Hag's Nook dgf-1

by John Dickson Carr

  "Very probably."

  "And there wasn't any struggle. Look where young Starberth was sitting. He could see the only door in the room; it's exceedingly likely he had it locked, too, if he was as nervous as you say. Even if a murderer could have got into the room first, there was no place for him to hide - unless - Hold on! That wardrobe. . . ." -

  He strode across and opened the doors, disturbing thick dust.

  "That's no good, either. Nothing but dust, mouldy clothes ... I say, here's one of your frogged greatcoats with the beaver collars; George IV style - spiders!" Closing the doors with a slam, he turned back. "Nobody hid there, I'll swear. And there was no place else. In other words, young Starberth couldn't have been taken by surprise, without fight or at least outcry.... Now, then, how do you know the murderer didn't come in here after young Starberth had fallen from the balcony?"

  "What the devil are you talking about?"

  Sir Benjamin's mouth assumed a tight mysterious smile.

  "Put it this way," he urged. "Did you actually see this murderer throw him over? Did you see him fall?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, we didn't, Sir Benjamin," put in the rector, who evidently felt he had been neglected long enough. He looked thoughtful. `But then we wouldn't have, you know. It was very dark and raining hard, and the light was out. I am of the opinion that he could have been thrown over even while the light was on. You see ... here's where the light was, on the table. The broad end of the lamp is here, meaning that the beam was directed on the safe. Six feet to the other side, where the balcony door is, and a person would have been in complete darkness.

  The chief constable drew up his shoulders and stabbed one long finger into the palm of his head.

  "What I am trying to establish, gentlemen, is this: There may have been a murderer. But that murderer did not necessarily creep in here, smash him over the head, and pitch him down to his death; I mean, there may not have been two people on the balcony at all.... What about a death-trap?"

  "Ah!" muttered Dr. Fell, hunching his shouders. "Well-"

  "You see, gentlemen," Sir Benjamin went on, turning to the others in an agony of verbal precision, "I mean - At least two Starberths have met their deaths off that balcony before this one. Now suppose there were something about that balcony - a mechanism - eh?"

  Rampole turned his eyes towards the balcony door. Beyond the torn ivy he could see a low stone wall, balustraded, suggestive. The very room seemed to grow darker and more sinister.

  "I know," he nodded. "Like the stories. I remember one I read when I was a kid, and it made a powerful impression on me. Something about a chair bolted to the floor in an the dark, the bed with the descending canopy, the piece of furniture with the poisoned needle in it, the clock that fires a bullet or sticks you with a knife, the gun inside the safe, the weight in the ceiling, the bed that exhales the deadly gas when the heat of your body warms it, and all the rest of 'em ... probable or improbable. And I confess," said Dr. Fell, with relish, "that the more improbable they are, the better I like 'em. I have a simple melodramatic mind, gentlemen, and I would dearly love to believe you. Have you ever seen 'Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street'? You should. It was one of the original thriller plays, well known in the early eighteen-hundreds; all about a devilish barber's chair which dropped you into the cellar so that the barber could cut your throat at his leisure. But-"

  "Hold on!" said Sir Benjamin irritably. "All this just means, then, that you think the notion is too far-fetched?"

  "The Gothic romance in particular," pursued Dr. Fell, "is full of such - eh?" he broke off, lifting his eyes. "Farfetched? God bless my soul, no! Some of the most farfetched of the death-traps have been real ones, like Nero's collapsing ship, or the poisoned gloves that killed Charles VII. No, no. I don't mind your being improbable. The point is that you haven't any grounds to be improbable on. That's where you're far behind the detective stories: They may reach an improbable conclusion, but they get there on the strength of good, sound, improbable evidence that's in plain sight.- How do you know there was any `box' inside that safe?"

  "Well, we don't, of course; but - “

  "Exactly. And you no sooner have the box, than you get an inspiration of a `paper' inside it. Then you get the paper, and you put `instructions' on it. Then young Starberth goes over the balcony; the box becomes inconvenient, so you drop it after him. Splendid! Now you've not only created the box and the paper, but you've made them disappear again, and the case is complete. As our American friends say, Horse-blinders! It won't do."

