“You mean that the suggestion is that the person was not Crofton; and I think you are right. Crofton doesn’t carry matches in his pocket. He uses wax vestas and carries them in a silver case.”
“It might possibly have been Ambrose,” Thorndyke suggested.
“I don’t think so,” said I. “Ambrose uses a petrol lighter.”
Thorndyke nodded. “There may be nothing in it,” said he, “but it offers a suggestion. Shall we look over the rest of the premises?”
He paused for a moment to glance at a small key board on the wall on which one or two keys were hanging, each distinguished by a little ivory label and by the name written underneath the peg; then he opened a door in the corner of the room. As this led into the kitchen, I closed it and opened an adjoining one which gave access to a bedroom.
“This is probably the extra bedroom,” he remarked as we entered. “The blinds have not been drawn down, and there is a general air of trimness that suggests the tidy up of an unoccupied room. And the bed looks if it had been out of use.”
After an attentive look round, he returned to the living room and crossed to the remaining door. As he opened it, we looked into a nearly dark room, both the windows being covered by thick serge curtains.
“Well,” he observed, when he had drawn back the curtains and raised the blinds, “there is nothing painfully tidy here. That is a very roughly-made bed, and the blanket is outside the counterpane.”
He looked critically about the room and especially the bedside table.
“Here are some more discrepancies,” said he. “There are two candlesticks, in one of which the candle has burned itself right out, leaving a fragment of wick. There are five burnt matches in it, two large ones from the box by its side and three small ones, of which two are mere stumps. The second candle is very much guttered, and I think “—he lifted it out of the socket—” yes, it has been used out of the candlestick. You see that the grease has run down right to the bottom and there is a distinct impression of a thumb—apparently a left thumb—made while the grease was warm. Then you notice the mark on the table of a tumbler which had contained some liquid that was not water, but there is no tumbler. However, it may be an old mark, though it looks fresh.”
It is hardly like Crofton to leave an old mark on the table,” said I. “He is a regular old maid. We had better see if the tumbler is in the kitchen.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke. “But I wonder what he was doing with that candle. Apparently he took it out-of-doors, as there is a spot on the floor of the living-room; and you see that there are one or two spots on the floor here.” He walked over to a chest of drawers near the door and was looking into a drawer which he had pulled out, and which I could see was full of clothes, when I observed a faint smile spreading over his face. “Come round here, Jardine,” he said in a low voice, “and take a peep through the crack of the door.”
I walked round, and, applying my eye to the crack, looked across the living-room at the end window. Above the half-curtain I could distinguish the unmistakable top of a constabulary helmet.
“Listen,” said Thorndyke. “They are in force.”
As he spoke, there came from the neighbourhood of the kitchen a furtive scraping sound, suggestive of a pocket knife persuading a window-catch. It was followed by the sound of an opening window and then of a stealthy entry. Finally, the kitchen door opened softly, some one tiptoed across the living-room and a burly police-sergeant appeared, framed in the bedroom doorway.
“Good afternoon, sergeant,” said Thorndyke, with a genial smile.
“Yes, that’s all very well,” was the response, “but the question is, who might you be, and what might you be doing in this house?”
Thorndyke briefly explained our business, and, when, we had presented our cards and Mrs. Crofton’s written authority, the sergeant’s professional stiffness vanished like magic.
“It’s all right, Tomkins,” he sang out to an invisible myrmidon. “You had better shut the window and go out by the front door. You must excuse me, gentlemen,” he added; “but the tenant of the next bungalow cycled down and gave us the tip. He watched you through his glasses and saw you pick the front-door lock. It did look a bit queer, you must admit.”
Thorndyke admitted it freely with a faint chuckle, and we walked across the living-room to the kitchen. Here, the sergeant’s presence seemed to inhibit comments, but I noticed that my colleague cast a significant glance at a frying-pan that rested on a Primus stove. The congealed fat in it presented another “discrepancy,” for I could hardly imagine the fastidious Crofton going away and leaving it in that condition.
