“And without these objects, you’re up against a brick wall, darling?” asked Wanda.
“A very high brick wall, sweetie.”
“But you’re going out tonight. After supper. Won’t you, perhaps, get something then?”
“Perhaps.”
“Only that?”
“More circumstance is my guess.”
“And mine,” said Green. “What’s on the menu, love?”
“Bill, where are your manners?” said Doris severely.
Green looked at her innocently. “I only wanted to know if I could help. Open the wine—red or white? Make the sauce—mint, horseradish or apple? Do the spuds—strain or mash? Chop the . . .”
“Stop it,” commanded Doris. “You were only trying to hurry Wanda.”
Green winked. “Not ’arf,” he replied.
“You’re disgusting.”
Masters said innocently: “You know, Bill, I get the feeling Doris feels disgust and secret loathing as far as you are concerned.”
“I’ve always known it, George.” He slumped in his chair. “Deep weariness and unsated lust makes human life a hell.”
“Now what are you on about?” demanded Doris. “Unsated lust!”
“Arnold.”
“Who is Arnold?”
“The gent what I’ve just misquoted.”
Wanda got to her feet. “Come on everybody, or William will be throwing the book at us.”
“What book?” demanded Doris again, bewildered by the conversation.
“The Golden Treasury—all parts,” supplied Masters. He turned to Green. “You left me—and the sergeants—in mid-air, two days ago, about some mythical character called Icicle Joe. A teetotaller, I seem to recall from the interrupted conversation at the time.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Doris and proceeded to recite: “Icicle Joe, the Eskimo, he lives upon the ice. And every time he wants a drink, he cuts himself a slice.”
They all stared at her in silence for a few moments, so that she reddened under their gaze. Then her husband spread his hands. “That makes my point, I think. She’s as bad as I am, yet she has the nerve to call me disgusting.”
“I didn’t. It was because . . .”
Green stopped the flow of protest by kissing her full on the mouth.
Wanda said: “I was wondering how ice could be cut. Now I know.”
*
Carvell was watching a television documentary on wild life when Masters and Green called on him. He ushered them in and then crossed to switch off the set before addressing them.
“I am at home, you see, gentlemen.”
“Expecting us were you?” asked Green.
“Yes.” The reply was uncompromising. The sort of answer that Masters would expect from a man who wished to give the impression that he was much more often right than wrong.
Carvell waved them to seats and crossed to his desk to take up a small sheet of paper. He brought it over to Masters. “I have made sure my fingerprints are all over it, Chief Superintendent, so just take it by the corner. Shall I provide you with an envelope for it?”
“Yes, please,” replied Masters blandly.
“So I was not mistaken when I came to the conclusion that the real reason why you asked me to write out a list of my movements was simply to obtain a set of my fingerprints?”
Masters kept a straight face. “You misjudge me, Professor, if you think that I stoop to such clumsy subterfuges.”
“Do I? Why accept the envelope if not to preserve my prints?”
“Seeing you have so kindly provided them, it would be boorish of me to reject your offer. But there are a thousand ways in which I could get your prints, unbeknown to you. You handle so many books and papers that we could get samples by the simple process of elimination. And of course—and this is what I usually do—I could ask you straight out to provide them. Few people, when so requested, refuse.”
Carvell sneered. “But you interpret a refusal in your own way.”
“Quite. That is my job.”
Masters, holding the list gingerly, glanced at it. “There appears to be nothing extraordinary here. Lecture, tutorials, committee meeting . . . all very useful, as there would be others present at the time.” He looked up. “Why did you object so strongly to outlining your movements on the Sunday?”
“My activities are no concern of yours, particularly as Rhoda was known to be alive on the Monday.”
“Ah!” Masters put the paper down. “Now for my interpretation of that particular refusal, Professor.”
“Interpret it any way you like.”
“I shall stick to its relevance to my case.”
“I’m more than pleased to hear it.”
“Mrs Carvell’s murder was probably not a spur-of-the-moment killing. I say probably, because I have no factual proof of that. But it would seem that there would have to be some preparation for the actual deed.”
Carvell was regarding him attentively. “My point is, Professor, that I believe our murderer would have to take certain steps before committing the crime itself. To my mind, those steps could have been taken on the Sunday.”
“And my objection to telling you my movements on the Sunday is to be interpreted as an attempt to . . . to avoid . . . what?”
“You’ve got the idea,” said Green. “If you’d been up to some hanky-panky you wouldn’t want us to know about, you’d refuse the information.”
“But this is outrageous. What were these preparations that had to be made?”
Masters ignored the question. “So you refused to tell us of your movements on Sunday, and now—on the list you have provided—your have told us less than . . .”
“Less than what? The truth? If that is your belief, Mr Masters, you are mistaken. Every word, every time on that list is true.”
“I was going to say less than the complete itinerary. I am referring, specifically, to the evening and night of the Monday and the early morning of the Tuesday. I see you say you went out at just before seven that evening, which I will accept . . .”
