Murder Jigsaw

by E.

  The two men walked in silence until the river bank was reached. Turning by the Gulley, they headed up-stream along a track worn by the feet of fishermen.

  Salmon were leaping in a pool, and the three halted to watch the bow of their bodies. “Fresh run,” commented Franky. “Getting rid of the sea-lice. This is the best pool for fish in the river and hardest to catch ’em in. There’s none but one place which yiew can spin it, and it do run too fast for anybody but an expert to cover with a fly.”

  “The Rostrum Pool, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Doctor. They called it that after Pass’n—the Reverend Williams, you know. That bit of jutting rock is the only place you can stand to spin from, and they said that the Reverend, when he was there, looked like he was in his pulpit. If he can spin a sermon same as he can spin a Devon, he’s sure a good pass’n.”

  The inspector pointed a few yards ahead. “That’s the place Doctor,” he said.

  A constable stepped from behind the trees. “Ah, there you are, Bennett. There been any visitors?”

  “No, Sergeant.” He eyed Manson.

  “This is a scientist gen’nlman from Scotland Yard, comed to have a look over.”

  Manson acknowledged the constable’s salute, and standing on the verge of the clearing, let his eyes wander over the foot-wide track worn hard by feet. Between it and the edge of the bank was four feet of grass, growing in uneven tufts. The land had, in the spring, been ploughed up with the field. Sowing had left the edging for anglers to traverse, and the grass had grown over and between the furrows. It was, in effect, a plateau some six yards square and clear of the bramble bushes which grew thickly along the path at either end of the clearing.

  Manson surveyed it carefully for a few moments, taking in the rod, fishing reel and bag lying on the grass.

  “Where did he go in?” he asked at length.

  “Here, sir.” The sergeant led the way to the bank, Manson noted with a frown the clear, steep slope to the water, twelve or fifteen feet below, scored with scratches and torn-out tufts of grass.

  “I misdoubt he catched his foot in a rut, sir, and comed over headlong. Straight into the water he’d go.”

  “So I see.” The reply came mechanically; Manson was staring thoughtfully at the slope. His eyes puckered into creases. Manson’s eyes always puckered that way when he was puzzled. He returned to the path and walked upstream, the sergeant following him. He walked slowly, eyeing keenly the bushes which dotted thickly the shelving sides of the bank down to the river. At last he spoke to his companion.

  “You’ll notice, Sergeant, that the bushes and brambles, though they are not continuous along the bank in a line, overlap at various depths down the slopes.”

  “That is true enough, zur,” the other agreed.

  “And that, mostly, in order that we can inspect the water, we have to crane our heads either over or between the bushes, thus. . . .” Manson stretched up and looked over a blackberry bush. “Now, if I slipped over the edge here, I do not think I would come to much harm. What do you think?”

  “No, zur. The bushes would catch you for certain.”

  “Quite. Now, if the colonel had fallen in anywhere along here he wouldn’t have gone into the river?”

  “That be true. But he didn’t. He fell somewhere else.”

  “The river bank is the same all the way up and down, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, zur. ’Ceptin’ where Colonel fell in.”

  Manson eyed the sergeant speculatively. He seemed to be about to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, he retraced his footsteps to the plateau, and continuing down-stream, subjected that side of the spot to a similar examination. Not until he had exhausted all that the bank seemed to have to tell him, did he turn his attention to the actual place of the colonel’s fall. There, he peered intently at the scored scratches, examined the grass of the tufts torn out by the colonel as he tried to break his fall, only to find the grass pull up by the roots as he grasped it.

  Finally, taking a magnifying glass from a waistcoat pocket, Manson passed a critical gaze over the surface of the granite boulder that edged the river and towered two or three feet over the waterside.

  “It’s all very singular,” he said half aloud as, back at the top of the bank again, he looked down at the scene of the tragedy.

  “What is singular, Doctor?”

  “Everything, Franky,” was the reply.

  He turned to the sergeant. “I cannot, of course, give you any instructions, Sergeant,” he said. “But I can tell you that, were I professionally in your shoes, I should leave this place undisturbed, and exactly as it is now, until it could be examined by an expert investigator. Perhaps you could take it on yourself to see to that, purely as a precaution, until you have had a chance to talk to your Inspector.”