Noting that there was no unwashed tumbler in evidence, I followed my friend back to the living-room, where he paused with his eye on the key-board.
“Well,” remarked the sergeant, “if he ever did come back here, it’s pretty clear that he isn’t here now. You’ve been all over the premises, I think?”
“All excepting the bathing-hut,” replied Thorndyke; and, as he spoke, he lifted the key so labelled from its hook.
The sergeant laughed softly. “He’s not very likely to have taken up quarters there,” said he. “Still, there nothing like being thorough. But you notice that the key of the front door and that of the gate have both been taken away, so we can assume that he has taken himself away too.”
“That is a reasonable inference,” Thorndyke admitted; “but we may as well make our survey complete.”
With this he led the way out into the garden and to the gate, where he unblushingly produced the ‘smoker’s companion’ and insinuated its prongs into the keyhole.
“Well, I’m sure!” exclaimed the sergeant as the lock clicked and the gate opened. “That’s a funny sort of tool; and you seem quite handy with it, too. Might I have a look at it?”
He looked at it so very long and attentively, when Thorndyke handed it to him, that I suspected him of an intention to infringe the patent. By the time he had finished his inspection we were at the bottom of the bank below the sea-wall and Thorndyke had inserted the key into the lock of the bathing-hut. As the sergeant returned the ‘companion’ Thorndyke took it and pocketed it then he turned the key and pushed the door open; and the officer started back with a shout of amazement.
It was certainly a grim spectacle that we looked in on. The hut was a small building about six feet square, devoid of any furniture or fittings, excepting one or two pegs high up the wall. The single, unglazed window was closely shuttered, and on the bare floor in the farther corner a man was sitting, leaning back into the corner, with his head dropped forward on his breast. The man was undoubtedly Arthur Crofton. That much I could say with certainty, notwithstanding the horrible changes wrought by death and the lapse of time. “But,” I added when I had identified the body, “I should have said that he had been dead more than a fortnight. He must have come straight back from Margate and done this. And that will probably be the missing tumbler,” I concluded, pointing to one that stood on the floor close to the right hand of the corpse.
“No doubt,” replied Thorndyke, somewhat abstractedly. He had been looking critically about the interior of the hut, and now remarked: “I wonder why he did not shoot the bolt instead of locking himself in; and what has become of the key? He must have taken it out of the lock and put it in his pocket.”
He looked interrogatively at the sergeant, who having no option but to take the hint, advanced with an expression of horrified disgust and proceeded very gingerly to explore the dead man’s clothing.
“Ah!” he exclaimed at length, “here we are.” He drew from the waistcoat pocket a key with a small ivory label attached to it. “Yes, this is the one. You see, it is marked “Bathing-hut.”
He handed it to Thorndyke, who looked at it attentively, and even with an appearance of surprise, and then, producing an indelible pencil from his pocket, wrote on the label, “Found on body.”
The first thing,” said he, “is to ascertain it fits the lock.”
/> “Why, it must,” said the sergeant, “if he locked himself in with it.”
“Undoubtedly,” Thorndyke agreed, “but that is the point. It doesn’t look quite similar to the other one.”
He drew out the key which we had brought from the house and gave it to me to hold. Then he tried the key from the dead man’s pocket; but it not only did not fit, it would not even enter the keyhole.
The sceptical indifference faded suddenly from the sergeant’s face. He took the key from Thorndyke, having tried it with the same result, stood up and stared, round-eyed, at my colleague.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “This is a facer! It’s the wrong key!”
“There may be another key on the body,” said Thorndyke. “It isn’t likely, but, you had better make sure.”
The sergeant showed no reluctance this time. He searched the dead man’s pockets thoroughly and produced a bunch of keys. But they were all quite small keys, none of them in the least resembling that of the hut door. Nor, I noticed, did they include those of the bungalow door or the garden gate. Once more the officer drew himself up and stared at Thorndyke.
