“We’ll get over the minimum number of points on virtually every finger, Chief. I’ve never had one so easy.”
“Thank you. You and Berger pack up and go home. I’ll have your written report on Monday.”
Masters and Green returned to the office. “Carvell, I think,” said Masters picking up the phone. “Let’s hope he’s at home.”
When they reached Carvell’s set in Gladstone Hall, Carvell had three cups and a plate of biscuits waiting on the coffee table.
He was dressed in slacks and sweater and looked as though he was about to go for a workout in a gym. But his manner was relaxed.
“I gathered from what little you said on the phone that you are not here to arrest me? That being so, I suggest we have a celebratory cup of tea. The kettle is boiling. If you will park yourselves, I’ll make the brew.”
He rejoined them a moment later. “The joy of a set is that one has a mini-kitchen of one’s own. I don’t have to join the throng in the public kitchens.”
As he poured, Masters said: “Your action in providing us with so complete a set of your finger prints, Professor, has enabled us to eliminate you from our investigations.”
“Totally?”
“Totally. Although I must say that your refusal to tell us your movements made the elimination somewhat more difficult.”
Carvell handed him a cup of tea. “I’m sorry about that, of course, but I knew you would check whatever I told you, and there are some secrets any man would wish to preserve.”
“I have been told that you are most discreet in your affairs.”
Carvell shrugged. “That way lies safety. But I was intrigued as to why you should imagine I was carrying champagne that evening.”
“When you were, in fact, carrying toilet articles and other necessities for sleeping the night other than in your own bed?”
The professor grinned. “I couldn’t have told you, could I, except as a last resort? But why champagne?”
“Because we knew that somebody had, that evening, taken three bottles of champagne to Abbot’s Hall and handed them to Mrs Carvell and Mr Woodruff.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, sir. That is what happened, and whoever did so not only knew of Mrs Carvell’s liking for champagne, but also the soporific effect it had on her.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Carvell. “I can remember telling you it made Rhoda sleep like a babe.”
“Do you wonder we had you in mind?” asked Green, carefully choosing from the selection of biscuits.
“I wouldn’t have told you if . . . but I am forgetting that all murderers make mistakes, am I not?”
“Something of the sort. Good biscuits these. Fresh and crisp.”
“Help yourself to more.” Carvell turned to Masters. “I can’t think that the sole object of your visit is to tell me that you are satisfied I did not kill my wife. First, because you are under no obligation to do so and, second, the phone call achieved that object.”
“Here to grill you,” said Green through a mouth full of biscuit. “And now you’re off the hook we want proper answers. No evasions.”
“No promises,” said Carvell. “But try me.”
“Cast your mind back,” said Masters, “to one Sunday last June when you went collecting rock samples or fossils down in the area of Abbot’s Hall, and found your wife in residence there, entertaining a young male visitor called . . .”
“Heddle? Is that the one? Cub reporter type?”
Masters nodded. “I’d like to know about that day.”
Carvell leaned back. “To give you the full report Mr Green demands, I must go back a number of years. As you may or may not realize, certain areas in this country, as in all others, offer more in the way of geological specimens than others. Dorsetshire, for instance. The marble beds there yield a great harvest of fossils every year. You’ll have heard of Blue John in Derbyshire. And so on. The nearest such spot to London—at any rate to the west—is part of the coastline of West Sussex. So, when Rhoda and I, who owned no house in London, thought to buy a property of our own as a second home, I was keen to go to the district which had so much to offer me professionally. As the area where we fetched up was of no great importance to Rhoda, we kept our eyes open until a suitable property in the chosen spot became available. That is how and why we came to buy Abbot’s Hall.
“It was a fruitful area for me. I could potter about, virtually on my own doorstep, mixing business with pleasure. Unfortunately things began to go wrong for Rhoda and me. A couple that has two homes never really knows how the other is being used.”
“Unless you literally stay in each other’s company, you mean?”
