A suicide pact? The more Rufford considered this hypothesis, the less it satisfied him. And yet, even there, preparation had been made in advance. Mrs. Callis had taken the automatic pistol from her husband’s armoury and brought it with her when she left the house. Somehow or other, that incident had to be interleaved into the story, with an adequate motive attached to it. And there was no getting over the facts which the inspector himself had established. Barratt’s finger-prints were on the fatal pistol; and the bullets extracted from the bodies bore the sign-manual of the weapon in those striations which he had detected on their casings. Barratt’s hand had fired those shots, beyond all doubt. . . .
And then, suddenly, the inspector’s mind was lit by a flash of illumination which seemed to make the whole puzzle plain to him. He recalled those books on hypnotism which he had noticed in Barratt’s study.
Rufford’s knowledge of hypnotism and its effects was sketchy at the best, but now he tried to recollect what he had read about the subject. You could hypnotise a patient, and if he was well under your control, you could make him believe all sorts of things and force him to play pranks of one sort and another. But only on one condition: that your orders did not run counter to his normal character. Post–hypnotic suggestion had its limits. You could make a man buy a book of stamps at eleven o’clock on the following day, or write his name on a piece of paper ten minutes after he had come out of the hypnotic trance. But you could not compel him to carry out an action which would be foreign to his nature as shown in ordinary life. The patient would refuse to perform acts which were normally abhorrent to his character. Hypnotism could make play with unimportant sides of human affairs, but it left unaffected the deeper springs in the nature of men.
There was the key to the mystery, Rufford reflected, triumphantly. Barratt had been successful in hypnotising Mrs. Callis. No doubt he had found her a good subject, easily amenable to post-hypnotic suggestion. He could make her perform all sorts of minor actions. Now suppose that he came to desire her; Easy enough to make her buy a new ring. That would not go against any woman’s nature. Simple enough to order her to pack a suit-case and bring it to the station. That lay well within the limits of her normal life; she had packed suit-cases often enough before that. Easy, too, to make her send a telegram with a dictated content. The securing of the pistol would hardly revolt her; it was not plain theft, or anything like that. But when it came to embarking on an elopement with a man who had no passionate attraction for her—then the citadel would be attacked and the attack would inevitably fail. When he tried to compel her to join him in the London train, his power would over-reach itself and come to nothing. What then? Barratt could hardly hypnotise her again on the railway platform. No, his plan would be to persuade her to go with him to some unfrequented spot, and there he would strive afresh to bring her under his control. That would account well enough for their visit to the bracken-slope. But what if he failed there? Brute passion had queer effects on disappointed men. The shooting was just the kind of thing which often happened in such cases. And then, once the fatal shot had been fired, the cool fit might come on. Reflection would show only one way out—suicide.
“That fits!” Rufford assured himself, in high glee at his own ingenuity. “It accounts for the change in their plans—and that’s been the sticker all along. Lucky I spotted those books on the shelf.”
But very soon he was forced to recognise that his explanation, satisfactory enough in one respect, did not by any means cover the whole of the facts.
First and foremost, there was that unfinished sermon against slanderers. If all this elopement scheme had been elaborated to the last detail a fortnight earlier—as the booking of the Alcazar room established—why had Barratt troubled to begin the preparation of a sermon which he would never preach? A snag there, apparently. But then a man capable of such careful scheming would be just the fellow to provide for all emergencies, even the break-down of his plans. If the elopement failed to come off, he would have to preach a sermon on the following Sunday; and therefore a clever plotter would make sure that he had one in reserve, ready for use.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Rufford reflected. “He was a fellow who looked well ahead.”
Second point, the number of trails in the bracken leading up to the site of the crime. Three people had gone up to it; two had remained there, dead. What about the maker of the third trail? How had he got away? But the inspector dismissed this problem quickly enough. Anyone can walk down a double-width trail without leaving much sign of his passage. But that implied that number three had come there first and had left after the shooting, following the ready-made double track of the other two. But that, in its turn, implied . . .
“Oh, damn!” muttered the inspector. “Leave that aside for the moment. I’ll think it out clearly later on.”
