The Twenty-One Clues

by J. J. Connington

  “H’m!” said Sir Clinton in a reflective tone. “Closely reasoned from your premises, Squire. And on that basis you’ve given your answer to the second question also. ‘What was the crime?’ The killing of Mrs.Callis. ‘Who did it?’ Barratt. As you say, it’s a simple matter; there are really no difficulties. Now what about the third question: ‘When was it done?’”

  Wendover did not hesitate for more than a second before replying.

  “A little after nine o’clock,” he said, confidently. “The boy Oley gave us the time almost exactly; and he’d just looked at his watch, you remember. It obviously happened when the girl heard Mrs. Callis cry out: ‘Don’t, please don’t!’ Clearly she’d seen Barratt aiming the pistol at her; and the two shots followed immediately after that cry of hers. That was Polly Quickett’s evidence; and she was telling the truth, I’m quite convinced of that. Besides, Oley confirmed what she said. He heard the woman’s voice, though he didn’t catch her words; and he heard the two shots, though he said he took them for rabbit-shooting. That’s two witnesses, supporting each other. And I don’t think there was any collusion between them about the kind of tale they were going to tell.”

  “No,” agreed Sir Clinton. “I believe the girl was telling the plain truth, anyhow; and the boy’s story fits in well enough.”

  “One shot killed Mrs. Callis,” Wendover went on, “and the second shot was the one when Barratt committed suicide.”

  “M’yes,” said Sir Clinton in the tone of a man not wholly convinced. “But you’re missing out Kerrison’s evidence. He heard a couple of shots—or he said he did, anyhow—about ten o’clock. What about them?”

  “Kerrison himself said—or so you told me, at any rate—that he thought they came from someone shooting rabbits in the spinny,” objected Wendover rather testily.

  “I’m struggling to keep an open mind about the existence of that convenient rabbit-shooter,” said Sir Clinton slyly. “But despite all my efforts, I can’t help feeling that he’s like Mrs. Harris. ‘There ain’t no sich a person livin’.’”

  “Oh, that’s quite unwarranted, quite unwarranted,” declared Wendover, heatedly. “After all, Kerrison’s an uncorroborated witness. No one else heard these shots at ten o’clock.”

  “We’ve unearthed no one who heard them,” rectified Sir Clinton, with the glimmer of a smile. “But having myself seen four cartridge-cases, collected from the ground beside the bodies, I’m inclined to think that four shots were fired there. To fill the bill, according to your hypothesis, Barratt must have sat up after he was dead and given two extra pulls on his trigger. And the resulting shots made no noise, since Polly Quickett, close at hand, heard only two reports. It doesn’t sound wholly convincing to me, Squire. My sceptical mind, and all that. I prefer to believe that two and two make four, as I was taught at school.”

  “I’d forgotten these cartridge-cases, for the moment,” Wendover confessed, with a crestfallen air. “Four shots, eh? I suppose one can’t get over that.”

  “One can’t,” Sir Clinton assured him, with mock sympathy.

  Wendover, through sheer obstinacy, was still bent on backing his own hypothesis.

  “Well, here’s a possibility,” he said, after a few seconds reconsideration. “We’re dealing with the murder of Mrs. Callis, aren’t we? and not Barratt’s death. It was a lonely place, but there was always the chance of some people being about—as that boy and girl actually were. Barratt may have fired two shots at random, just to see if they brought anyone down on him. Nobody came. That showed the coast was clear. After that he could shoot Mrs. Callis without fear of interruption.”

  “I hate to say it,” said Sir Clinton, “but really that’s hardly one of your best efforts, Squire. In fact, it’s a dud. First of all, what about the words that Polly Quickett heard.”

  “You mean her exclamation to Barratt: ‘No! Don’t John, please don’t.’ Obviously that was just a protest against his firing at random. Polly Quickett took that view, remember, and she actually heard the words spoken.”