  The sergeant hesitated. The scientist’s examination seemed to him to be directed to making a mountain out of a molehill. There, on the bank, were the plain marks of the angler’s fall. They had taken the body out of the water. It was as clear a case of accident as ever he, the sergeant, had seen. But there, these Scotland Yard men always saw suspicious circumstances in everything. The sergeant supposed that was natural. It was what they were paid for.

  Still, Dr. Manson was a Scotland Yard Chief-Inspector and a famous one at that. And if there should be anything wrong, he, the sergeant, would be on the carpet if a clue was lost when he had been given a warning by a Scotland Yard Chief. Perhaps, he declared, it wouldn’t do any harm to humour the Doctor. So—

  “All right, zur,” he said. “I can arrange that. I’ll leave Constable Bennett here, and if you are finished I’ll be gett’n back and telling the inspector.”

  Manson nodded. “I think you’ll find it a wise move,” he said, and started on the return to the farm. Franky, following, stopped suddenly. “Shall we take the colonel’s rod, Doctor?” he asked.

  “The rod?” echoed Manson. “Oh, I’d forgotten that, Franky.”

  He retraced his steps and looked down at the rod. A split cane, seven-foot, dry-fly, it lay alongside the path, and parallel to it. Some eight feet of line trailed idly along, and beyond its length, ending in a fine-gut cast. Manson put it as lx to 4x strength. Near the rod was the colonel’s fishing bag, and creel, the latter holding half-a-dozen light-coloured trout.

  Lifting the line, Manson let it run through his fingers, noticing the tapered end. He grunted with satisfaction. Whatever else he might be, he reflected, the colonel was a purist in fishing. A tapered line should go with a dry-fly. His fingers ran down the gut to the fly and there—!

  Manson stared at it unbelievably. It was a Sedge and wingless, known as a Hackle Sedge. The hackles ran backwards from the hook, streamlined, and almost flat to the shank—a fly that, no matter how lightly it came to rest on the water, would go below the surface within a fraction of a second. Manson stared at it. His gaze moved upwards again above the cast to the tapering of the line; and back once more to the fly. Then, still gazing, he spoke: “Franky, what kind of fisherman was the colonel? I mean in habit?” Manson asked the question casually, over his shoulder.

  Franky laughed. “Much the same as you, Doctor; too much of an artist to fill a creel. Everything had to be correct—line to cast, cast to hook, and so on. Hemingway was his Bible.”

  “He wouldn’t fish wet fly, I suppose?”

  “Not judging by what he called other people who fished wet fly.”

  Manson dropped the line and opened the colonel’s bag. He lifted out a spare reel, and after examining the tapered end of the line wound on it, placed it on the grass. Next, he laid out the contents and went carefully through them. He examined the cast-box and the spare casts in envelopes, and the envelopes of “points.” Finally, he opened the colonel’s fly-case. Kneeling in the grass he emptied the contents of each compartment into his hand, in turn. Only the most cursory of glances were given to each, but it seemed enough for the scientist. There were Red Spinners, Greenwells Glory, Pheasant Tails, Gn
ats, Red and Black Palmers, March Browns and Olives.

  Each sat jauntily in his hand, wings set and spread daintily—perfect wings—at the correct angle.

  Placing the fly-case with the other contents, Manson next spread his handkerchief on the grass and up-ended the colonel’s fishing-bag over it. Finally, he turned the bag inside out.

  What he sought was obviously not there, for he rose to his feet and, starting from the path, went step by step over the grass down to the water’s edge, and back again.

  Sergeant Jones, looking on in bewilderment, broke the silence. “Can I help, zur?” he asked. “Would it be important?”

  Manson glared at him. “Important! Of course it’s important. Should I be crawling about on my hands and knees in this grass if it wasn’t—”

  He stopped, and an apologetic smile lightened his face. “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” he said. “I got carried away. Instinct of the investigator, I suppose.

