“That was all right,” Miss Lindfield explained. “It said in the catalogue—I bought the thing by post—that a police permit was needed before I could buy the gun. So I got one and sent it on with my order. Then it turned out that Frankie had to have one as well. I explained about that, and they made no difficulty. He’s just over fourteen. And I got him a gun licence as well.”
Inspector Westerham had no acute interest in these formal matters. His aim in asking the questions had been to set Miss Lindfield at her ease, if possible, before tackling the graver side of the affair.
“I understand,” he said. “Everything’s in order there.”
Miss Lindfield did not immediately take advantage of the pause. She crossed one knee over the other, mechanically smoothed down her skirt, and seemed to be pondering for a moment or two.
“I hardly know where to begin,” she admitted candidly, at last. “At lunch, I happened to ask Frankie—Frank Glencaple is the boy’s name—I happened to ask him if his ammunition was running out. I knew he’d been firing it away pretty fast; and it turned out that he was very near the end of his supply. I’d made up my mind to go for a walk this afternoon; and I suggested that he might meet me as I was coming back and go with me into Thunderbridge to buy some more. The ironmonger in the village stocks cartridges, but it occurred to me that he might make difficulties about selling them to a boy like Frankie, who looks younger than his age. If I were there, it would be all right.”
“A very sound precaution,” said the Inspector, approvingly. “Of course, the police permit safeguards the seller from dealing with boys actually under age; but still, it’s as well to have an adult as a sort of guarantee.”
Miss Lindfield nodded slightly and then continued her story.
“While we were at lunch I gathered—I can’t remember exactly how it came up—that Mrs. Castleford proposed to come here, to the Chalet, this afternoon and do some painting. It was probably mentioned in the general conversation. I paid no particular attention to it at the time, for she often comes here to paint. By the way, I don’t think I told you that she is my half-sister? That’s how I come to be at Carron Hill.”
“I see,” the Inspector interjected as she halted for a moment. “Do you mind telling me who else there is at Carron Hill?”
“Only Mr. Castleford and his daughter. Not a daughter of Mrs. Castleford—a stepdaughter.”
“What age is she?” inquired the Inspector.
“Hillie? Her name’s Hilary. She’s about twenty.”
“And Mrs. Castleford?”
“Thirty-five. Her husband’s eight or nine years older.”
“What’s Mr. Castleford’s profession?”
“None. Mrs. Castleford had money from her first husband—Mr. Donald Glencaple.”
“Thanks,” said the Inspector apologetically. “I’m supposed to collect facts like these. I’m sorry I had to interrupt you.”
Miss Lindfield seemed to have lost the thread of her narrative.
“Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember now. At lunch, I arranged with Frankie that I’d meet him in the spinney here, on my way back from my walk. I didn’t fix any particular time, because he could easily amuse himself with his rook-rifle until I turned up. I wish I’d never thought of that, and then this dreadful affair wouldn’t have happened.”
She turned her head and glanced away over the belt of wooded land which stretched out below them. Inspector Westerham, unwilling to embarrass her unnecessarily, looked down at her ankles, which the unofficial part of him found of interest. The official section, its scope of observation thus limited, took note of the fact that one shoe was tapping the ground mechanically. “Nerves still on the stretch,” was his inference.
He lifted his eyes again to find her looking at him with a slightly ashamed expression.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised in a dry voice. “I’ll go on now. You see that arm of the spinney that stretches down towards the road there, on the right? I arranged to meet Frankie there. It’s only a belt of trees about a hundred yards wide, so there didn’t seem to be much chance of missing him in it. I came into it from the far side and followed a path that runs up the middle, so I didn’t come in sight of the Chalet. Besides, I’d something else to think about. As I was coming through the wood, I heard the rook-rifle go off, and a bullet went clean through the cardigan I was carrying over my arm. It was the merest luck that I wasn’t hit by it.”
The Inspector made an inarticulate sound expressing sympathy.