Third point, the four empty cartridge cases. Why, four of them, when there had been only two fatal shots?
“Let’s get on further, first, before tackling that,” Rufford suggested to himself. “It’ll be clearer, perhaps, if it’s taken along with some other things.”
And then he had a second flash of illumination.
“The car, of course! And the blood by the driving-seat! That’s how the third party got away and the blood came from some flesh-wound he got up among the bracken. Somebody fired the extra two shots at number three, and winged him slightly. That fits in neatly enough.”
But further consideration left him less satisfied. If blood had dripped from a wound on to the floor of the car, why had Loman found no blood-trail among the bracken on the way down to the car? Rufford pondered over this problem for some seconds before he found a solution.
“Why, of course!” he assured himself. “The fellow may have been wounded in the left arm, say. He’d do his best with his handkerchief as a temporary bandage. That would keep the blood from dripping on to the leaves as he was passing through the bracken. But once he started to drive, he’d be using his left arm for gear-changing and that might make the bandage work loose and allow some blood to drip on to the car floor. There wasn’t over-much blood. Just what one might expect if my notion’s true. That fits as well as one can expect.”
Fourth point, the car smash.
Easy enough to see one’s way through that, Rufford believed. No. 3 had escaped from the scene of death in the waiting car. Naturally he would be shaken by what he had seen, and especially by being shot at. Then, when he heard a police whistle summoning him to halt, he would take to the forest road through Granby Holt to escape from detection. And going through the wood, all out, he went full tilt into the fallen tree at eleven-ten, smashed the car, and left himself stranded. What happened to him then?
“I’ll bet he didn’t get back to town till long after midnight, anyhow,” said Rufford to himself. “No trains, no buses, and twelve miles to cover.”
Who, then, was this mysterious No. 3? Obviously the first question to ask was: Who had any interest in the doings of Barratt and Mrs. Callis? And Callis’s name suggested itself immediately. Whether he knew it or not, Callis was the man most directly concerned, apart from the two principals. But Callis had been seen by his maid through his sitting-room window at twenty past eleven. Short of a miracle, he could not have gone from Granby Holt to Fern Bank, twelve miles or more, in ten minutes. And that maid of his had her wits about her, as Rufford had seen when she was giving him her evidence. She was a perfectly sound witness, and Rufford was prepared to take her word for the time. Besides, Rufford had seen no signs that Callis had been wounded.
Mrs. Barratt was another person interested to the same extent as Callis. She certainly had shown no signs of having been hurt; she had used both hands in opening drawers during the search for Barratt’s belongings, and she had walked without the slightest indication of a limp. Callis had been with her until 10.15 p.m. and as she had no car, it was out of the question that she could have got to the bracken-slope in a reasonable time. Besides, and this applied to Callis
as well, how could she know where the guilty pair were to be found? They had gone to the bracken-slope on the spur of the moment and not according to any pre-arranged plan. Nobody could have followed them up. . . .
Once more the inspector had an illuminating flash. Suppose No. 3 had not encountered them on the bracken-slope in the first place. Suppose the pair had been overtaken at the station by No. 3 and that the trio had then gone in the Callis car out to the slope among the bracken?
But this was only a flash which died out as soon as Rufford reconsidered the rest of the evidence. If all three had gone together to the death site, then they would have walked up through the bracken in a group. There would have been one broad trail, instead of the broad one and the single-track. He dismissed this idea, though with some regret.
Who else had an interest in Barratt or Mrs. Callis? Possibly some people unknown to him at the moment; but Arlington’s name suggested itself as a “possible.” Alvington was fond of money, as the whole trend of his tale had made clear to Rufford during their interview. Alvington had let slip the fact that Barratt was influencing that old dame, Alvington’s mother, to leave her fortune to the Awakened Israelites instead of to her family. Irritating for Arthur Alvington, that. But immediately Rufford dismissed Alvington from consideration. Old Mrs. Alvington was strait-laced in the extreme. She had cut Edward Alvington out of her will For his irregular conduct. If Barratt had eloped with Mrs. Callis, it would have been the end of his influence with the old lady. On that basis, Arthur Alvington’s interest was to stand aside and let the elopement succeed. Certainly he had nothing to gain by hampering it. And he was hardly the man to risk his skin to avenge his niece’s honour. Alvington could safely be ruled out.