  "Very well, then," the chief constable said, stiffly. "You can examine that balcony, if you like. I'm jolly certain I won't."

  Dr. Fell hoisted himself to his feet. "Oh, I'm going to examine it. Mind, I don't say there wasn't any death-trap; you may be right," he added. He stared straight ahead of him, his big red face very intent. "But I want to remind you that there's only one thing we're absolutely sure of - that Starberth was lying under that balcony with his neck broken. That's all.

  Sir Benjamin smiled in that tight way of his which seemed to pull the corners of his mouth down rather than up. He said, ironically:

  "I'm glad you see at least a little virtue in the notion. I have advanced two perfectly good theories of the death, based on a trap-"

  "They're rubbish," said Dr. Fell. He was already staring across at the door to the balcony, and he seemed preoccupied.

  "Thank you."

  "Oh, all right," the doctor murmured, wearily. "I'll show you, if you like. Both of your ideas, then, are based on young Starberth's being lured out on that balcony, either (A) by instruction she found in the safe, or (B) by the stratagem of some person who wanted to rob the safe, and so got him out there to let the balcony do its villainousjob. EH

  ?"

  "Quite right."

  "Now, then, put yourself in young Starberth's place. You're sitting at this table, where he sat, with your bicycle-lamp beside you; as nervous as he was, or as cool as you might be - either way - Got it? Got the scene?

  "Perfectly, thank you."

  "For whatever purpose, you get up to go over to that door, which hasn't been opened in God knows how many years; you're not only trying to open a sealed door, but you're going out on a balcony that's blacker than pitch.... What do you do?"

  "Why, I pick up the lamp and I -"

  "Precisely. That's it. That's the whole story. You hold your lamp while you're opening the door, and flash it out on the balcony to see where you're going, before you've even set foot out there.... Well, that's precisely what our victim didn't do. If so much as a crack of light had shown through this door anywhere, we should have seen it from my garden. But we didn't."

  There was a silence. Sir Benjamin pushed his hat over to one side of his head and scowled.

  "By Jove!" he muttered, "that sounds reasonable, you know. Still- Oh, look here! There's something wrong. I don't see any earthly way a murderer could have come in this room without an outcry on Starbeth's part."

  "Neither do I," said Dr. Fell. "If that encourages you any. I . . ." He broke off, a startled expression coming into his eyes as he stared at the iron door to the balcony. "O Lord! O Bacchus. O my ancient hat. This won't do."

  He went stumping over to the door. First he knelt down and examined the dusty, gritty floor, where bits of dirt and stone had fallen when the door was opened. He ran his hand along them. Rising, he examined the outer face of the door; then he pushed it partly shut and looked at the keyhole.

  "Opened with a key, right enough," he mumbled.

  "Here's a fresh scratch in the rust where it slipped . " "Then," snapped the chief constable, "Martin Starberth did open that door, after all?"

  "No. No, I don't think so. That was the murderer." Dr. Fell said something else, but it was inaudible because he had stepped through the sheathing ivy out upon the balcony.

  The rest of them looked at one another uneasily. Rampole found himself more afraid of that balcony than he had even been of the s
afe. But he found himself moving forward, with Sir Benjamin at his elbow. The rector, he discovered as he glanced over his shoulder, was intently examining the titles of the calf-bound books in the shelves to the right of the fireplace; he seemed reluctant to drag himself away, though his feet appeared to be moving in the direction of the balcony.

  Pushing aside the vines, Rampole stepped out. The balcony was not large; hardly more than a stone shelf about the base of the door, with stone balustrades built waist high. There was little more room than would comfortably accommodate the three of them as he and Sir. Benjamin stepped to either side of the doctor.

  Nobody spoke. Over the top of the prison the, morning sun had not yet struck; these walls, the hill, and the Hag's Nook below were still in shadow. Some twenty feet down, Rampole could see the edge of the cliff jutting out in mud and weeds, and the triangle of stone blocks which had once supported the gallows. Through the little door down there they had brought out the condemned from the press-room, where the smith had struck off their irons before the last jump. From up here Anthony had watched it, in his "new suit of scarlet and laced hat." Bending over, Rampole could see the well gaping among the firs; he thought he could discern the green scum upon its water many feet farther down, but it was in heavy shadow.

