“Not the real reason. They would not associate with anyone here at Yarrabo. They stood well with the local store and garage, and Mrs Blake often subscribed to the vicar’s various funds. But that was all.”
“Mrs Blake subscribed? Not Mervyn Blake?”
“Mrs Blake’s name always appeared in the vicar’s lists.”
“Tell me more,” urged Bony. “Tell me from the time they came here.”
“They bought the property slightly more than two years ago,” Simes proceeded. “They managed to get the place renovated and that writing-room built despite the chronic shortage of materials. It took—”
“Did they find the money for the purchase or was the purchase financed?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that,” admitted Simes.
Bony made a memo.
“We will establish the point,” he said. “Go on.”
“Well, what with the scarcity of materials and the shortage of labour, the work took something like five months,” Simes continued. “After it was done, they began to entertain, having several people staying over the weekend, and sometimes having a house party for a week or more. The visitors were mostly literary people, I think. Very often they were mentioned in the papers, according to my sister, who reads the social pages.”
“M’m! Did you ever contact the Blakes?”
“I spoke to Mrs Blake several times. She owns the car. Seemed all right to talk to, but wouldn’t relax, if you know what I mean. She might have been different had I been an inspector, or a sergeant. Blake himself was supercilious. Had a high opinion of himself. Spoke as though I were the village constable and he the squire.” Simes grinned. “Might go down in England, but not in Australia.”
“He was English, was he not?”
“Yes. Came to Australia shortly after the First World War—at least, I think so. I’m not quite sure about her.”
“She was born in Melbourne,” Bony stated. “Do you know the reason why they came here from Essendon?”
“Yes. Blake suffered from gastric trouble. I have the idea that the trouble was eased by the change.”
“You have the idea!” Bony echoed.
“Yes, only that. I think my sister spoke of it.”
Bony made another memo.
“He seemed to be quite well?” was his next question.
“Quite. Used to walk a great deal. Swung along as well as I. He was a well preserved man. In fact, I was surprised when I learnt he was fifty-six.”
“He didn’t look the suicide type?”
“He did not.”
“The post mortem revealed that he suffered from stomach ulcers. Also that his heart was not strong, and that his system was saturated with alcohol. Not one of these conditions is thought to have been responsible for his death. Neither is it thought that all three in combination could have been responsible. The Government Analyst was puzzled by the condition of the dead man’s liver and other organs. Did you know that?”
“No,” replied Simes.
“Very well. Let us assume that you did know the Analyst’s confidential report. Does it support any theory you have that Blake was murdered?”
Simes regarded Bony steadily for a full three seconds before he answered the question in the affirmative.
“I’ve always thought that murder was most likely,” he added.
“On what grounds?”
“On something that Inspector Snook would not accept seriously,” Simes answered, a dull flush stealing into his face.
“I noted that the date of your report was five days after the date of Blake’s death. Blake died on the night of 9th November. It is now 4th January. Since you wrote that report you have had opportunity to review all the data you then set down, and also to review your opinions held during those vital five days, opinions you did not express in your report but doubtless did express to Inspector Snook, eh?”
“No, I expressed no opinions, Bony. I was not invited to.”
“In fact, you were discouraged from giving opinions. Well, having met Inspector Snook on another case, I can understand that. Now tell me what you did, saw, and heard following the summons by Dr Fleetwood. Relate your reactions, your own opinions. Forget that I have studied your official report. Light your pipe and let your mind relax. Begin with the weather that morning. I suppose there are more murders and suicides influenced by the weather than the detectives wot of.”
Simes smiled slightly and relit his pipe.
“I can begin with the weather easily enough,” he said. “It had rained the night before, and I was very pleased because the garden was suffering from a long dry spell. The morning that Dr. Fleetwood rang me was bright and, compared with the previous day, cool. I reached Blake’s house about ten minutes to nine that morning, and I went straight in as the front door was open. Dr Fleetwood was in the hall waiting for me Also in the hall were Mrs Blake and a woman I knew subsequently as Mrs Montrose. Both were crying.
“The doctor led me through the house to the back veranda, where there were several people, then down to the lawn and so to the writing-room. The door was closed. I saw that there was no handle and that it was fitted with a Yale lock. The doctor took a key from his pocket and opened the door, which I then saw opened outwards.
“Blake was lying with his head almost touching the door when it was closed. He was dressed in pyjamas. I stepped over the body and the doctor came after me and reclosed the door. He spoke for the first time and said, ‘There’s something about this affair, Bob, that I don’t like.’
“The doctor and I have been a little more than acquaintances for several years,” explained Simes. “He told me that when he reached the house he was met by a guest named Wilcannia-Smythe who stated that when Blake didn’t turn up for breakfast at eight twenty he went out to the writing-room. Finding the door closed and being unable to open it because of the lock, he knocked twice and received no answer. Then he went round to the window, which was also closed and fastened, and looking through it saw Blake lying just inside the door.
