Buy The Ninth Enemy now from Amazon.com

  Buy The Ninth Enemy now from Amazon.co.uk

  Published by Dean Street Press 2018

  Copyright © 1947 Francis Vivian

  Introduction copyright © 2018 Curtis Evans

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.

  First published in 1947 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd.

  Cover by DSP

  ISBN 978 1 912574 32 2

  www.deanstreetpress.co.uk