by Roger Bax
“If you don’t mind, sir,” James interposed sharply, “I’ll take charge for a moment. I want to hear those explanations, too. Suppose we go inside? Miss Rutherford, I don’t think we need keep you from your bed.” He watched Barbara as, after a puzzled glance at Marion, she went slowly upstairs again; and then followed the others into the library. Thomas, muttering angrily, switched on the electric fire, while Marion pulled her sensible, mannish-looking dressing gown closely about her and stood with a mulish expression on her face. It was an expression that James was beginning to associate with all the Applebys.
“I thought it must be burglars,” fussed Thomas. “I heard a door bang and then everyone seemed to be calling out at once. What happened, Marion?”
“Why, nothing at all,” she said irritably. “I’m sure I don’t know what all the bother’s about. I felt I wanted some air—that’s all. I hadn’t been able to sleep. I came downstairs as quietly as possible and let myself out and I’d hardly stepped on to the lawn when the inspector suddenly flashed a torch in my face. I was startled—it was enough to make anyone cry out.”
Thomas scowled at James. “What exactly do you think you’re playing at, Inspector, stalking around the house in the middle of the night? Couldn’t you have told me at a reasonable hour if there was something you wanted?”
“I doubt if that would have helped,” said James, his eyes on Marion. “I want the gun that Neville Hutton was shot with. Do you know where it is, Miss Appleby?”
“Of course I don’t,” she said indignantly. “How on earth should I?”
James gave her a long, hostile stare. “Do you often go in search of fresh air at twelve o’clock on a damp autumn night?”
“Not very often, but …”
“Has it ever happened before?”
“Why, yes, I’m sure it has. If I can’t sleep …”
“When did it happen last?”
“You can’t expect me to remember exactly,” Marion said resentfully.
“I expect you to have some idea. Has there been a single night during this whole summer when you’ve got up after midnight and crossed the lawn in your dressing gown? I’m only trying to check your story.”
“I object to this interrogation,” broke in Thomas. He stood glaring at James.
James glared back. “I’d be greatly obliged, Mr. Appleby, if you’d kindly leave me to handle this in my own way.”
“I’m damned if I will! This is my house, and I’ll say what I like. May I remind you that nobody asked you here? My sister’s story is perfectly straightforward and I won’t have her browbeaten, do you hear?”
“If that’s the tone you’re going to adopt, sir, I must make other arrangements, of course. I’ll leave at once if you insist, but in that case I’m afraid I shall have to ask you both to accompany me to the station.”
Thomas was speechless. Before he could splutter out a protest Marion said quickly, “It’s quite all right, Inspector. I’ve no objection to answering your questions, but I really haven’t any more to tell you. It happened just as I said.”
“If it was only fresh air you wanted, Miss Appleby, why were you creeping across the lawn in such a stealthy manner?”
“I wasn’t creeping stealthily at all. How absurd! I naturally didn’t want to wake everybody up, that’s all.”
James gave a grunt of exasperation. He knew that he could prove nothing—Marion had escaped his trap. “Well, all I can say is that I don’t believe you. I think you know where that gun is. You came downstairs tonight to move it because you had heard that we were going to make an intensive search.”
“This is monstrous!” Thomas burst out. “Are you trying to suggest …?”
“I’m suggesting that Miss Appleby’s story is a lie. It simply doesn’t bear examination. Fresh air, indeed! Everywhere I turn in this case I’m met with lies, and I don’t like it. Something very odd is going on around here. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it—and I won’t be obstructed.”
Thomas’s face had taken on a purple tinge. “You’ve no right to make these allegations—you’ve nothing against my sister whatever. If you think I’m going to allow this place to be turned upside down in the middle of the night because of some idiotic and quite unsupported notion you’ve got in your head, you’re very much mistaken.”
James ignored him. Stolidly, he planted himself before Marion. “Miss Appleby, kindly look at me for a moment. You’re shielding someone, aren’t you? You know what happened?”
“No, no!” Sweat suddenly glistened on Marion’s pale forehead and her hands clenched nervously.
“Then you shot Hutton yourself.”
“I didn’t. I swear by everything I believe in that I didn’t.” Her eyes closed and she swayed and would have fallen if Maddox had not sprung forward and caught her.
James wiped his own forehead. “All right, Sergeant, I’ll look after her. Get some water.”
In a voice charged with passion, Thomas said: “By God, I’ll see you pay for this, Inspector. It’s outrageous—it’s third degree. I’ll have you demoted for it.”
“It’s not third degree for anyone with a clear conscience,” James snapped. He put the cup of water to Marion’s lips and gently rubbed her pallid cheeks. In a few moments she began to revive. “All right, Mr. Appleby, better get her back to bed. Sergeant, lend a hand.”
“I shan’t overlook this,” said Thomas, as he took his sister’s arm.
“Anyone would think that you people had extraterritorial rights around here,” said James wearily. “I want a private word with you, Mr. Appleby, as soon as you’ve got your sister settled.”
As the cavalcade moved slowly out of the door James dropped into a chair and gazed morosely at the fire. The church clock struck twelve-thirty.