“He returned to the house and asked the maid if there was another key to the writing-room, and she gave him a spare key, which she took down from a hook in the hall. Wilcannia-Smythe then collected another guest named Lubers, and together they went to the writing-room. Wilcannia-Smythe opened the door. Neither went in. First one and then the other tried to rouse Blake and found that he was dead. They then shut the door and returned to the house where they told Mrs Blake and advised sending for the doctor.
“The doctor reached the house shortly after eight forty. He was taken to the waiting-room by Wilcannia-Smythe, who remained outside the building while the doctor made his examination. The examination didn’t take more than two minutes, and immediately after it, the doctor left closing the door, and he and the guest went back to the house where Fleetwood telephoned to me.
“All that,” continued Simes, “was what the doctor told me after he and I had entered the room and he had closed the door. Then he told me that he had given the dead man a thorough overhaul six weeks previously, and had found him quite fit, except for stomach ulcers, which were drying up. He was very doubtful of the cause of death and said he’d be unable to sign the certificate until he had made an autopsy. That, however, was not the reason why he called me, and he asked me to stand by the window and see if I could see what he had seen and still saw.
“I did as he suggested. The room was not in great disarray, and there was no evidence of a struggle. The dead man’s clothes were folded neatly on a chair, and over the back of it hung his dinner jacket. The bedclothes were normal. On the writing desk was a kerosene pressure lamp, a glass jug that had contained milk and a glass that had also contained milk. There was a bottle of brandy almost half full and another glass, and an empty dry ginger bottle. In addition there were several books and papers and the usual appointments. There were four bookcases against the walls, and a couple of chairs, and a typewriter on a table. There was no wardrobe or any other bedroom
furnishings other than the bed. Over the floor was thick wall-to-wall felt covering.
“At first sight it appeared that Blake had been taken ill during the night and had got as far as the door when he collapsed. He was lying in a partial huddle, the top of his head and his right shoulder about five inches from the bottom of the door. His left arm was under his chest as he was lying almost completely face downward, and his right arm was bent as though his last effort had been to raise himself. He had been slightly sick.
“I saw several distinct scratches on the paintwork of the door. They were low down and on the outer edge. When the doctor saw me looking at these marks, he told me they had been made by the dead man’s fingers. The fingers of the right hand were badly lacerated when he tried to get out of the room and was too weak, or in too much pain, to reach up for the lock.
“I couldn’t see anything else of significance. Not for a minute or two, anyway.” Simes chuckled. “I’m only an ordinary policeman, not a trained detective. The doctor wouldn’t help me, and so I went on staring at this and that, until I saw that the felt inside the closed door was damp. It was so damp that I must have been blind not to have noticed it before. The colour of the felt was rose and the wet place was much darker. The rain the night before had beaten in through the door to a limit of about fifteen inches, and on this wet patch lay the dead man’s head and his shoulders and right arm.
“I went over to the corpse and knelt beside it. The hair at the back of the head was damp, and the collar and upper part of the pyjamas. Then I saw that under the body the carpet was quite dry. I could follow the edges of the dry place without moving the corpse and thus see that the rain had beaten in through the open door after he had died.
“I asked the doctor if he were sure that the guest had told him the door was closed when he went to call Blake for breakfast, and Fleetwood said he was sure. He asked him the second time about it when making the examination, and the guest asserted again that the door had been shut.
“The doctor asked me then if I worked it out as he had done,” proceeded Simes. “I wasn’t sure what time the rain had begun, because I went to bed about half past eleven the previous night. I knew that it had stopped when I got up that morning at six, and that it hadn’t rained after I got up. So the rain on the dead man’s head and shoulders and on the carpet must have fallen before six o’clock. I said, ‘After Blake was dead, someone came into this room and stayed for at least a minute before going out again and shutting the door’.”
Chapter Seven
Human Reactions
“THAT’S very interesting,” Bony said. “But there’s nothing about rain on the floor in your report or in the summary provided for me.”
“I spoke of it,” Simes said levelly, “because you asked me in a decent manner to collaborate, and because I’m sure you won’t regard me as a liar or a damn fool. It was like this.
“I went through the dead man’s pockets and found his keys, one of which fitted the door. I got the other from the lock where the doctor had left it. I told Dr Fleetwood that I’d have to report to headquarters, which I did, and the result was that the homicide crowd didn’t arrive until a quarter to twelve. They were in no hurry, because I wasn’t in a position to report that Blake had been murdered.
“Inspector Snook was in charge and they were accompanied by a surgeon. Everything then proceeded according to routine. The photographer did his stuff as I was making my verbal report, backed by the doctor. The doctor then went into conference with the surgeon and they moved the dead man from the floor to the desk. I had told the inspector about the rain falling on the dead man and the felt, and told of what seemed to me the obvious theory about it, but Inspector Snook was sarcastic because by then the wetness had dried out of the floor covering. When Dr Fleetwood corroborated, he was told that the obvious explanation was that Blake in his last gasp had managed to open the door and push it wide, that the door had remained open for a little while until a gust of wind had slammed it shut.