  “But what I’m looking for is the most important part in your case, and it ought to be found. In fact, it must be found. If you like, I’ll help you to search for it. But search must be made by somebody. Every inch of the bank, the paths, and if you can tuck up your trousers, get along the water near the bank and see if it’s fallen into the stream. I’ll go over to the farm and telephone the mortuary. It may be in the colonel’s waterproof jacket pockets, and I may have missed it when I looked into them—but I don’t think I did. But get busy as soon as you like.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  The sergeant and Franky asked the question simultaneously.

  It was a reasonable question to ask.

  Manson told them—

  The party scattered. Franky and the sergeant began their searching of the path and banks. Constable Bennett, discarding socks and boots, and with trousers rolled up, waded along the river edge, peering through the transparent water.

  It was upwards of half-an-hour when Manson returned from his telephoning. He was greeted by the company with head shakes.

  “We’ve searched nearly every inch for a quarter-of-a-mile square, Doctor, and there’s no trace of any such thing,” said Franky; “and I don’t think it ever existed—not on the colonel,” he added.

  “It wasn’t in his pockets,” said Manson. He sighed. “That settles it.” He turned to the sergeant.

  “Sergeant,” he said; “Colonel Donoughmore did not fall in the river. He was thrown, or pushed in.”

  “Murdered!” The exclamation came from the sergeant in a gasp.

  “And, Sergeant, take care of that rod, and don’t handle it,” added Manson.

  He strode off with Franky, leaving the sergeant with open mouth, staring after him.

  “Well, oi’l be jiggered,” said Constable Bennett, who was a man of Devon.

  CHAPTER IV

  GOOD FISHING

  Back at the Tremarden Arms Doctor Manson decided to put the colonel’s death out of his thoughts. It was for a few days’ fishing that he had come to Tremarden, and he intended to have them. He had done his obvious duty in pointing out to Sergeant Jones certain conclusions which had occurred to his analytical mind, and that, he argued, ended his concern with the matter. How the colonel came to be killed, and he had no doubt from the facts deduced that he had been killed, was a job for the Cornwall detective force.

  He would ask Franky to give him a fishing beat furthest in the opposite direction to the Tamar, this afternoon—the upper Lyner would be best—and beguiling trout from that rushing mountain stream would take all his agility of mind. It was in this state of mind that Manson went in to lunch.

  There are few people in the Tremarden Arms to lunch during the fishing season. The fishermen are more likely to be found eating sandwiches on the river bank; sandwiches which the cook had risen in the early hours of the morning to prepare. To-day, Manson found himself the only occupant of the luncheon-room.

  John, the waiter, hovered silently over the scientist until he brought in the coffee. Then, as he poured the liquid into Manson’s cup, he whispered in his ear. “Superintendent Burns and another gentleman would like to see you for a few minutes when you’ve finished lunch, Doctor,” he said.

  Manson swore under his breath.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “In the coffee-room, and Master Frank says you’ll not be disturbed.” Manson pushed back his cup and, rising, walked to the coffee-room. Superintendent Burns was an old acquaintance. The two had met on several occasions, when the superintendent had sought the aid of the Yard in London; and advice from Manson had enabled him, on one occasion, to solve a problem that had puzzled the Cornish police for weeks. It had, in fact, resulted in Burns being given his promotion from Inspector. In return, Burns had introduced the Doctor to the Cornish fishing streams, and to the Tremarden Arms. He now came forward with a smile to greet the scientist. The two shook hands cordially.

  “Sorry to have broken in on your lunch, Doctor,” he apologised, “but our Chief Constable, Sir William Polglaze, wanted to have a word with you. I don’t think you’ve met.” He made the introduction.

  “Know all about you, of course, Chief Inspector,” said Sir William. “Been a follower of your methods for a long time.” He chuckled. “Between you and me you’ve made me the most unpopular man in the Force here, since I made our bobbies study your Scientific Rules in Criminal Investigation. I’ve even bought them a microscope; the superintendent here says he’s going blind peering through it.”

  “Cigarette, Doctor?” Superintendent Burns proffered his case to his two companions, and there was silence for a few moments as the three men lit up. It was broken by Manson.