“Precisely. But there is no need to go further into that. Later, Rhoda and I both used Abbot’s for our own purposes. Or rather, she used the house and I used the fossil-hunting ground close by.
“And that is how it was on the Sunday you mentioned. I didn’t realize Rhoda had gone there for the weekend. I went down for the day and collected a number of bits and pieces. I proposed to return quite early as I had an engagement in the evening, so I came up off the beach opposite Abbot’s because there is a beaten path there and I could follow that to the track that serves the house, and then down the track to where I had parked the car.
“As I neared the house, I saw a strange car there. As I was still co-owner, I was naturally interested. It could have been an intruder.”
“Quite.”
“So I went there and found Rhoda sunbathing on the lawn with a youth who, quite frankly, didn’t strike me as being exactly her type. Out of courtesy I stopped to pass the time of day.”
“Is that all?” asked Green. “Heddle said you looked fearsome, with a hammer in one hand and a cloth bag of rocks in the other.”
Carvell laughed. “Thus armed, and probably displaying a deal of hostility for any man spending time alone with Rhoda, I could well have appeared less than friendly. To begin with, that is. When I learned who the lad was and why he was there, I feel sure the meeting became more amicable.”
Masters said gravely. “Tell me about the meeting. What you talked about and so on.”
“Nothing very earth-shattering. Rhoda asked if I had had a good day’s hunting. Heddle seized on that and asked ‘hunting for what?’ So I tipped the samples out of the bag. For some reason he seemed impressed, or at least interested, so I told him what they were. I remember I had two or three nodules of iron pyrites, which one can chip out of the chalk there. He asked what they were and I said fool’s gold. Then I split one for him, using the hammer and showed him the construction of the thing. The crystals are needleshaped, and radiate from the centre. Quite remarkable to anybody who hadn’t seen one before. And, of course, they are brassy coloured—hence the name, fool’s gold. And I think that’s about all. I left soon after.”
“You told him where you found the nodules?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I certainly told him everything I had in the bag had been found within a drive and a chip of Abbot’s.”
“Why had you collected the nodules, Professor?”
“For lab use. I gather them regularly, so that students can break them open and see the formation.” He stared straight at Masters. “That’s how she was killed, isn’t it? When dampened, they can give off toxic amounts of arsine.”
“You knew that?”
“Of course I knew it. That’s why I collect fresh supplies. I don’t like too many old ones left in the lab—except perhaps a few in a fume chamber.”
“Did you mention arsine or arsenic to Heddle?”
“I am positive I did not. It is not the sort of thing I would tell a layman.”
“You guessed from the outset that iron pyrites nodules were the source of the arsine that killed Mrs Carvell?”
“I confess I did.”
“Yet you didn’t tell me.”
“I was wrong not to give you the hint. But look at it from my point of view. It was the crime of a man with a knowledge of geol
ogy, and I am a geologist. I was her husband. I knew the house. And so on. I fully expected to be arrested for murder the moment you knew the likely source of the arsine.”
“So you decided to what? Hold me off in the hope that I would never discover the source?”
“Not quite that. I didn’t murder Rhoda. But I suspected—probably mistakenly—that once you had arrested me, you would probe no further. I held back because, being innocent, I had everything to gain from a prolonged and thorough enquiry.”
“Our enquiry hasn’t been all that prolonged,” protested Green. “Far less than a week.”
“But if I’d been arrested after twenty-four hours?”
Green grinned. “You’d have had to spill the beans about your . . . er . . . dinner companion.”
Carvell laughed. “But I didn’t have to, did I?”
“An’ a damn nuisance you were to us, too.”
“To get back to Heddle . . .” began Masters.
“One moment, Chief Superintendent. Am I to take it that Heddle killed Rhoda?”
“Such is our belief. But he’s innocent until proved guilty.”
“Of course. Please ask your question.”