  “She imitated die voice,” Sir Clinton pointed out, “and I got the impression that she was mimicking somebody in a state of terror. But there’s another objection. If these two shots were fired merely to make sure that the coast was clear, why fire a couple. One would have been sufficient. And if he fired the two shots for that purpose, why didn’t he fire the two fatal shots almost immediately afterwards? On your assumptions, he waited almost an hour; and the fatal shots were those heard by Kerrison at ten o’clock. But between nine and ten, a whole host of fresh visitors might have swarmed into that vicinity, for all he could tell. There was no point whatever in firing two shots and then waiting for an hour before firing the second pair. And he didn’t fire four shots close together, or Polly Quickett would certainly have heard more than the couple that she did hear. Finally, if Barratt meant to commit suicide immediately after he’d shot Mrs. Callis, what did it matter to him whether anyone heard the first shot and came down upon him? He’d be dead himself by that time, and past caring. No, it won’t do, Squire. You don’t get full marks for that question. But let’s go on to the next one: ‘Where was it done?’ That’s an easier one.”

  “It was done amongst the bracken in that lovers’ nook,” said Wendover, sure of his ground. “That’s as clear as can be. The positions of the bodies, the pistol, the empty cartridge-cases, the fact that they had a car to take them there—it all points to the one conclusion.”

  “Don’t let’s quarrel over it,” said the Chief Constable. “Now, the fifth question: ‘How done?’”

  “With that pistol that Rufford found near Barratt’s body, of course,” said Wendover, rather contemptuously. “The bullet that killed her had its rifling-marks on the casing. You’re not going to deny that, are you?”

  “A pistol,” said the Chief Constable, with wilful pedantry, “is a complicated mechanism actuated by a trigger. When the trigger is pulled, a spring is released which drives a striker-pin against the percussion-cap of a cartridge. An explosion follows, which propels a bullet along a barrel; and in its passage through this barrel the casing of the bullet is engraved with marks scored upon it by the lands and grooves of the barrel. Unless some intelligent or unintelligent agent moves the trigger, the mechanism of the pistol remains inactive. . . .”

  “Oh, if you want to refine down to that extent,” Wendover interrupted impatiently, “I’ll say it was done by Barratt pulling the trigger of the pistol found beside his body. Will that satisfy you?”

  “If it satisfies you, we’ll let it go at that,” said Sir Clinton, with a twinkle in his eye. “There’s nothing like being contented. So few people are, in this world. But now, Squire, we come to the crux, nub, or teaser. Question number six. ‘With what motive?’ Answer me that, if you please.”

  But here Wendover obviously felt at a loss.

  “There are several possible motives,” he said dubitatively. “It’s just here that I feel things don’t fit neatly together.”

  “Well, mention one or two motives,” said Sir Clinton encouragingly. “They can’t all be correct, you know. Some of your collection must have a screw loose in them, if one looks carefully. Produce them, and we’ll put them under the magnifying glass.”

  “It’s very complicated,” complained Wendover. “And yet some things seem beyond doubt. It couldn’t be money at stake. Killing Mrs. Callis wouldn’t put a penny into Barratt’s pocket; that certain.”

  “Unless she’d made a will in his favour,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “We’ll need to look into that, by and by. But Barratt, from all I’ve heard about him, was hardly mercenary. Even his uncle-in-law, who had no love for him, declared that he was devoid of the money-sense. And friend Alvington was a good judge of that, I’d say. No, Barratt wasn’t the man to commit a murder merely to fill his own pocket. I’ll do him that amount of justice. Now, what else can you suggest, Squire?”

  “I can’t see how it could have been done as a matter of revenge for anythi
ng,” Wendover continued, “unless you couple that with jealousy, and then it would point to her husband. But Callis wasn’t jealous. Rufford made a point of it that Callis believes strongly in his wife’s innocence, even in the face of the facts.”

  “I’m inclined to accept Rufford’s ideas, so far as that goes,” said the Chief Constable. “He’s not a bad judge of such things, I’ve noticed; and I could infer something of the sort from one or two bits in the evidence as well.”

  “But Callis wasn’t the only man in the world,” Wendover pursued, evidently growing more pleased with his idea. “Is it possible that while she was philandering with Barratt, she fell in love with somebody else? You’ve got to account for that sudden change in the elopement plans. Suppose that, at the last moment, when she was faced with the choice between Barratt and this other man, she decided to give Barratt the go-by.”

  “And Barratt, in a rage, murdered her? It’s possible. But on that basis it’s difficult to see why she was so thoughtful as to bring the pistol with her,” Sir Clinton pointed out with owlish solemnity. “That would indicate a combination of foresight and indulgence which, really, I find incredible, Squire.”