  Only that gaping pit, ringed in spikes, fifty feet below the balcony. Beyond it the northern meadows were sunlit, and starred with white flowers. You could see across the lowlands, cut with hedgerows like a rolling checkerboard; the white road, the stream glimmering, the white houses among trees, and the church spire. Peace. The meadows were not now black with faces to watch a hanging. Rampole could see a hay-wagon dawdling along the road.

  "-it seems solid enough," Rampole heard Sir Benjamin saying, "and we've quite a lot of weight on it. I don't like messing about with it, though. Steady! What are you doing?"

  Fell was grubbing among the ivy over the black balustrades.

  "I've always wanted to examine this," he said, "but I never thought I should have the opportunity. H'm. It wouldn't wear, or would it?" he added to himself. There followed a sound of ripping ivy.

  "I should be careful, if I were you. Even – “

  "Ha!" cried the doctor, loosing his breath in a gust. "What ho! 'Drinc heil' - as the Saxon toast was. Mud in your eye! I never thought I should find it, but here it is. Heh. Heh-heh-heh." He turned a beaming face. "Look here, on the outer edge of the balustrade. There's a worn place I can put my thumb in. And another, not so worn, on the side towards us."

  "Well, what about it?" demanded Sir Benjamin. "Look here, I shouldn't mess about with that. You never know."

  "Antiquarian research. We must celebrate this. Come along, gentlemen. I don't think there's anything more out here."

  Sir Benjamin looked at him suspiciously as they reentered the Governor's Room. He demanded:

  "If you saw anything, I'm hanged if I did. What has it got to do with the murder, anyhow?"

  "Nothing whatever, man! That is," said Dr. Fell, "only indirectly. Of course, if it weren't for those two worn places in the stone ... Still, I don't know." He rubbed his hands together. "I say, do you remember what old Anthony's motto was? He had it stamped on his books, and his rings, and Lord knows what all. Did you ever see it?

  "So," the chief constable said, narrowing his eyes, "we come back to Anthony again, do we? No. I never saw his motto. - But unless you have anything more to suggest, we'd better get out of here and pay a visit to the Hall. Come, now! What's this all about?"

  Dr. Fell took a last glance about the gloomy room.

  "The motto," he said, "was 'Omnia mea mecum porto' ‘All that belongs to me I carry with me.' Eh? Think it over. Look here, what about a bottle of beer?"

  Chapter 9

  A GRAVEL walk, winding. Grey pigeons that waddled suspiciously under elms. Shaven lawns, and the shadows of birds under the sun. The tall, bluff house of mellowed red brick, with white facings and a white cupola surmounted by a gilt weather-vane, growing old gracefully since the days when Anne was queen. Bees somewhere, droning, and a sweet smell of hay in the air.

  Rampole had not seen it thus the night before. It had been raining when the rector's Ford drew up here then, and he and Saunders had carried the light, stiffening body up those steps. Before him had opened the mellow hallway, as though he had been suddenly thrust on a lighted stage with that dripping burden, before a thousand people. As he walked up the drive with his companions now, he shrank from meeting Her again. That was how it had been: thrust upon a stage, without lines, dazed and futile; unclothed, the way you feel in dreams sometimes. She hadn't been in the hall then. There had been only that butler, what was his name? - stooping slightly forward, his hands clasped together. He had prepared a couch in the drawing-room.

  She had come out of the library, presently. Her red eyes showed that she had been crying desperately, in one of those horrible paroxysms; but she was steady and blank-faced then, squeezing a handkerchief. He hadn't said anything. What the devil was there to say? A word, a motion, anything would have seemed crude and clumsy; he didn't know why; it just would have seemed so. He had merely stood wretchedly by the door, in his soaked flannels and tennis shoes, and left as soon as he could. He remembered leaving: it had just stopped raining a moment before, and the grandfather clock was striking one. Through his wretchedness he remembered fastening foolishly on a small point: the rain stopped at one o'clock. The rain stopped at one o'clock. Got to remember that. Why? well, anyway

  It wasn't as though he could feel any sorrow at the death of Martin Starberth. He hadn't even liked Martin Starberth. It was something he stood for; something lost and damned in the girl's face when she walked in to look at her dead; a squeeze of a flimsy handkerchief, a brief contortion of a face, as at pain too great to be borne. The immaculate Martin looked queer in death: he wore an ancient pair of grey flannels and a torn tweed coat.... And how would Dorothy feel now? He saw the closed shutters and the crape on the door, and winced.