“At the time you spoke to him, Heddle appeared to know nothing of rocks and fossils in general and iron pyrites in particular?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all, I’d have said.”
“He must have gained some knowledge in the intervening months.”
“Nothing easier, I’d have thought. He’s a budding journalist. They’re taught to be investigative. Any public library—the reference section—would yield the knowledge he used. The trick is knowing of the existence of iron pyrites nodules and where to collect them. I suspect that after he saw my samples he was moved by a certain enthusiasm to go and read about them and, thereafter, to make a journey or two to Climping to collect them.”
Masters nodded. “It is more or less what I did myself, to learn about the nodules. But I started from the other end. A toxicology text book told me that arsine could be obtained from iron pyrites. It was then I went to a book on mineralogy.”
“I see.”
“But I believe the motive for collecting the nodules, in Heddle’s case, was that it provided an excuse for his presence in the area of Abbot’s Hall, should he be seen there.”
“You mean he went there for some other reason?”
“I believe he went there in the hope of seeing Mrs Carvell, should she happen to be there alone.”
“To kill her?”
“No, no.”
“You mean . . . you mean he was in love with her?”
“So I believe.”
“Incredible.”
“Why incredible?” demanded Green. “She was a good looking woman by all accounts, witty and charming. And she used to talk to him where she didn’t talk to the other men on the Daily View. Used to call him her Little Stinging Nettle . . .”
“Her what?”
“Stinging Nettle. A joke to her perhaps, but a sign of friendship—perhaps even of intimacy—to a young impressionable lad.”
“I had no idea,” said Carvell, “that this lad was in any way involved with her . . . no, dammit, I’m putting this badly. I could tell he was besotted with her that Sunday, but I took it to be a youthful crush, nothing more, though God knows I was myself only too aware of how she could attract a man. I married her, so I should know what I’m talking about. But knowing Rhoda as I did, I would be more than surprised if she had led that young man on or caused him to believe in any way that his passion for her was returned.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” agreed Masters. “No blame could be placed at your wife’s door. The boy is deranged in some way.”
“Deranged? That’s putting it a little mildly, isn’t it?”
“You said he loved her, yet he killed her.”
Green murmured that somebody had made just that point about us all.
“Why did he kill her, Chief Superintendent?”
“It is not any part of my duty to provide an answer to that question, but I imagine that it was the shock of learning that Mrs Carvell, on being divorced from you, intended to cohabit with Mr Woodruff, as opposed to with him, Heddle. I can only assume that so long as she was married to you, he accepted it, because you had got there first. But he was not prepared to let a third man intervene.”
“Funny thing, love,” said Green.
“It must be,” agreed Carvell, “if, as Mr Masters postulates, it has turned an apparently harmless and normal young man into a homicidal maniac.” Carvell gritted his teeth. “But he isn’t a lunatic. From what I have heard from you two gentlemen, I should say he had executed his little bit of mayhem with a great deal of thoroughness and good planning, and particularly so if he did it more or less on the spur of the moment.”
“He did,” said Masters assertively. “I don’t believe the idea had entered his head until he overheard Mrs Carvell talking to Golly Lugano that Monday morning.”
“He worked fast, then.”
“He had all the means to hand. His store of pyrites, gathered over the weeks of visiting the area. His basic knowledge of how to produce arsine. His knowledge of the house after spending a day there—every detail etched in his mind because that was the setting where Mrs Carvell had entertained him. He probably went into the kitchen and saw the baking trays there. As for the champagne—well, I suggest Mrs Carvell had told him of her great liking for it while they sat and ate strawberries together.”
“Nothing surer,” said Carvell. “Strawberries would go with champagne in Rhoda’s mind. She would certainly chatter about it in a picnic situation like that. You know the sort of thing: ‘If only we had a bottle of iced bubbly to wash these down . . .” A youth like Heddle would automatically ask her if she liked the stuff. He might even have made a mental note to take a bottle for her should he ever again have cause to go to Abbot’s.”
