by John Bingham
“Perhaps you’re right, Sergeant. Perhaps I was being a little hard. Where were you on the evening and night of May 28th, the night Mr. Prosset was killed, sir?”
The question came so gently and yet so suddenly that for a full second its implications escaped me. Then they struck with the force of a heavy blow in the stomach.
“On the night of May 28th?”
“That’s right, sir. That’s the question I asked.”
“Well, I was here. I was here part of the time. Then I spent the rest of the evening with my fiancée.”
“What time did you arrive at Miss Marsden’s place, and what time did you leave?”
“I got there about 9:15 p.m. and I left at about one o’clock in the morning.”
“How did you come home?”
“How did I come home?” I repeated feebly.
“Yes, sir, how did you come home? I suppose you haven’t forgotten that, have you, sir?”
“No, of course not. I did not take my car that night. I walked down to Oxford Street looking for a taxi, but I did not find one until I got to Oxford Street itself.”
“What was the number of the taxi?”
“The number of the taxi?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t the faintest idea. Why should I take a note of the number of the taxi? Nobody does.”
He ignored my question. “So you don’t know the number of the taxi? That’s a pity, but it can’t be helped, can it?”
There was a question in my mind which I had to put to him, even though I suppose I knew that he would be bound to give the formal reply which he did.
“What’s on your mind, Inspector? You surely don’t suspect me, do you? You don’t think I killed Prosset? He was my friend.”
The Inspector raised his eyebrows so that his tawny eyes looked rounder and more pebbly than ever.
“Suspect you, sir? Why should I suspect you? You ought to know as a newspaperman that we have to check up on everybody’s movements. It’s just a matter of elimination. There’s nothing on my mind, sir. I was just asking a few routine questions.”
“After all, I was with my fiancée between 9:15 and one o’clock. She can prove that. And Prosset was killed around midnight.”
I saw the Sergeant raise his head. He said, “How do you know that, sir?”
“I read it in the papers.”
“You noted that, did you, sir?” said the Inspector. “Well, as you say, you were with Miss Marsden around midnight, so that looks as though it lets you out all right, sir.”
I took a deep breath and felt relaxed. I was glad I had made that point. I felt that it settled matters. The Inspector examined his fingernails for a moment, then looked up and stared at me full in the face, and said in quite a conversational tone, “You know, what I can’t understand is why you didn’t tell me a long time ago that, although you cancelled your visit to Mr. Prosset, you did go down there after all. That’s what puzzles me, sir. That’s the sort of obstruction that might get you into serious trouble, sir. You know that, as a reporter. Why did you hush that up? I gave you every chance to tell me, here, right now, at this talk.”
Both he and the Sergeant were staring at me. I felt the blood mounting to my face. I got up and went over to the corner cupboard and poured myself out a whisky and soda. Behind my back, the Inspector added, “Not to mention getting Miss Marsden to support you in your lies.”
I came back and sat down, and said, “All right. I’ll tell you the truth. I intended to tell you the whole truth in the beginning, but when I suddenly learned that foul play was suspected, well, I lost my head.”
“Why?” said the Sergeant. “Why should you lose your head? You were innocent, sir, weren’t you?”
“Why shouldn’t you have gone down and been with him the day before he died? There’s nothing wrong in that,” said the Inspector.
“I know there isn’t.”
“It’s a coincidence, but that’s all,” said the Sergeant.
“But first you hush up that you were invited and refused the invitation,” said the Inspector, “and when we drag that bit out of you, you don’t even then come clean.”
“It’s not as though there was anything unusual about it,” said the Sergeant.
“I know,” I said urgently. “I know it sounds silly now. I was stupid. But it came as a shock. It threw me off balance, if you like. And once I had started, I had to go on.”
“So it seems, sir,” said the Inspector.
“I thought it would make no difference to your inquiries, and I thought it might save me a lot of trouble, including attending the inquest. That’s the only reason.”
Surprisingly enough, the Inspector seemed more aggrieved than annoyed. All he said was, “Well, it wasn’t very clever, was it?”
“No. And I apologize.”
“Well, it can’t be helped now.” He seemed disinclined to pursue the subject any further. I had expected a long tirade and a severe interrogation, and all that had happened was that I had received a mild reproof. The Inspector thought for a moment, glanced at the Sergeant, and reached for his briefcase.
“Now what about putting it all on paper?”
“Do you mean, make a signed statement?”
“That’s the kind of thing. They like it at the Yard.”
“Makes things sort of look neat and tidy,” said the Sergeant jovially. I looked at them both in some dismay. For some reason I recalled that they had both refused a drink, and this now assumed in my mind an importance which was doubtless out of proportion. I told myself that I had obviously nothing to fear, but although I could not have said why, I felt instinctively reluctant to make a statement.
“Is that necessary?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was necessary, sir. But it might be in your interests as well as ours to have it all down in black and white, don’t you think? So that there can’t be any argument about it.”
“It might save us having to trouble you again,” pointed out the Sergeant.
“But you’ve got a shorthand note,” I said.