“There’s something rather fishy about this affair,” said he.
“There is,” Thorndyke agreed. “The door was certainly locked; and as it was not locked from within, it must have been locked from without. Then that key—the wrong key—was presumably placed in the dead man’s pocket by some other person. And there are some other suspicious facts. A tumbler has disappeared from the bedside table, and there is a tumbler here. You notice one or two spots of candle-grease on the floor here, and it looks as if a candle had been stood in that corner near the door. There is no candle here now; but in the bedroom there is a candle which has been carried without a candle stick and which, by the way, bears an excellent impression of a thumb. The first thing to do will be to take the deceased’s fingerprints. Would you mind fetching my case from the bedroom, Jardine?”
I ran back to the house (not unobserved by the gentleman in the next bungalow) and, catching up the case, carried it down to the hut. When I arrived there I found Thorndyke holding the tumbler delicately in his gloved left hand while he examined it against the light with the aid of his lens. He handed the latter to me and observed.
“If you look at this carefully, Jardine, you will see a very interesting thing. There are the prints of two different thumbs—both left hands, and therefore of different persons. You will remember that the tumbler stood by the right hand of the body and that the table, which bore the mark of a tumbler, was at the left-hand side of the bed.”
When I had examined the thumb-prints he placed the tumbler carefully on the floor and opened his “research-case,” which was fitted as a sort of portable laboratory. From this he took a little brass box containing an ink-tube, a tiny roller and some small cards, and, using the box-lid as an inking plate, he proceeded methodically to take the dead man’s fingerprints, writing the particulars on each card.
“I don’t quite see what you want with Crofton’s fingerprints,” said I. “The other man’s would be more to the point.”
“Undoubtedly,” Thorndyke replied. “But we have to prove that they are another man’s—that they are not Crofton’s. And there is that print on the candle. That is a very important point to settle; and as we have finished here, we had better go and settle it at once.”
He closed his case, and, taking up the tumbler with his gloved hand, led the way back to the house, the sergeant following when he had locked the door. We proceeded directly to the bedroom, where Thorndyke took the candle from its socket and, with the aid of his lens, compared it carefully with the two thumb-prints on the card, and then with the tumbler.
“It is perfectly clear,” said he. “This is a mark of a left thumb. It is totally unlike Crofton’s and it appears to be identical with the strange thumb-print on the tumbler. From which it seems to follow that the stranger took the candle from this room to the hut and brought it back. But he probably blew it out before leaving the house and lit it again in the hut.”
The sergeant and I examined the cards, the candle and the tumbler, and then the former asked: “I suppose you have no idea whose thumb-print that might be? You don’t know, for instance, of anyone who might have had any motive for making away with Mr. Crofton?
“That,” replied Thorndyke, “is rather a question for the coroner’s jury.”
“So it is,” the sergeant agreed. “But there won’t be much question about their verdict. It is a pretty clear case of wilful murder.”
To this Thorndyke made no reply excepting to give some directions as to the safe-keeping of the candle and tumbler; and our proposed “gipsy holiday” being now evidently impossible, we took our leave of the sergeant—who already had our cards—and wended back to the station.
“I suppose,” said I, “we shall have to break the news to Mrs. Crofton.”
That is hardly our business,” he replied. “We can leave that to the solicitor or to Ambrose. If you know the lawyer’s address, you might send him a telegram, arranging a meeting at eight o’clock tonight. Give no particulars. Just say “Crofton found,” but mark the telegram “urgent” so that he will keep the appointment.”