“Good point,” said Green. “He’d probably splurged on a quarter dozen for her just in case the call came. He could have had it in his possession for weeks or months.”
Masters nodded. “There’ll be a lot of points to dear up. His buying the champagne and so on.” He got to his feet ready to leave.
“Wait a moment,” said Carvell. “He must have lied about when Rhoda said she would be there. He said she mentioned she was going there after the divorce.”
“Immaterial,” said Masters. “He could have gone down there on Monday to prepare his project. When he discovered Mrs Carvell in residence he could have decided to make use of the opportunity. After all, who would be more welcome than an unexpected caller bearing loads of champagne? He would be let in and made much of. No, I don’t believe the day matters in the slightest. But we shall speak to Golly Lugano again, to try to check whether Mrs Carvell did actually mention Monday or Tuesday.”
*
On the Monday morning the AC Crime listened attentively as Masters and Green told their story, bolstered by the minor points they had cleared up on the Sunday.
“You’ve arrested him?”
“He was taken into custody and charged yesterday morning.”
“Has he made a statement yet?”
“No, sir, and I haven’t insisted.”
“So we have no motive to ascribe to him, other than this frustrated love of Rhoda Carvell? If he couldn’t have her, nobody else was going to? Is that it?”
“A psychologist spent several hours with him yesterday, sir. I have a preliminary report from him with me, sir. It will be entered as supplying an explanation for Heddle’s actions.”
“The shrink says he’s crackers, does he?”
“More or less, sir. Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes, please. The relevant bits. Not all the jargon.”
Masters took the paper from a file cover. “I’ll pick out bits as I go along, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“‘Heddle is suffering from emotional incongruity. The outcome of his belief that Mrs Carvell c
ared for him, as evidenced by the attention she paid him and the nickname she gave him, could mean that, when she announced her divorce and intention to set up home with another man, Heddle became obsessed with suspiciousness or persecutory delusions. In turn, the outcome of such delusions may have become impulsive, murderous attacks.’”
Masters went to another paragraph lower down the page. “‘In a person with Heddle’s state of mind, love and hate, trust and suspicion, joy and sorrow, terror and confidence co-exist and alternate so rapidly that the patient is bewildered. The chaos of mental and emotional feelings have led to impulsive action which, to the normal mind, can only appear as eminently bizarre and incomprehensible behaviour.’”
Masters turned the page.
“The psychologist then goes on to talk of Heddle’s paranoia. He has distinguished three kinds. The first, paranoid jealousy. ‘Paranoid jealousy is no different from ordinary jealousy, except that, in Heddle, I have discovered it to be much more profound and relentless. It is pathological in that the reason for it is inadequate to everybody but himself. It is, in fact, merely a projection of his own wishes and desires.
“‘Paranoid eroticism is easily perceived in Heddle, who has projected his own desires on to another person, namely Mrs Carvell, whom he has regarded, however incorrectly, as the object of his passion.
“‘Paranoid grandiosity, in the face of frustration such as Heddle felt when Mrs Carvell chose Mr Woodruff instead of himself, placed him in an imagined position of omnipotence where desires can neither be diminished nor denied without punishment to those responsible.’”
Masters looked up. “Finally, sir, there is a short note about a point that had been troubling me. Heddle seemed a fairly normal youth. So I had wondered about signs of mental disorder not appearing on the occasions of earlier interviews. The psychologist says, ‘Heddle is, in my opinion, suffering from paraphrenia or paranoid schizophrenia. Such people have strong delusions—such as the mistaken one that Mrs Carvell loved him—which might be accepted as reasonable, if true. Such delusions may exist in the mind and be strongly held for long periods of time without any noticeable deterioration or disintegration of the personality.’” Masters looked up. “He goes on to say that he does, however, expect progressive mental disorder to become apparent from now on, as a result of the crisis caused by the murder and the arrest.”
The Monday Theory Page 21