Chapter Twenty Four
Thomas must have been thinking things over while he was upstairs, for by the time he appeared again in the library his anger had cooled and anxiety had taken the place of annoyance. “Well, now, Inspector, what is it?” he asked as he dropped into a chair opposite.
“I’m sorry about this disturbance, Mr. Appleby,” said James, responding to the changed mood. “I can understand your resentment but I have to get at the truth.”
Thomas grunted. “I expect all our nerves are getting a little frayed.”
“That’s about it. The trouble is, sir, that obstacles are being put in my way. I have already caught one member of your family out in a—well, in a very misleading statement—and that doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“I wasn’t aware of it. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“In a murder case, any deception is serious. However, it’s nothing I need bother you with. The point is that I feel I’m not getting frank answers from this family.”
Thomas looked concerned. “If there’s been any lack of frankness, I know nothing of it, and I should be the first to deplore it. Obviously the police must be helped as far as possible.”
“Yet it seems to me, sir, that almost every member of your family is keeping something back. I can’t prove it—yet—but that is the impression I have.”
“I assure you that I am not,” said Thomas.
“Unfortunately, assurances don’t get me very far. I receive so many. It has struck me that though there’s a certain amount of surface friction in this family, there is also a very strong sense of collective loyalty. It may be stronger than your collective desire to help the police. Loyalty is not a quality to be despised, but in a murder case it can be dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“Isn’t it also dangerous for the police to voice suspicions which they can’t substantiate?”
“That’s an occupational risk. I’m making no specific accusations, but I do know now that some member of your family—or someone very closely associated with it—was responsible for the murder of Neville Hutton. The choice is narrowed down to four or five people.”
Thomas looked almost pathetic in his bewilderment. “I can’t believe that. I know t
hem all so well—it’s fantastic.”
“It doesn’t seem fantastic to me,” said James. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, most if not all of the members of this family seem to have the very qualities required for a murder of this sort. Intelligence, strong character and quick temper. A murderer doesn’t always have to be vicious, you know. I can imagine any one of them having the impulse to kill a man like Hutton, the skill to cover up the crime, and the pride and egotism to sustain the moral impact of killing. I can also imagine the rest of you rallying to the killer’s support—in the circumstances.”
“Imagination isn’t enough,” protested Thomas. “Have you got any evidence for all this?”
“As I say, sir, I haven’t conclusive evidence against any one person, or I should make an arrest. All I have at the moment is the knowledge that murder was done and that no outsider could possibly have done it. I am left, broadly speaking, with the family.”
“Well, you’re making a mistake,” said Thomas firmly. “Who could it possibly be? Whatever you may be thinking about tonight’s episode, I can assure you that my sister Marion would never do such a thing. My niece was in love with Neville, and my grandfather is much too frail. You don’t, I take it, suspect me?”
“I can’t rule you out, sir.”
Thomas looked at him in astonishment. “What possible grounds can you have?”
“You told me earlier,” said James, “that you went into town on Saturday afternoon to see your solicitor, and that you returned just after six-thirty. Were you in your car?”
“Yes.”
“And you drove straight in at the front entrance—on the side away from the churchyard, that is?”
“Yes.”
“Apart from speaking to your niece through the bathroom door, did you have any contact with anyone in the household between six-thirty and the time when you came downstairs after dressing for your evening engagement?”
“No, as a matter of fact I didn’t.”
“No one, therefore, can testify to your movements. You could quite easily have been at the bottom of the garden talking with Hutton during a part of that period?”
“I could have been, but I wasn’t. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even know he was still about.”
“I see. During my wanderings over the Farm, Mr. Appleby, I’ve noticed that anyone garaging his car and then walking to the front door would have a clear view, if he cared to look, right past the elm grove and into the churchyard. If you had looked in that direction as you came in, and Hutton had been strolling toward the churchyard with the gun under his arm, you would have seen him.”
“I can only say that I didn’t.”
“If you had seen him, you could have walked down by the side of the house and through the elm grove to talk to him without necessarily attracting the attention of anyone in the house. Let us suppose you did, and that you caught him up beside the grave. You might well have got into a heated argument with him, snatched the gun, pushed him in—there’d have been no difficulty about that for a man of your physique, would there?—and shot him.”
“Nonsense!” said Thomas. “Sheer speculation. Really, I must protest.”
“At least you had the opportunity. Well, let’s pass on—let’s consider motive. You won’t deny that by the end of Saturday afternoon you had anything but friendly feelings toward Hutton?”
“If I’d known then what Marion has told me since,” said Thomas warmly, “I should have been a great deal more unfriendly. I was never so grossly deceived by a man in my life.”
“From the point of view of motive, however, we hardly need that extra incentive, do we? You were quite angry enough—and worried enough. You were sufficiently worried to rush off and see your solicitor, on a Saturday afternoon.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. He’s an old friend—I knew he wouldn’t mind my dropping in. However, I was worried—I won’t deny it.”
“What precisely did you want to consult him about?”
Thomas looked candidly at the inspector. “I saw that my niece was determined to go through with this marriage, and I was determined to stop her if it were humanly possible. I went to see O’Grady to find out just what I could do.”