The only remaining person in that circle, of whom Rufford had knowledge, was Stephen Kerrison. His house was close to the bracken-slope. He had possession of an automatic pistol at the crucial period. And, according to Peter Diamond, he was next door to a religious maniac, with a special hatred of marital infidelity. But these facts hardly made a hanging case of it.
The inspector’s thoughts went back to the motor smash, and one of the facts about it loomed rather larger in his mind as he reconsidered the matter. That black bag, which Barratt had taken with him, had been emptied of its contents when it was found in the car. Barratt had not transferred the cash to his pockets, as a search of the body had shown. Someone else had taken the money. It could hardly have been a vast sum, Rufford reflected, for the Awakened Israelites did not seem, on the whole, to be the sort of people who had much money to spare, though one or two of the congregation appeared to be wealthy, like old Mrs. Alvington. None of the people whose names he had run through his mind was likely to have stolen a pound or two, especially in such circumstances. One had to add that indication to the rest when one was trying to get a picture of this No. 3, who now seemed to be at least one of the keys to the whole enigma.
Chapter Ten
The Twenty-One Clues
PETER DIAMOND’S family were old friends of Sir Clinton Driffield, and this gave Peter a slight advantage over his confrères in constabulary business. Not that the Chief Constable favoured Peter unduly. But knowing him personally, and being sure that he would betray no confidences, Sir Clinton could discuss cases more freely with him than he would have done with an unknown journalist. Peter, on his side, seldom intruded unless he had a sound reason for his visit. So when he sent in his name on the evening of Sir Clinton’s return from leave, he was shown into the smoking-room without delay.
“Come in, Dwarf,” the Chief Constable welcomed him. “You know Wendover, of course. There’s whisky and soda over yonder. Help yourself. The cigars are in that box.”
“The brand you keep for visitors, eh?” said Peter, doubtfully. “They might make me yellower than Donnington would like. I’ll stick to a pipe, thanks.”
He pulled out his pipe and pouch, settled himself in a low chair, and busied himself with preparations for a smoke. When he had got his pipe alight, he turned to his host.
“Had a good holiday?” he demanded.
“Oh, very fair,” Sir Clinton answered. “We had some golf to start with. Then we went for a week to a place on the West Coast of Scotland, where there was a good loch and a river.”
“Catch much?”
“Eighty-five trout from the loch, averaging half a pound to two pounds, mostly on a Gold Butcher. The river was in spate, and one day I got a couple of salmon out of it, a ten-pounder and a twelve-pounder on a Jock Scot.”
“No complaints, then,” said Peter. “And what about your record?”
“Not quite so good,” Wendover admitted cautiously.
“Hotel comfortable?” demanded Peter sceptically.
“Very fair,” Wendover assured him.
“I know these fishing inns,” said Peter, who was no angler. “Rod racks in the passages. Gillies hanging about the doors in the morning. The stark corpses of the day’s catch laid out, side by side in a neat row, on the stone floor outside the bar, as you go in to dinner. The bar full of my namesake’s successors in the evening, swapping lies, and talking their lingo about Greenwell’s Glory, Water Hen Bloa, Wickham’s Fancy, Peter Ross, and Bloody Butcher. And a lot of piscine monstrosities in glass cases on the walls, looking down with that sneering expression that all stuffed fish seem to take on. And if it’s near the sea, somebody goes down and catches a six-stone skate. It’s brought up in a wheel-barrow and everyone goes out to look at it. Then it’s smuggled away and buried by dusk in the back-garden, because no one at a fishing hotel would eat skate if you offered it to ’em on a gold plate. Not that I blame ’em. Far from it.”
“Spoke very feelingly, Peter,” said Sir Clinton, lazily. “We know you never soared higher than the ’prentice level, with liberty to practise on tadpoles and tiddlers. Suppose now, for a change, that you talk about something that interests you. I leave the subject to you.”
“Then I’ll choose something I know more about than you do,” said Peter, amicably, “and that’s the Barratt-Callis affair. But perhaps you know something about it already?”