  Budge opened the door to them now, looking relieved when he saw the chief-constable.

  "Yes, sir," he said. "Shall I call Miss Dorothy?"

  Sir Benjamin pulled at his lower lip. He was uneasy. "No. Not for the moment, anyhow. Where is she?" "Upstairs, sir."

  "And Mr. Starberth?"

  "Upstairs also, sir. The undertaking people are here." "Anybody else here?"

  "I believe Mr. Payne is on his way, sir. Dr. Markley was to call; he told me that he wished to see you, sir, as soon as he had finished his morning round."

  "Ah yes. I see. By the way, Budge ... those undertakers: I shall want to see the clothes Mr. Starberth wore last night, and the contents of his pockets, you know."

  Budge inclined his flattish head towards Dr. Fell. "Yes, sir. Dr. Fell mentioned that possibility last night. I took the liberty of preserving them without removing anything from the pockets."

  "Good man. Get them and bring them to the library now.... And I say, Budge -" "Yes, sir?"

  "If you should happen to see Miss Starberth," said Sir Benjamin, fidgeting, "just - er-convey my deepest ... you, know? Yes." He hesitated, this honest police official, growing slightly red in the face at what he apparently considered deception on friends. "And I should like to see Mr. Herbert Starberth as soon as is convenient."

  Budge was impassive. "Mr. Herbert has not yet returned, sir."

  "Oh, ah! I see. Well, get me those clothes."

  They went into a darkened library. It is women who are most efficient in a house of death, where emotionalism runs high; men, like these four, are tongue-tied and helpless. Saunders was the only one who showed any degree of calmness; he was getting back his smooth manners, and seemed as unctuous as though he were opening a Prayer-book to read.

  "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "I think I had better see whether Miss Starberth will receive me. It's a trying time, you know; a trying time; and if I can be of any assistance...."

  "Quite," said the chief constable, gruffly. When the rector h
ad gone, he began to pace up and down. "Of course it's a trying time. But why the devil talk about it? I don't like this."

  Rampole thoroughly agreed with him. They all fidgeted in the big old room, and Sir Benjamin opened some shutters. Silver chimes rang with fluid grace from the great clock in the hall, sounding as though they were striking through the vault of a cathedral. In this library everything looked old and solid and conventional; there was a globe-map which nobody ever spun, rows of accepted authors which nobody ever read, and above the mantelpiece a large mounted swordfish which (you were convinced) nobody had ever caught. A glass ball was hung up in one window, as a charm against witches.

  Budge returned presently, carrying a laundry-bag.

  "Everything is here, sir," he announced, "with the exception of the underclothing. Nothing has been removed from the pockets."

  "Thank you. Stay here, Budge; I shall want to ask you some questions."

  Dr. Fell and Rampole came over to watch as Sir Benjamin put the bag on the centre table and began taking things out. A grey jacket, stiff with mud, the lining frayed and torn, and several buttons missing.

  "Here we are," the chief constable muttered, feeling in the pockets. "Cigarette-case-handsome one, too. Full of ... these look like American cigarettes. Yes. Lucky Strike. Box of matches. Pocket flask, brandy, a third gone. That's the lot.”

  He rummaged again.

  "Old shirt, nothing in the pocket. Socks. Here are the trousers, also in disrepair. He knew it would be a dusty job, poking about that prison. Here's his wallet, in the hip pocket." Sir Benjamin paused. "I suppose I'd better look inside. H'm. Ten-shilling note, two pound notes, and a fiver. Letters, all sent to him in America, American postmark. `Martin Starberth, Esq., 470 West 24th St., N. Y.' Look here, you don't suppose some enemy might have followed him from America...?"