“Not quite the same thing. Of course, we can’t force you, if you’ve any real objection.”
“I’ve no real objection, but—”
“Well, then,” the Inspector laughed, “if you’ve no real objection, what are we wasting time for? Let’s get it over.”
He began to unfasten his briefcase.
“I don’t want to be difficult, but I really don’t see the point of it, Inspector. I’d rather leave it.”
The cheerful look left his face. He replaced his briefcase on the floor. I felt awkward, for I could not account for my obstinacy. Probably everybody who is involved in a police investigation is liable to feel that until the guilty person is caught everybody, including himself, is at least mildly suspect. Such being the case, he is slightly on the defensive in regard to the police; they are not so much opponents as intruders into his normal routine of life; they are unknown quantities, and he is reluctant to commit himself in any way.
“So you do object, sir,” said the Inspector. “Mind you, I have no authority to press you in any way. Quite the contrary, in fact. A voluntary statement is a voluntary statement, and, as I would have pointed out to you, may at any time be used in evidence. But may I ask your reasons, sir? An innocent man like you has nothing to be afraid of; you know that, sir.”
But that was the trouble. I couldn’t tell him my reasons. I did not even know them myself. I only felt that it was not in my interests to put anything on paper. It was a purely instinctive reaction, and was almost certainly partly due to the obvious desire of the police that I should do so. All I could find to say was, “Well, I know what signed statements can mean.”
He feigned surprise. “And what can they mean, sir?”
“Well, you write some facts down, and sign the thing as true, and later, if you find you have made a mistake it can be twisted to look as though you have written a deliberate lie. It looks bad.
You don’t need me to tell you that, Inspector.”
“Who’d want to twist anything you say, sir?”
“I don’t know.”
I felt uncomfortable. The Inspector thought the matter over for a few seconds. Finally, he made as if to pick up his hat preparatory to departing.
“All right, sir,” he said gently, “just as you like, of course. I’ll tell them at the Yard that you refused to make a statement. You’ll pardon me if I’ve pressed the idea more than I should have done. I just thought it might save us both some trouble, that’s all, sir. You’re quite within your rights, of course. Absolutely.”
“Well, but I didn’t refuse,” I said wearily. “I said I would just rather not. That’s all.”
“Well, if you’d rather not, it means in the case of a voluntary statement that you won’t, sir, doesn’t it? Or is my understanding of the English language wrong? And if you won’t, it means you have refused to do so. But don’t think I’m pressing you. I’m not pressing Mr. Sibley, Sergeant. You’re a witness to that. I’m just pointing out a few facts.”
“Using a bit of logical reasoning,” added the Sergeant. “Miss Marsden made no objections.”
Kate had not told me that. Probably she thought it was only a formality. Although my instincts were still against it, I began to weaken. The Inspector pretended to busy himself with the lock of his briefcase. I sighed, took a sip of whisky.
“All right. Get the paper out, Inspector.”
“That’s the spirit!” said the Inspector loudly and cheerfully. “That’s what we like, a bit of co-operation. That’s what we expect, too, from intelligent people like you, if I may say so, sir. Not all these evasions and fiddling about. It’s silly.”
He took out some sheets of foolscap paper and his fountain pen.
“You can write it down yourself, or if you like, I’ll write it down, then you can read it over, alter anything, add to anything, cross anything out, and then sign it.”
I told him he could write it down. A statement of the kind made to the police is not a literary work of art. Its one aim is to say as much as possible in as few words as possible and as simply as possible. It is a hodgepodge of short, disjointed sentences, a jerky, unlovely thing. The Inspector and I hacked out the statement together. He was perfectly fair about it. He suggested points which I ought to cover, and he tentatively suggested the terse language I should use, but he never put answers into my mind. After a while we had produced the following statement:
My name is Michael Sibley, of 354 Harrington Gardens, London, SW7. I make this statement voluntarily. I have been cautioned, and realize that it may be used in evidence. To show that I have understood the nature of this caution, I now append my signature:
Michael Sibley.
I am a journalist. I have known the deceased, John Prosset, since I was nearly fifteen. I am now thirty-one. Prosset and I were at school together. After leaving school I went to Palesby, where I worked on the Palesby Gazette until last August. Prosset was then working in a bank. We corresponded now and again. My relations with Prosset were always very friendly. When I came to London I renewed my friendship with him. He was then engaged in business with a man called Herbert Day, having left the bank.
I visited him three times at his cottage at Ockleton, Sussex, twice with my fiancée, Miss Kate Marsden, of 238 Manchester Square, London, W1. I was invited to spend the weekend beginning May 27th with Prosset at his cottage, but on May 26th telephoned to say I would not be coming.
However, as it was hot weather, I again changed my mind, and drove down and stayed the Saturday night. I did not mention this earlier to the police because I had heard that suspicions were felt concerning Prosset’s death, and I did not wish to be involved in inquiries which might cause me trouble and publicity. I know nothing about his death. He was in good health when I left him. He sometimes drank more than was good for him, but did not show any tendency to do so that weekend up to the time when I left him.
