Fell Murder

by E. C. R. Lorac

  After a series of questions Layng dismissed Staple abruptly, saying: “Go up to the Hall and wait for me there. I shall come there immediately I have finished investigations here, and I shall want to see everyone in the house. Meantime, I caution you not to discuss this matter with anybody. I don’t want to waste time over hearsay evidence. You can leave your gun here. I will see to it.”

  Staple thrust his hands into his pockets and turned away with his shoulders hunched up, walking slowly and heavily. Layng turned to one of the constables he brought with him.

  “You can go up to the house and see to it that everyone is there when I want them.” He turned to his younger assistant, who had acted as his chauffeur, saying: “We should be here all night before I got any facts out of that old fellow. Can’t answer yes or no without five minutes time lag between question and answer.”

  Turning on a powerful electric torch, Layng examined the ground inside the hull. It was very damp, the mud heavy and squelchy, for the rain-water had drained through it in the recent storms, soaking through the unmortared walls and seeping in at the ground level. Obviously some sheep had been temporarily folded there not long since and there were plenty of fresh footprints. Marion had worn gum boots: Charles Garth and Staple had both moved about inside the little building, and Charles’s footprints were plain in the far corner. Layng gave a snort of disgust. He had learned from Staple that three people had been inside the hull since the body was discovered—Staple himself, Charles, and Marion. “Galumphing around and confusing all the traces,” said Layng. He soon arrived at the same conclusion which Charles had formed—that old Mr. Garth had been shot just after he stepped inside the door of the hull. Layng was a tall fellow—close on six feet, but the dead man had been taller still. Layng had to bend his head to get inside the door, and Mr. Garth would have had to stoop still further. It was probably that fact which accounted for his prone position: he had been bending right forward as he came in at the door and consequently had fallen forward on his face instead of going backwards as might have been expected when struck by a charge of shot at close quarters. If this argument were right, there seemed to be only one place where the murderer could have stood—in the corner of the hull diagonally farthest from the door. Examination showed that there was a pile of peat moss on the floor in that corner—probably put there long since as bedding for some sick beast. Its drawback from Layng’s point of view was that it showed no footprints. Here the murderer could have knelt or sat—the sloping roof would have prevented him standing upright—and have left no trace on the resilient peat moss. Flashing his torch round in the dark corner, Layng pounced on something which reflected the light: he bent down with a pair of forceps and carefully raised his find without fingering it. He thought at first that it was a shilling, but closer examination showed it to be a twenty-five cent piece, the “quarter” of American currency. Layng put the coin away carefully in an envelope. How an American coin came to be lying in such a place Layng could not imagine, but he felt that he had found something of first-rate importance. He noticed the rabbit snares, too, and tucked away into a corner was something which Charles had missed. It was an old haversack, containing odds and ends such as pieces of wire and twine, pliers and a jack-knife, as well as a heavy hammer. Staple had said: “Mr. Garth often left some of his odd gear here when he was going from place to place on the farm.” Layng nodded to himself. He felt that he could guess what had happened. “Who?” was the next question. He came outside and spoke to the constable.

  “You know a bit about the family at the Hall, Harding. Isn’t there a son who has recently come back from abroad?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Charles Garth. He was in Malaya, and got away to Australia just before the Japs took Singapore. No end of a time he had—got wrecked on one of those tropical islands and had a fearful time.”

  “He did, did he? Have you talked to him yourself?”

  “No. I’ve only heard about it in the village yonder. Mr. Charles Garth isn’t given to talking freely to anyone if you take me.”

  “Snob, eh? Did you hear if he came home via America?”

  “I’ve never heard say so, sir. Maybe he did.”

  Layng stood and considered for a moment. “There’s the surgeon coming out here, and the ambulance as well as a photographer. You are to stay here on guard until further instructions.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ve just remembered something you might like to know. Mr. Garth’s eldest son, Richard, went to America years ago. Folks say he quarrelled with his father when he married Farmer Ashthwaite’s daughter—him over at Greenbeck.”

  “Ashthwaite?” queried Layng, standing still and pondering for a moment. Then he inquired, “This eldest son, Richard, has he been back in these parts?”

  “Not that I know of,” replied Harding. “He left here before I was born, I believe. The only reason I know about him is that I heard two Gressthwaite farmers talking about Richard Garth only yesterday. I went past Howland’s farm while his sale was on and I looked over the cars parked outside—just in case of any irregularity—and I heard two Gressthwaite chaps talking about the Garths. Funny how it should have cropped up just then.”

  “Very funny,” agreed Layng thoughtfully. “You can tell me more about it later. I’ve got to go up to the Hall and get statements now. See to it that you don’t let anyone near this place. What the devil’s that?”

  “That” was Jock’s chuckle: a few seconds later his round, red face appeared round the corner of the hull.

  “Shot ’im dead, ’e did, goody, goody!” he exclaimed.

  “Come here, boy! Who shot him?”

  “Mr. Staple shot ’im, shot ’im dead!” cackled Jock. The next instant he had bolted down the old lane past Layng, who gave an exclamation of anger.