  “She may have meant to break off with Barratt at the last moment, and been afraid of his turning nasty,” said Wendover, fighting hard for his hypothesis. “The pistol was taken to be used for self-defence if he cut up rusty when she gave him his dismissal. All we know about him indicates that he was a man who was set on having his own way.”

  “No good,” said Sir Clinton flatly. “If she’d been afraid of anything of the kind, she’d never have gone with him to a lonely place like the lover’s nook. She’d have had it out with him at the station, with plenty of people ready to protect her if he cut up rough on being dismissed. From all I can gather, she was no fool. You’re on the wrong track there, Squire, I’m quite certain of that. Any further suggestions?”

  “I suppose that disposes of jealousy, revenge, and diasppointed passion, then, as motives,” said Wendover reluctantly. “Mind, Clinton, I’m not sure I agree with you in what you say. But even so, I’m not at the end of my tether yet. What about an attack of religious mania brought on by long brooding over their affairs? A sense of guilt becoming overpowering at the last moment, I mean. Originally, they were both churchy people; and religious feeling and sex get queerly mixed up at times. At the eleventh hour she may have come to her senses, if you like to put it so, and decided that she was too wicked to live any longer. Hence the pistol. And if Barratt was suffering from the same kind of qualms, a murder and a suicide wouldn’t be so very improbable.”

  “Now, Squire, that’s damned ingenious,” admitted Sir Clinton without reserve. “I give you full marks for that notion. In fact, I rather wish I’d thought of it myself, it’s so good. Almost thou persuadest me . . . but not quite. Sorry, but it won’t do.”

  “Why not?” demanded Wendover, in a tone which showed clearly his disappointment at this cavalier dismissal of his idea. “Psychologically there’s nothing against it. Things do sometimes work out like that in some minds.”

  “See Sunday papers, passim,” retorted the Chief Constable. “I’m not denying that it’s an ingenious notion, Squire. But did you ever read Huxley? Remember his definition of the tragedy of science: a beautiful theory killed by an ugly fact. Well, your beautiful theory has to die the death; and the ugly fact is the discovery of those four empty cartridge-cases. You can’t fit them into this pretty notion about a psychological catastrophe. Sad, I admit. But there it is. Any other suggestions?”

  Wendover was nettled, seeing his theory so summarily discarded. He pondered for a full minute before speaking. Then he hit upon the idea which Rufford had evolved at an earlier period.

  “What about all this hypnotic stuff?” he asked, though with no great assurance in his tone. “Could Barratt have hypnotised her and used his control of her to make her fall in with this elopement plan? And then, perhaps, she broke free from his control and he saw himself faced with a fearful scandal unless he silenced her. And once he’d shot her, in a storm of rage, he’d find that suicide was the only way out. He could hypnotise her, according to the evidence of wholly independent witnesses.”

  Sir Clinton shook his head at once.

  “No use, Squire. Same old fact: the four cartridge-cases. They don’t square with this notion any better than they did with your other ones.”

  “Then I give it up,” admitted Wendover disconsolately.

  “I’ll tell you where you went off the rails,” said the Chief Constable, putting away the stub of his cigarette and helping himself from the box beside him. “You confessed, a few minutes ago, that you thought this was a complex affair, but you’d changed your mind after hearing the evidence of Oley and Polly Quickett. They convinced you that it was just a plain case of suicide pact, didn’t they? And I believe their evidence was accurate enough. But your interpretation of it has brought you into a blind alley. Well, now, as in the Ludo of our nursery days, you’ve got to go back four squares and start afresh. It’s a plain case of murder. I knew that as soon as I went through the evidence Rufford collected in his initial burst of energy. I’m not going into details about that just now. But suppose you begin on the assumption of murder committed, and let’s hear what you make of it.”

  “Very well,” agreed Wendover. “Take your questions as before. ‘What was the crime?’ Murder, you say. Pass that, then. ‘Who did it?’ is the next question. You want to make out that both of them were murdered?”

  “If you please,” said the Chief Constable equivocally, though Wendover failed to notice the ambiguity of the phrase.

  “That means the intervention of a third party,” Wendover proceeded with rising interest as he found himself tackling a fresh problem.