“Such was Inspector Snook’s attitude that Dr Fleetwood would say no more about it, and I went dumb. The doctor wouldn’t undertake the autopsy. The finger-printer dusted the entire place. There were plenty of finger-prints on the glass milk-jug and the glass that had contained milk, but the brandy bottle and the glass used to drink the brandy bore only the prints of Mervyn Blake.
“Subsequently the doctor and I talked about the wet floor and the rain on the dead man, and we discussed the inspector’s theory that Blake himself had flung open the door and then collapsed, and the wind had slammed the door shut.
“It so happened that the doctor was called out to an accident that night shortly before twelve. He did not get home again until two. At half past two he was called to a confinement. He says that the rain began about midnight. It fell in showers until shortly after four o’clock, and at no time during the night was the wind gusty or even moderately strong.
“Just before we left the building—I to make my report—we both swung the door out and in several times, to test the theory about the wind, because the inspector’s theory had then occurred to us. We found that the door was not properly-swung. In fact, when the catch of the lock was free, its tendency was to swing open.”
“Very, very interesting,” Bony murmured. “The accident that took the doctor out that night—was it in the open air or inside a house?”
“It was a bad car accident. He was out in the rain from first to last. The police at Warburton had charge of it, which is why I wasn’t called out, too.”
Simes loaded his pipe, regarding Bony with moody eyes.
“A day before the inquest, Inspector Snook called here. He told me that the post mortem had proved nothing, no poison, no other cause for Blake’s sudden collapse. He said also that Dr Fleetwood had stated that when he overhauled Blake several weeks before his death he found him to be physically sound, including his heart. Then he said that the post mortem had revealed that Blake’s heart was not in a healthy condition, and added, ‘That shows how these country doctors can make errors. Dr Fleetwood made one error about Blake’s heart, and can therefore make another error about that door being opened by a murderer. An efficient policeman, Simes, doesn’t permit himself to indulge in imagination—only facts.’ ”
Simes shrugged his broad shoulders, saying with finality, “That was that. Now I am wondering just how you came into it.”
Without hesitation, Bony said, “Because, my dear Simes, Superintendent Bolt does indulge his imagination. Have you considered likely reasons why anyone should enter Blake’s room when he was dead?”
Simes shook his head and confessed that, in view of the medical evidence, he had racked his brain without result.
“Don’t continue to rack it,” Bony urged. “Let’s try in our respective spheres to find evidence that will lead us to the reason, or reasons, why that person entered the writing-room after Blake was dead. Now for other matters. We have had Snook’s reactions and the doctor’s. Let’s examine the others, beginning with Mrs Blake. On entering the house that morning you found Mrs Blake and Mrs Montrose crying. Did you note the exact degree of Mrs Blake’s distress?”
Simes did not at once speak. He was thrusting his mind away from a wet section of felt and an open door, and the rain pelting in through the door-frame, to this other scene, and at the same time noting the altered demeanour of the suave and affable man who had asked him to forget rank and title. Bony’s dark face was stern.
Simes said, “Mrs Blake was seated on a chair in the hall, and Mrs Montrose was standing close beside her. Mrs Blake was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and she was softly sobbing.”
“Was it a clean handkerchief?”
“Yes. It appeared hardly used. The ironing creases were still evident.”
Bony’s brows rose a fraction and he smiled faintly.
“When you saw her again was she still crying? You did see her again?”
“Yes, I saw her again when I told her I would hav
e to report the death of her husband to headquarters,” Simes replied. “She was still in the hall with Mrs Montrose.”
“The handkerchief?”
“It was a little wet ball. Oh, Mrs Blake was genuinely upset, there is no doubt about that.”
“Naturally, Simes, she would be upset. Now for Mrs Montrose. How was she behaving? Tell me—exactly.”
“When I first saw her, she was just standing beside Mrs Blake and allowing the tears to run down her face unchecked. She was not standing when I saw her the next time, and she wasn’t crying.”
“You’ve got a good memory, Simes,” Bony said. “And the artist’s gift of observation. It should take you a long way. After you contacted your headquarters, you sought out every guest and the domestic staff and warned them not to leave the house. You took a statement from everyone. All that you put in your report, but into your report you did not put your private thoughts concerning the impressions they made on you. We’ve been studying the reactions of others, now let’s have your personal opinions.”
“If you think it’s important—all right,” Simes assented.
“Everything is important, even the most trivial occurrence or the most casual remark. Now for all the persons you met inside and outside the Blake’s residence. Wilcannia-Smythe discovered Blake dead. Begin with him.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do,” agreed Simes, and for a little while regarded the wall behind Bony’s back. Then, “Wilcannia-Smythe betrayed no emotion. He spoke precisely. He might have found a hundred dead men before he found Mervyn Blake. The man with him, Martin Lubers, was agitated. He seemed to me more natural than the other man, for after all most of us would be upset under the circumstances. The third man was Twyford Arundal, who lives in Adelaide—small, scented, a thorough twerp. Three years in the army would do him a great deal of good. He was anxious to tell me that after he had gone to bed he did not leave his room until Lubers called him with the news that Blake was dead. Then Marshall Ellis, from England, and Miss Chesterfield.
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