  “Hi! Come back!” he shouted, but Jock, who had an unexpected turn of speed, had already disappeared down the steep winding lane.

  “He’s a natural, sir,” said Harding. “Dotty as they make them. He works for Mr. Ashthwaite at Greenbeck. He can’t even count, or make a mark beside his name, but I’m told he’s clever with beasts and a wonderful milker.—That bit about Mr. Staple now, he’d just have made that up.”

  “Would he? Well, we’ll have to see about that later on,” said Layng, and turned away towards the road, intent on reaching Garthmere Hall.

  Chapter Six

  When Layng reached Garthmere Hall he went up to the great front door and pealed the heavy bell which hung beside the entrance. He had never been to the Hall before, and he had plenty of time to study the ancient door, set beneath a magnificent Tudor arch. The door was enriched with wrought iron spirals which sprung from the heavy hinges, and it was studded with square-headed bolts. The ancient, weather-beaten oak had its own tale to tell to an antiquarian eye, for it still displayed the bullet scars of Cromwellian days, when the Hall had withstood the siege of the Parliamentarians. Layng was no antiquarian, and the door did not interest him: he only thought what an unconscionable time the inmates took over opening it. There was a rattle of chains and creaking of bolts before the oak swung ponderously back at last: truth to tell it had not been opened for years, for the Garths always used one of the side entrances or else the kitchen door. It was Marion who opened the door. The sound of the clanging bell had startled her—it had not been heard for so long and the deep note seemed to have an ominous significance.

  When Layng introduced himself briefly, she looked at him with no friendly eye, saying: “I’m sorry to have kept you so long, but this door is never used now. Will you come in. I am Marion Garth.”

  Layng heard the rebuke in her tone and flushed awkwardly as he entered the dusty panelled hall. Marion pushed the creaking door and set her shoulder against it before it would close, and the two were left standing in the shadows.

  “We use the other wing of the house. It’s less inconvenient,” she said abruptly, and walked ahead of Layng to a
door beneath the great stairway at the back of the hall. She led him to the office and standing in front of him asked:

  “Whom do you wish to see first? John Staple is waiting—he wants to get back to his own work. Farming has to go on, you know, whatever happens.”

  Her voice was abrupt, and Layng felt irritated. Marion had a dignity of her own, and she looked the Superintendent full in the face with an expression which Layng considered aggressive. Quite without justification he suspected her of trying to make him feel small.

  “Other things have to go on as well as farming,” he retorted, “and the law is one of them. I will take your statement first, but will you kindly ring and ask for the officer who preceded me here. It is customary to have a witness when a statement is taken.”

  She laughed. “The bells in this house are all out of order. If I rang one no one would take any notice. Bell ringing is no part of our routine these days. I will go and fetch your man. He’s in the kitchen.”

  She turned swiftly and was through the door before Layng had time to reply. Truth to tell, he was nonplussed. The combination of the great house and Marion’s forthright speech and working clothes struck Layng as an anomaly. He sat down at the desk and waited until Marion returned with the officer. He heard her voice as she came along the echoing passage:

  “Yes. It’s a huge house. Most of it’s shut up these days. It would take an army of servants to keep it in order and we have no servants left save for an old lady in the kitchen and a child of fourteen who’s a bit weak in the head.”

  She came into the room and motioned the officer to a seat with a nod of her head: then, standing with her back to the window, she faced Layng.

  “Yes? What do you want to know?”

  “Please sit down,” said the Superintendent, notebook before him. “You understand that I am a Superintendent of Police, and that I am conducting an inquiry into your father’s death?”

  “Yes.” She uttered the word impatiently, but remained standing.

  “I caution you to answer any questions accurately,” continued Layng, “though you can refuse to answer if you wish. Your full name, please.”

  “Marion Elizabeth Anne de Lisle Garth. Age forty-five. Born on the tenth of July, 1898. Single. Occupation, farming. Only daughter of Robert John Stanton de Lisle Garth of Garthmere.”

  Her voice was steady and impersonal, very clear in diction, and deliberate. Layng wrote swiftly.

  “When did you last see the deceased?”

  “At midday dinner. We eat at twelve.”

  “Did he tell you what he meant to do this afternoon?”

  “No. My father did not ever say what he intended to do unless he needed help or wished to make arrangements about the farm work.”

  “Do you know what he meant to do?”

  “No. I knew there was to be what we call a fox hunt, and he knew it. I assumed that he would go as the hunt was to be on his tenant’s land, but I did not know for certain that he would go.”

  “You have not seen him since he left the house after his midday meal?”

  “I have not.”

  “What were you doing yourself this afternoon?”

  “From one o’clock until about half-past three I was helping to lift potatoes. Elizabeth Meldon—our land-worker—drove the tractor and I gathered the potatoes. About half-past three I came back and lifted onions in the garden here.”

  “By yourself?”

  “By myself.”

  “And then?”