“And what advice did he give you?”
“None that was very satisfactory. He said that of course I could prevent the marriage taking place as arranged, simply by stating my objection in the appropriate quarter—in this case, privately to the vicar. He pointed out that if I made allegations against Hutton which subsequently proved to be untrue I might have a slander action on my hands—but I think I’d have taken that risk. The real difficulty, as Barbara herself had pointed out, was that she might clear off with him and get married without my even knowing where they were.”
“And you thought that might happen?”
“I was very much afraid that it might. I didn’t trust Hutton, and Barbara was in a reckless mood. She would have been quite capable of it.”
James threw out his hands. “Well, there’s your motive. Frankly, Mr. Appleby, there’s a case against you. It’s by no means a complete case, but it has substance. You are evidently a man with a strong sense of responsibility toward your family. You regard yourself as, in a sense, Miss Rutherford’s guardian. You saw her about to take a disastrous step with a man whom you thoroughly distrusted and with whom you had had an unpleasant scene that very afternoon. You discovered that there was no legal way of preventing that disaster. No doubt you returned from Judiford in an agitated frame of mind. If at that moment you had happened to see Hutton alone with a gun in his hand, you could well have acted on a sudden impulse.”
“And I suppose, in your view, my sister’s excursion tonight was an attempt to recover the gun on my behalf?” said Thomas, unmoved.
“Your anger at my questions to her would support that theory.”
“Well, you’re wrong, of course. I happen to have a great respect for the law. Although I’m very fond of my niece, I certainly wouldn’t commit murder on her account. Nor in any other circumstances that I can conceive. And if I did, Inspector, I wouldn’t do it in broad daylight right in front of the house. I happen to enjoy life.”
“Can you use a gun?”
“I know how to, of course, but I’ve never been very keen on shooting. I doubt if I’ve handled a gun in ten years, except perhaps to oblige my sister and dispose of an occasional rat.”
“You wouldn’t include Hutton in that category, by any chance?”
Thomas looked grim. “I would—but I didn’t shoot him.”
Chapter Twenty Five
The inspector was sipping his second cup of breakfast coffee in the dining room of the Angel Hotel at Judiford where he and Maddox were staying. His gaze was focused unseeingly on a stone figure in the distant Palm Court; his thoughts were bent rather gloomily on the complexities of murder. He felt tired after his short night, and the sight of Maddox looking pink and cheerful across the table didn’t lessen his irritability. He had a vague idea that his sleep had been punctuated by bouts of brilliant deduction, but unfortunately his conclusions now eluded him. He wasn’t at all clear about what his next step should be. As far as he could see, the only result of the churchyard vigil—apart from an occasional sciatic twinge—had been to envelop the case in a worse fog than ever.
An urgent telephone call from the local station quickly changed his mood. Someone, it seemed, had just arrived with information relating to the Hutton case, and was waiting there.
“The grapevine!” exclaimed Maddox, trying not to look too pleased with himself.
Ten minutes later the two policemen were interviewing a middle-aged man who gave his name as Ned Flower and turned out to be the blacksmith at Long Wicklen village. His huge frame was tightly buttoned into a ginger sports jacket, and although the morning was fresh, a drop of perspiration trickled down his honest red face. This visit to the police station appeared to be something of an ordeal for him and he looked diffidently at the detectives from London.
James soon put him at his ease, however, and he plunged into his story.
On the Saturday afternoon, it seemed, he had been into Judiford to have a look at some metal scrap he was thinking of buying, and he had returned to Long Wicklen on the 6:05 bus. As usual, the bus had stopped opposite the churchyard—he couldn’t say at exactly what time but it was supposed to be there just after half-past six—and as it was about to move off he’d happened to glance across in the direction of Mr. Peckitt’s grave and he’d noticed a man standing beside it. He hadn’t been able to see the man’s face clearly, because the head had been turned away and he had been bending down, but from the thickset build and the yellow hair, Mr. Flower had been pretty sure it was Dennis Gwynn. He hadn’t thought any more about it until he’d heard in the Cow and Compasses that the police were anxious to see anyone who had passed about that time, and then he’d come right along.
James, elated by this new turn, pressed the blacksmith on the point of identification. It seemed that Mr. Flower knew Gwynn quite well by sight, but wasn’t prepared to swear positively that he’d been the man, because the bus had moved off too soon. There had, he said, been no one else on the churchyard side of the top deck, but somebody downstairs might have happened to look out. That was really all he could say.
“Well, now, Mr. Flower,” said James, “you mentioned that this man was bending down. I’d like you to tell us more about that if you can. Was he stooping as though he was picking something up, or was he just leaning over and looking down into the grave, or was he squatting on his haunches, or what? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing us … ?”
The blacksmith got heavily to his feet and gave a demonstration. “He wore sort o’ bendin’ over forrards, sir, like this, wi’ his head down.”
“In fact,” said James, “if he’d been bending forward to peer into the grave, that’s the sort of position he’d have been in?”
“Ah, that’s it—that’s jest the way he’d ’a’ bin.”