I returned to London on the Sunday morning and worked all day in my room. Between 8:30 and 9 p.m. I called on Miss Marsden, and stayed with her until about one o’clock in the morning of May 28th.
I have read the above statement over and it is true.
Michael Sibley.
The Inspector added his own signature as witness, folded the statement and put it in his briefcase.
“There’s nothing in that to cause you a sleepless night, I think,” he said.
“I don’t suppose so.”
I smiled. I was glad I had made the statement now, and regretted the earlier hesitations. I felt that having made a clean breast of almost everything, I had little more to hide and had cleared myself in the eyes of the Inspector. I was aware of a lightening of my spirits. The Inspector and the Sergeant went to the door. Just before they went out, the Inspector turned round.
“Just one other point, Mr. Sibley. Do you happen to remember if Mr. Prosset carried much money about with him as a rule?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he did.”
“He still had a pound or two in his pocket when he was found. Nothing appeared to have been stolen in the house. So it looks as though we’ll have to look for some other motive. If it had been a case of robbery with violence, it would have been so much easier. Pity, really.”
“Makes it so much more difficult,” explained the tall Sergeant in his musical voice with the pleasant Welsh lilt.
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose it does, really.”
The Inspector stood by the door looking at me in a thoughtful manner.
“Did you have a quarrel with him, sir, about anything? Don’t jump to the wrong conclusions from the question, sir. I just wanted to know.”
I felt my heart beginning to pound in my chest. I licked my lips. “Quarrel with him?”
“Yes, sir. Those were my words.”
“Why should I quarrel with him? He was my friend.”
“Friends quarrel now and again, sir,” said the Sergeant.
“You’re beginning to make things up, Inspector.” I endeavoured to speak lightly.
“I wouldn’t be the first to do that in this case, sir, it seems to me. No offence meant, of course.”
“Well, I didn’t quarrel with him,” I said loudly.
“That’s all right then, sir. Only he said you did, see?”
“That’s why the Inspector asked,” explained the Sergeant.
“He said I did? He’s dead! Or was he alive when he was found?”
“No, sir, he was dead. Only he said it in his diary, sir. That’s why I asked.”
We three stood looking at each other. Overhead I heard one of the other lodgers tuning in the radio, and down below the voice of Ethel arguing with the cook. My mind went back to my schooldays. I could see Prosset sitting in his little study writing in his small red diary, and wondered quite irrelevantly whether the diary at Ockleton had also been red, and whether he always used red diaries.
“There were two entries, sir. One for the Friday before he died, which said, if I remember rightly, ‘K came to my place and stayed late. Funny little thing. Not as cold as she looks.’”
I moistened my lips again. I wanted my voice to sound normal, but in spite of all my efforts I could not keep a tremor out of it.
“There are thousands of people in London whose names begin with K.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, it may mean nothing at all.”
“No, sir. Only his entry for Saturday, the night before he died, was: ‘Had a frightful row with M. Was never more surprised. Case of worm turning at last.’”
I said the first, the only thing that came into my mind.
“I didn’t have a row. I never had a row. We had a political discussion, that’s all. It was really perfectly friendly. And that’s that, Inspector.”
He looked at me with a faint smile in his eyes.
“There’s no need to get angry, sir.”
“I wasn’t getting angry. You’re always
accusing me of getting angry or excited or something. I wasn’t getting angry.”
“Weren’t you, sir? All right then, I believe you.”
“Why do you try and make me lose my temper?”
“All right, all right, all right, sir. Nobody’s trying to do that. You weren’t getting angry, and that’s that. We believe him, don’t we, Sergeant?”
“I never had a row with him. He was my friend.”
“Very well, sir. After all, it’s only his word against yours, and he’s dead, isn’t he? Anyway, your relations with him were always friendly. You said so in your statement, sir. You wouldn’t put your name to a statement that wasn’t true, would you?”
“The Inspector just thought he’d mention it, that’s all,” said the Sergeant soothingly. “How many suits have you got, sir?”
“Suits?” The question startled me.
“Yes, suits. The things you wear, you know, sir.”
“Four,” I replied.
“Four?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason, sir.”
They nodded to me, and went out. When they had gone, I sat thinking and smoking. All my old uneasiness had now returned. It had increased, indeed, and was no longer even mere uneasiness. I was beginning to be afraid.
I now understood how he had learned about my stay at Ockleton, even about the idea I had had of cancelling the visit. It was no miracle of detective work or of slow, painstaking deduction; it was written down plainly for him to see in Prosset’s diary. I wondered uneasily what else was written in it.
CHAPTER 5
When they had gone, I began to think again of Prosset and school, and all that had happened since, and of the implications behind some of the Inspector’s words.
I remembered how strange and delightful it was to go about at school with the dull but amenable Crane, instead of the high-spirited and bossy Prosset. He never provoked me and we both seemed to find it easy to give way to the other without loss of dignity or ill-feeling. He was a tall, fair youth with small, pig-like eyes and lashes which were almost invisible, but he had a delightful character, and I was sorry that when we left school our paths separated.