“I do,” Sir Clinton retorted. “I’ve read Rufford’s report up to date. It’s on my desk over there. But don’t let that hamper you.”
“I shan’t,” Peter assured him. “You haven’t read the stop press news on it. I bring the glad tidings myself. I wish I’d brought my pulsimeter and my electrocardiograph with me to register your reactions to the news, which is sensational—or will be, when I’ve written it up.”
“We are all ears,” Sir Clinton assured him, politely.
“That’s as it should be,” said Peter, unabashed. “I give you the headings first—force of habit, you know. ‘The Jubilee Double-Florin Clue’ and ‘Message in Hymnbook.’ That’s just to whet your curiosity. We’ve a good bit to go before we come to them.”
“Then suppose we get started,” suggested Sir Clinton.
“Right! One, two, three . . . bang! Now we’re off. Partly for my own satisfaction, and partly as a favour to Rufford, I’ve spent some of my spare time interviewing various Awakened Israelites who congregated under the late Barratt. I made a few notes, which I shall now consult.”
He took out a note-book and placed it open on his knee.
“Here are some specimens of public opinion. Sample One. A nice old lady, mother of a grown-up family, strong on the wing in the matter of sewing-meetings, etc. ‘Mr. Barratt was such a nice man and I don’t believe a word against him. He was very kind when I had an illness, and came to see me regularly. I’m quite sure all this in the papers is a pack of lies and will soon be cleared up. All nonsense, I think. As for Mrs. Callis, I never saw her do anything she oughtn’t to have done. If she saw much of Mr. Barratt, it’s quite understandable, because she took a lot to do with church work. I won’t hear a word against either of them.’”
“Well, she knows her own mind, at any rate,” commented Sir Clinton. “The question is, does she know anything else?”
&n
bsp; “Sample Two,” continued Peter, taking no notice of the interjection. “An angular old maid, churchy, thin-lipped and censorious-looking. ‘I’ve nothing to say against Mr. Barratt, except that he was careless in some ways and that his wife didn’t take her proper part in church work. I never liked Mrs. Callis. She was far too pushful and managing in her ways, and she did her best to monopolise Mr. Barratt whenever she could. As to what has happened, I know nothing about it; but you can count on it that there’s never smoke without a fire. I’m surprised at Mr. Barratt. He ought to have had more sense than get entangled with a woman like that. But one step aside . . . and down you go. Wait for more evidence? Oh, certainly, if you want to. My mind’s made up already. I never liked that young woman. Her husband was a good man and looked well after all the money affairs of the church. If he’d kept as strict an eye on his wife, it would have been better.’
“Sample Three: the organist of Barratt’s church. Decent little fellow, rather hard put to it to make a living, between organ-playing and teaching music. Depones thuswise: ‘I didn’t like Mr. Barratt, but I respected him. He was always high-principled, but very obstinate; and he generally got his own way by wearing down opposition. As to Mrs. Callis, I never saw anything between her and Mr. Barratt; but I don’t take much interest in church affairs except when the organ’s concerned. She was inclined to be bossy, people told me; but she’d nothing to do with the organ or the choir, so I hardly ever came across her. I was most surprised by the whole affair and I hardly know what to make of it.’
“Sample Four: a hard-working, cheery little grocer. Spoke thus: ‘I’m all upside-down about this business. I’d a great admiration for Mr. Barratt: as honest a man as you’d wish to meet. Once I got into difficulties—but thanks be, that’s all past now—and he helped me over the stile by getting friends to subscribe a guarantee fund so that I could get an overdraft at the bank. It was the saving of me, that was. After that, I wouldn’t hear a word against Mr. Barratt. It’ll all come out in the end, and you’ll find his character won’t be touched, black as it may look. He was a fine man and I can’t tell you how sorry I am that he’s gone. I’ve lost a real friend in him. As to Mrs. Callis, I didn’t much like her. Nor did my wife. But she’s dead now, poor thing, and I’m not the one to say anything against her. If there was any fault in the business, it wasn’t Mr. Barratt’s. I’ll say that, and I’ll say no more.’
The Twenty-One Clues Page 15