“Thank you.”
“But you haven’t said where you went.”
“I said I went to dinner at Luciano’s restaurant.”
“At seven?”
“I had to call for a companion.”
“I see. You didn’t dine alone. Where did you park your car during dinner?”
“At my companion’s house. We took a cab to the restaurant.”
“So you did use your car?”
“Yes.”
Masters glanced across the room to the floor beside the desk. “Is that your document case?”
“Of course it’s mine. Otherwise it wouldn’t be here.”
“It’s bigger—deeper—than the usual run of such bags.”
“Because I have to carry more files and books than most people. Look here, what has my case got to do with all this?”
“You took it with you on Monday evening. Why would a man, going out to dinner with a lady companion—I take it she was a female?—carry a large document case?”
Carvell flushed angrily. “I’ve had enough of this. It is obvious you have been spying on me . . .”
“Making enquiries,” said Green quietly.
“. . . and you come here and ask questions about matters which concern neither you nor my wife’s death and to which you already appear to know the answers.”
“I don’t waste my time that way if I can avoid it,” replied Masters. “What were you carrying in the case? Or are you expecting me to believe you were carrying a sheaf of students’ essays when you went out to dinner?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Three bottles of champagne, perhaps?”
“Keep your little jokes for those who will appreciate them more than I feel inclined to.”
“And one final question—one to which I have no specific answer. What time did you return to Gladstone Hall after your outing on Monday evening.”
Carvell
made no reply.
“You know what Charles Lamb said,” murmured Green eventually. “To be up late is to be up early. How late, or early, were you, Professor? In time for breakfast was it?”
Carvell got to his feet. “I shall not agree to see you again, either of you, except in the presence of my solicitor.” He moved to the door. “I’ll bid you good evening, gentlemen.”
Chapter Seven
“We agreed last night that you’ve got a prima facie case against Carvell,” said Green the next morning, when they met in Masters’ office. “So what decision have you come to? Are you going to invite him in, haul him in, or let the DPP decide?”
Masters, seated behind his desk, started to fill the first pipe of the day. As he tamped Warlock Flake into the bowl he said, without looking up, “I’m not really happy about it, Bill.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” He sat down and stretched his legs out. “I’ve yet to meet the Jack who didn’t like to make sure. Nailing the thing down with as many solid facts as possible is the only satisfactory answer in our eyes. Even then we don’t always get the verdict. When all you’ve got is circumstantial evidence, you’re less likely to succeed. And in this case, a lot of what you’ve produced is not even circumstantial evidence, but theory. Good theory. We’re all convinced it’s sound. But a jury could find it hard to swallow without a bit of supporting material to show them in court.”
“That’s not really what I meant.”
Masters lit the pipe. Green waited until the ritual was over before asking: “Are you trying to say you’re not convinced in your own mind that Carvell is guilty?”
“I’m like the juries you spoke of, Bill. I want at least one solid, inescapable fact.”
“Meaning that Carvell is too big a bug to be spiked on circumstance alone?”
“I don’t give a toss how big and important he is or isn’t. I just don’t like charging a man with any crime so long as I am not more than a hundred per cent certain that I’m putting the guilty chap in the dock.”
“And as far as Carvell is concerned, it’s only about ninety-seven per cent, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to make a decision.”
“I’ve made one.”
“What’s that?”
“The coward’s way out. Shove the responsibility on to the AC Crime and let him decide what to do.”
“Anderson will love that, and I don’t think.”
“I know. But when you come to think about it, I have no choice. I can’t tell him Carvell is not guilty, just because I can’t find the little bit of material evidence I feel I need. Nor can I say that Carvell is guilty without producing the same scrap of evidence. So there has to be a fresh mind to give a ruling. It is Anderson’s responsibility, so he must take it.”
“It’s a new departure for you, George.”
“True, but it is the option that is open to me.”
Green nodded. “Safety-net,” he said.
“Right. So I’ll ask him to see us—all four of us—this morning. I’ll suggest eleven o’clock. Get what reports we can from Chichester before then, Bill, and make sure the lads have our reports written up so that I can see them before we go up.”
Green got to his feet. “I’ll do one on last night, and see that Reed photographs Carvell’s dabs.”
“Thanks.”
*
Anderson said: “You’re going to tell me the story, are you, George? Not leave it to me to ferret out for myself from the file?”
“I’d rather tell it and discuss it as we go, sir.”
“Right. Everybody got coffee? Help yourselves if not, then fire away.”
Masters began.
“Professor Carvell was to have divorced his wife a week ago last Tuesday morning. Rhoda Carvell had intended to be present to see and hear what went on in court so that she could later use the information in an article for the Daily View.”
“Rag,” muttered Anderson.
“However, after visiting the View office on the Monday morning, she went with Ralph Woodruff . . .”
“The feller in the case?”