  “And now. Sir William, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

  The Chief Constable polished a monocle nervously. He screwed it into an eye. “This river business,” he said, “Sergeant Jones has reported what happened on the bank, and what you said to him. I gather you think it was no accident?”

  Manson held up his hand. “There is no question of thinking, Sir William,” he said, quietly. “I know it was no accident.”

  “You mean that he was murdered?”

  “I did not use that word, Sir William.” Manson was quietly emphatic. “I have not enough data to say that the colonel was murdered. Let us say that I think there is urgent need for a very thorough inquiry.”

  The Chief Constable coughed deprecatingly. “Y’know, Doctor, we’re peaceful people down here. We don’t usually go about killing people. It doesn’t do the place much good—”

  “It didn’t do Colonel Donoughmore any good, either, Sir William.”

  “Er . . . no. But it seemed a clear open case to our people, you know. What makes you think that it is not an accident?” Manson made no immediate response. He rose to his feet and walked nervously across to the window. A stranger would have taken his tall figure, with the stoop of the shoulders, for that of a scholar. A glance at the thin, aquiline face, with its broad and high forehead and deep-set eyes, would have strengthened his opinion. For a few minutes the eyes of the scientist stared through the window at the busy market-place of the old Norman town. It was market-day. Stalls lined the centre of the square, selling their cheap wares to the farmers’ boys and girls who flocked into the centre from twenty miles around, for their one day a week among the busy throng of life. The Sunday-best suit—that had done duty as such for many years—betrayed the farmers, and showed its age by its cut. The Cornish son of the soil is a frugal and careful soul; he buys rarely, but he buys well.

  The striped canvas hoods over the stalls fluttered idly in the breeze that blew up the hills on which the market-place was perched. Around the stalls wandered, aimlessly, from stall to stall, a circle of people; it seemed a continuous and unending circle of meandering sight-seers. Cars whizzed along that side of the square which is the main road from London to the Cornish coast, some twenty miles away; cars covered white with dust of the journey, picked up in the mad rush from the Metropolis; cars w
ith luggage grids laden with trunks, cases and packages. And, over all, the ruin of the castle looked down as it had looked down on shoppers and travellers to the sea year after year for centuries.

  Doctor Manson drank in the sight, slowly. Then, he turned round and resumed his seat—and answered the Chief Constable’s question. “There are several good reasons,” he said.

  “Such as?” the superintendent queried.

  Doctor Manson countered with a question of his own. “Have you, Superintendent, visited the scene?” he asked.

  Burns nodded. “I have, Doctor.”

  “Did you notice anything that might have been called unusual?”

  “I . . . er. . . .” The superintendent screwed his face into the contortion of thinking introspectively. He eyed the Chief Inspector suspiciously. It occurred to his mind that he might have missed something which Doctor Manson had seen and regarded as important. The Doctor, he noted, seemed very sure of his ground. He couldn’t have seen anything that I haven’t seen, he argued; so the superintendent thought hard and fast, hence the facial contortions. There is not, as a rule, much police business in the town that requires concentrated thought. He made up his mind at last. “No, I don’t think I noticed anything particularly unusual, Doctor,” he said.

  Manson let his eyes dwell on the man’s face. His look reflected disappointed concern. The superintendent saw it, and wriggled slightly. It was nearly a minute before the Doctor turned his eyes away, switched them over to the Chief Constable, and explained his views.

  “Well, Sir William, I did. I noticed one very marked coincidence.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Now, I must say here, that I have a very profound suspicion of coincidence. Coincidence is a combination of circumstances coming together. Any one of the circumstances taken by itself is a perfectly normal happening; it is only when they come together in a combination that the happenings develop into what we call coincidence. As a rule, there is a substantial and altogether natural explanation of coincidence, when it is examined properly. To be quite candid, I do not believe in coincidence as a general rule. I view it with suspicion when it is connected with police matters. I view it with very serious suspicion when I come across it in connection with unnatural death. So that, when I came across coincidence of more than usual marking, I began to take a more than usual interest in the circumstances.”