  “If you please,” repeated Sir Clinton.

  “That limits me down to certain known persons,” Wendover declared, with some satisfaction at the manner in which he was developing the theme. “It’s a short list: the two Alvingtons, Mrs. Barratt, Callis, Kerrison, young Oley, Polly Quickett, Mrs. Longnor, that organist—I forget his name—Maud Endell, the Callis’s maid, Miss Legard of the Jubilee double-florin, and some other people who obviously have only the remotest connection with the affair. Now we can safely eliminate all but seven of these.”

  “Do so, then,” suggested Sir Clinton, encouragingly. “Just give me the residual names to save time.”

  “The Alvingtons, Mrs. Barratt, Callis, Kerrison, Mrs. Longnor, and Maud Endell,” said Wendover, ticking them off on his fingers.

  “Why leave Maud Endell on the list?” inquired the Chief Constable.

  “Because she might have had access to Callis’s little armoury and got hold of the pistol,” retorted Wendover. “I’m including everybody who might have been interested.”

  “Why Mrs. Longnor?”

  “Because we’ve only got her word for it that . . .” began Wendover. “Oh, no, I forgot. She wasn’t in town that day. Leave her out, then.”

  “Now, take them in turn and let’s hear what you have against each of them.”

  “Very well.” Wendover settled himself comfortably in his chair. “Arthur Alvington. He disliked Barratt, personally. He was evidently perturbed lest Barratt should wangle old Mrs. Alvington into leaving her money to the Awakened Israelites instead of to her own kin. And from what I’ve heard about Mr. Arthur, that seems to be a pretty strong incentive. I don’t say he did it. I’m just taking the facts as we know them. Finally, he has an alibi; but it depends on his brother’s word.”

  “Correct,” agreed Sir Clinton. “Now what about the said brother?”

  “He obviously hated Barratt, who’d persuaded Mrs. Alvington to alter her will and to cut out Edward Alvington from it. Also, Barratt had hounded him out of the church and caused him annoyance by that. The Alvingtons’ sensitive spot is cash, and it’s very sensitive. Edward has an alibi; but it depends on his brother’s word. Either of them might be shielding the other for all we ca
n tell.”

  “Pass that,” conceded Sir Clinton. “Now what about Mrs. Barratt? She, being a woman, you’ll be tempted to let her down lightly, Squire. Play fair.”

  “Well, she and Barratt were entirely unsuited to each other,” said Wendover. “She was obviously tired of him, to put it mildly. Also, the Alvingtons seem a rather clannish crew, and no doubt she disliked the part Barratt had played in the matter of her uncle. And if Barratt wangled the old lady’s will, Mrs. Barratt was going to be a sufferer just as much as her Uncle Arthur. But she has an alibi outside the family. Callis was with her, waiting for Barratt, on the night of the crime.”

  “You’ve forgotten two other bits of evidence,” Sir Clinton volunteered. “At shortly before nine o’clock that night, Mrs. Barratt rang up a Mrs. Stacey about some bridge engagement. There’s no doubt about that call; we’ve checked it by asking Mrs. Stacey. And at ten-fifteen, Miss Legard rang up Barratt’s house, trying to get hold of Barratt and tell him about her precious Jubilee double-florin, since she’d missed him after the meeting in the church hall. Mrs. Barratt answered the phone. Miss Legard recognised her voice. We’ve checked that also.”

  “So you suspected Mrs. Barratt of telling lies?” said Wendover, with a sharp glance at the Chief Constable.

  “We check everything that we possibly can, as well you know, Squire. There’s nothing in that except routine. And, as you see, our checking proved that Mrs. Barratt was actually at home that evening; so I don’t see what objection you can take.”

  “Oh, none,” admitted Wendover. “It seems quite satisfactory.”

  “It is,” said Sir Clinton. “Now, let’s see who’s left. Callis is next on your list, isn’t he?”

  “Callis is a doubtful character,” said Wendover, with a certain amount of hesitation. “The pistol came from his collection. He called Rufford’s attention to that himself, quite voluntarily. And that’s a point in his favour; for without his doing so, it would have taken a lot of trouble to identify that weapon as his property. You might not have managed it, if you’d been left to yourselves.”