“Quite, sir. They went to Abbot’s Hall at Climping to spend the night, no doubt intending to motor back to London on the Tuesday morning to attend the court.”
“Why! Hell of a way to go, just to come back.”
“I don’t know why, sir. My guess is that the two of them suddenly found themselves at a loose end after lunch on the Monday and on the spur of the moment decided to go off to Abbot’s Hall.”
Anderson sniffed. “Is that good enough, George?”
“Probably not, sir. But as they are both dead . . .”
“Quite. Can’t ask them.”
“But we know they did go there on the Monday, sir. We have a shopkeeper there who sold them food and drink just before closing time on the Monday.”
“Fair enough. Go on.”
“Abbot’s Hall is an old, but strongly built house. The Carvells had renewed the windows and internal doors because, I presume, it was draughty. The new work was of a high standard. When the new windows and doors are shut the place is almost hermetically sealed.
“Rhoda Carvell was well known as a fresh-air fiend. It was her custom to sleep with her bedroom window open whenever possible. But on that Monday night a strong southerly gale blew up. The bedroom window had to be closed.
“Mrs Carvell and Woodruff drank that evening, before supper, a large amount of gin.”
“Enough to make them squiffy?”
“Nearly so, I should imagine, sir. Then they had a simple, but ample supper, which could have steadied them up a bit. After supper comes the mystery.”
“What was that?”
“They drank, between them, the best part of three bottles of champagne. The amount comes from the pathologist. The fact that it was champagne is my guess.”
“What does the forensic examination say it was?”
“A gaseous white wine, unspecified.”
“Go on.”
“That amount of drink would have laid them out flat. But they were found in bed, with the room tidy and showing no signs of the disarray that one would expect to find if two drunks had gone up there.”
“So what conclusion have you come to? That they drank the champagne in bed?”
Masters nodded. “It must have been that way, sir, but the odd thing was that neither the bottles nor the glasses were in the room.”
“Where were they?”
Masters looked across at Green who said: “All the glasses were in the wine cupboard, sir, and the bottles had gone.”
“Gone? Disappeared completely?”
“We’ve had a search party looking for two days, with no luck.”
“Then they can’t have had the champagne.”
Masters shook his head. “They did, I’m afraid, sir. They had to be so drunk that their breathing would be deep and stertorous. Only in that state would they take in enough arsine gas quickly enough to kill them before they were awakened by discomfort, and vomited as one would usually expect from people poisoned by arsenic.”
Anderson scratched his chin. “I see that, I think. So you’re postulating the presence of a third person.”
“There had to be, hadn’t there?” said Green. “The murderer?”
“Of course. But am I right in believing what you’re saying is that this third person brought in the champagne and cleared away later?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Impossible.”
“Somebody washed up all the glasses used, sir,” said Masters. “And got rid of the bottles.”
“To make sure we couldn’t pick up his prints, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it would mean that the murderer was known to Rhoda Carvell and Woodruff. A friend, in fact. I mean it would have to be somebody pretty close if they were going to accept three bottles of champagne from this character. Three bottles! That’s a quarter of a dozen. As much as I buy in a
year.”
“Quite,” said Masters. “It is my contention that the champagne was delivered to the house with the express intention of ensuring that Mrs Carvell and Woodruff would fall into a drunken stupor.”
“So that the murderer could operate without waking them?”
“Just so, sir. They were asleep, heavy with drink, in a room which—with door and window both shut—would be almost hermetically sealed. Ideal conditions for death by gassing.”
Anderson shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. “Where did the arsine come from?”
“I have here,” replied Masters, “a text book on mineralogy and another on clinical toxicology.” He held them up and then proceeded to open the mineralogy book at a marked page. “We will refer to this one first, sir. I don’t want to bore you with all the technical detail I have ploughed through to get the continuous thread of argument and connection, so I will show you just this one section.” He got to his feet and placed the open book in front of Anderson. “White iron pyrites. Occurs in chalk and other sedimentary deposits. Occurs in radiating forms, externally nodular.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nodules are spheres. In this case varying from the size of large golfballs up to—I imagine—tennis ball size. Radiating forms mean the spheres are filled with needleshaped crystals, all meeting at the centre and radiating outwards.”
Anderson nodded his understanding.
“I would like you to appreciate a further entry in the occurrence paragraph, sir. This bit . . . ‘usually in concretions in sedimentary rocks such as the English Chalk or accompanying galena, blende etc. in replacement deposits in limestones.”
“What are galena and blende?”
“They are of no interest to us, sir, but they are, in fact, forms of lead and zinc.”
“I see.”
“The important thing to note, sir, is that the shore near Abbot’s Hall has a peculiar formation.” Masters remained standing alongside Anderson. “It is at that point that the chalk of the inland hills behind the coast reappears. It thrusts upwards just there, and is noted for the flints and the pyrites nodules that it contains.”
“You mean the things are embedded in it?”
The Monday Theory Page 18