  “I came in about five o’clock and had tea. Miss Meldon and my brother Charles had tea with me. After that I went out to milk in the shippon: the cows had not been brought in and I went to the fold yard gate to see if Jem was in sight. It was then that the boy Jock rushed up, calling out that someone had been shot in the old hull. At least that was what I think he meant, though he’s difficult to understand. I went to the hull and saw John Staple, who told me that he had found my father’s body. He also advised me not to have the body moved, which was what I wished to do, and he told me to come back home and telephone for the police.”

  The deep abrupt voice ceased and Marion stood in silence as Layng muttered: “Thank you,” while he wrote down the gist of her statement. He then asked: “Can you account for your father’s death in any way?”

  “No. I can not.”

  Layng went on: “Do you know if Mr. Garth had any enemies, or any one who harboured a grudge against him?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Marion.

  Layng protested: “Come, come, Miss Garth: surely you can say yes or no. It is a plain question; had your father any enemies?”

  “I don’t know. If he had, he did not discuss them with me: neither did I discuss him with other people.”

  “I will put in your statement that you knew of no enemies nor of any persons holding a grudge against your father,” said Layng. “Will you kindly tell me how many people reside in this house?”

  “Seven—not counting my father: my two brothers, Charles and Malcolm, myself, Elizabeth Meldon, Mrs. Moffat and her husband, Bob, and the boy Jem who sleeps in a room over the stables.”

  “To your knowledge no enmity existed between any of these people and your father?”

  “I don’t know at all,” replied Marion. “I lead a busy life on the farm, and I don’t bother to be introspective over enmities and such like. It all sounds too much like melodrama. We are very plain folk here.”

  Layng paused. “Your father has just been shot, Miss Garth, and the circumstances indicate that he was deliberately murdered. I am asking for any assistance you can give in discovering who is the murderer.” Layng paused, but Marion made no reply. She stood very straight and still, her face expressionless. Layng went on:

  “I think you have another brother—Richard Garth?”

  “Yes. He is my eldest brother. He went abroad twenty-five years ago, and I have not seen him since.”

  “He quarrelled with your father before he left home?”

  “I believe so—twenty-five years ago.”

  “Have you heard from him since then?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say that your father was a quick-tempered man?”

  “It’s probable that other people would say so. He was my father, and I was fond of him. You can ask for opinions on that subject elsewhere.”

  “Had any person in this house had any dispute with deceased recently?”

  “We always argue to some extent. My father was old-fashioned, and I have tried to persuade him to try more modern farming methods. I don’t know if you call that a dispute.” Marion paused, and then went on: “There was one incident recently which will probably be exaggerated when it is told to you—so you might as well hear of it from me. Yesterday my father and I were in this room, going through some accounts. When he got up he knocked his chair over and it fell against my gun, which was standing in the corner. The gun fell to the floor, and as it fell it went off. That is all. No one was hurt and the whole thing was a stupid accident.”

  “I see. Your gun was loaded then?”

  “Obviously, since it fired a shot into the wainscot.”

  “And the safety catch was off.”

  “Apparently—unless the shock of the fall jerked it back.”

  “Do you usually bring your gun into the house still loaded?”

  “I do not—but everybody is liable to forgetfulness some time.”

  “Are you certain the gun was loaded when you left it in that corner?”

  “Of course not—otherwise it would not have been left there.”

  “Could it have been borrowed by somebody else, and put back loaded?”

  “Yes. Any one could have borrowed it, but as we all have our own guns I can’t see the point.”

  Layng paused and looked at his watch. “I will go into this point
again later, Miss Garth. For the moment all that I want to know about it is where are the guns generally kept?”

  “In a small room called the gun-room close to the living-room. There are racks there. You can see them for yourself.”

  “Thank you. One last question. Did your father use the shed in which his body was found for any particular purpose?”

  “I believe he dumped things there occasionally, when he had something which he didn’t want to carry about with him, and there were some tools and posts in there as well.”

  “The fact was generally known?”

  “I expect so. It was no secret.”

  “Thank you. Will you kindly ask Mr. Staple to come in here now—and I shall want to see the other members of the household later.”

  “Very well.” Marion’s voice was quiet and resolute, and she swung out of the room with vigorous but unhurried gait.

  Layng sat meditating in silence, but the officer spoke: “She’s a character is Miss Garth. They say she’s a better man than either of her brothers, aye, and a better farmer than the old man was.”

  “She’s a hard-looking woman,” observed Layng.

  * * *

  John Staple gave his full name, his address at Lonsghyll Farm, his age as sixty-three, and his occupation as bailiff to Mr. Garth and farmer of ninety-three acres on the Garthmere estate. Then he waited to be questioned.

  “When did you last see Mr. Garth alive?” asked Layng.

  Staple considered this question and answered at length, “’Twould have been about three o’clock. The guns met at the High Barn, on the brow yonder. It is Mr. Trant’s land—Lawson’s Wood was where we shot. Mr. Trant, he arranged the guns. The wood was beaten from the valley upwards, and the better marksmen were placed where they were likely to get a good shot. Mr. Garth was midway, about fifty yards from me, and some way above me, in the gill.”

  “He was there all the time during the shoot?”

  “Aye. He left when the third fox was shot—half-past four it would have been.”