On reaching the station, I sent off the telegram, and very soon afterwards the London train was signalled. It turned out to be a slow train, which gave us ample time to discuss the case and me ample time for reflection. And, in fact, I reflected a good deal; for there was a rather uncomfortable question in my mind—the very question that the sergeant had raised and that Thorndyke had obviously evaded. Was there anyone who might have had a motive for making away with Crofton? It was an awkward question when one remembered the great legacy that had just fallen in and the terms of Miss Shuler’s will; which expressly provided that, if Crofton died before his wife, the legacy should go to her. Now, Ambrose was the wife’s brother; and Ambrose had been in the bungalow alone with Crofton, and nobody else was known to have been there at all. I meditated on these facts uncomfortably and would have liked to put the case to Thorndyke; but his reticence, his evasion of the sergeant’s question and his decision to communicate with the solicitor rather than with the family showed pretty clearly what was in his mind and that he did not wish to discuss the matter.
Promptly at eight o’clock, having dined at a restaurant, we presented ourselves at the solicitor’s house and were shown into the study, where we found Mr. Jobson seated at a writing-table. He looked at Thorndyke with some surprise, and when the introductions had been made, said somewhat dryly: “We may take it that Dr. Thorndyke is in some way connected with our rather confidential business?”
“Certainly,” I replied. “That is why he is here.”
Jobson nodded. “And how is Crofton?” he asked, “and where did you dig him up?”
“I am sorry to say,” I replied, “that he is dead. It is a dreadful affair. We found his body locked in the bathing-hut. He was sitting in a corner with a tumbler on the floor by his side.”
“Horrible! Horrible!” exclaimed the solicitor. “He ought never to have gone there alone. I said so at the time. And it is most unfortunate on account of the insurance, though that is not a large amount. Still the suicide clause, you know—”
“I doubt whether the insurance will be affected,” said Thorndyke. “The coroner’s finding will almost certainly be wilful murder.”
Jobson was thunderstruck. In a moment his face grew livid and he gazed at Thorndyke with an expression of horrified amazement.
“Murder!” he repeated incredulously. “But you said he was locked in the hut. Surely that is clear proof of suicide.”
“He hadn’t locked himself in, you know. There was no key inside.”
“Ah!” The solicitor spoke almost in a tone relief. “But, perhaps—did you examine his pockets?”
“Yes; and we found a key labelled ‘Bathing hut.’ But it was the wrong key. It wouldn’t go into the lock. There is no doubt whatever that the door was locked from the outside.�
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“Good God!” exclaimed Jobson, in a faint voice. “It does look suspicious. But still, I can’t believe—It seems quite incredible.”
“That may be,” said Thorndyke, “but it is all perfectly clear. There is evidence that a stranger entered the bungalow at night and that the affair took place in the bedroom. From thence the stranger carried the body down to the hut and he also took a tumbler and a candle from the bedside table. By the light of the candle—which was stood on the floor of the hut in a corner—he arranged the body, having put into its pocket a key from the board in the living-room. Then he locked the hut, went back to the house, put the key on its peg and the candle in its candlestick. Then he locked up the house and the garden gate and took the keys away with him.”
The solicitor listened to this recital in speechless amazement. At length he asked: “How long ago do you suppose this happened?”
“Apparently on the night of the fifteenth of this month,” was the reply.
“But,” objected Jobson, “he wrote home on the sixteenth.”
“He wrote,” said Thorndyke,” on the sixth. Somebody put a one in front of the six and posted the letter at Margate on the sixteenth. I shall give evidence to that effect at the inquest.”
I was becoming somewhat mystified. Thorndyke’s dry, stern manner—so different from his usual suavity—and the solicitor’s uncalled-for agitation, seemed to hint at something more than met the eye. I watched Jobson as he lit a cigarette—with a small Bryant and May match, which he threw on the floor—and listened expectantly for his next question. At length he asked: “Was there any sort of—er—clue as to who this stranger might be?”
“The man who will be charged with the murder? Oh, yes. The police have the means of identifying him with absolute certainty.”
“That is, if they can find him,” said Jobson.
“Naturally. But when all the very remarkable facts have transpired at the inquest, that individual will probably come pretty clearly into view.”
The Second R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 120