“I was furious, of course,” Miss Lindfield went on, “and I called to the boy. Probably he saw that I’d lost my temper, for he kept under cover and I didn’t get hold of him. He’s not altogether obedient at times. As I knew I was sure to see him later on, I didn’t waste time over him then, but went straight on up the path to the back of the spinney—over yonder—where Mrs. Haddon’s cottage is. She’s a kind of caretaker for the Chalet—washes up tea things when necessary, and keeps the place tidy. She came out and told me a story about having her window smashed by a bullet from the rook-rifle; and I promised to confiscate it. I was angry with the boy for his carelessness, naturally.”
She paused for a moment.
“I wish I’d never given him that beastly gun!” she broke out, vehemently.
After another pause, she continued her narrative.
“As Mrs. Haddon and I were standing at her cottage, I heard one or two more shots fired; and close on the last one I heard another noise, something that sounded like a cry. You can understand, Mr. Westerham, that I was naturally keyed up then for anything about shots; and when I heard that sound . . .”
“You thought something was wrong?”
“Well, I was nervous after being so nearly hit myself. I remembered that Mrs. Castleford said she was going to the Chalet to paint; and the sound seemed to come from the direction of the Chalet. I was very uneasy. I asked Mrs. Haddon if Mrs. Castleford was at the Chalet. She didn’t know. I had a kind of feeling that something was far wrong—I can’t explain it. So I got her to come with me. We found Mrs. Castleford lying in the chair, there, quite dead. What happened immediately after that, I can’t tell you. I’m afraid I had a bad fit of hysterics. I simply couldn’t keep control of myself. But as soon as I got a grip on my nerves again, I sent Mrs. Haddon off at once to bring assistance.”
“You touched nothing, I hope?”
“No, I had enough sense left to see to that. The only thing I did was to cover her face. Oh, one thing more, Mrs. Haddon found the bullet lying on the verandah. I made her leave it exactly where it was. It looked to me very like the one she said had broken her cottage-window.”
Inspector Westerham, seeing that she had finished her tale, allowed a few moments to elapse before putting a question.
“Times are important, often. Could you give me any help there?”
Miss Lindfield shook her head.
“That’s difficult,” she confessed. “You see, I’m like most people; I don’t go about with my eye on my watch. The only definite time I’ve got is eighteen minutes past five; that was when Mrs. Haddon and I discovered Mrs. Castleford here. I had just enough coolness left to make a note of that before I broke down. But the rest’s guesswork; you can work it out as well as I can. I walk about three and a half miles per hour usually. I spent perhaps a couple of minutes trying to get hold of that boy in the wood. Mrs. Haddon and I talked for a short time at her cottage—I’d put it at three minutes or so but you’d better confirm that by asking her too. From that you can work out roughly when I entered the spinney from the road down there, if you take the distances into account. I can’t give you any other definite figure.”
Inspector Westerham had not hoped for even so much as this. He seemed to muse for a moment or two, then he asked another question.
“You did not actually see this boy in the wood?”
Miss Lindfield shook her head decidedly.
“No, as I told you, I didn’t trouble much about him then, for I knew I could
get hold of him later. I merely called, once or twice, and when he didn’t come, I let it go at that.”
“You saw nobody else in the wood?”
“No, nobody. There’s a lot of undergrowth in that spinney and one doesn’t see far in it.”
“May I look at your cardigan?”
“It’s over yonder on the rail of the verandah,” Miss Lindfield indicated. “Do you mind holding over your questions for a little while? I’m feeling rather sick. Nerves, I expect,” she added, with a feeble attempt to smile.
“You’ve kept up wonderfully so far,” said the Inspector encouragingly. “You’d best just sit here quietly now, and try not to dwell on the details too much. I’ll not trouble you just now. There are other things I can do.”
Leaving her, he stepped over to the verandah and lifted the cardigan from the rail. A swift, furtive examination of its pockets disclosed nothing but a pencil stub, a golf scoring-card, a matchbox and a tiny pocket handkerchief. He spread out the garment on the grass and examined it with care. Instead of a single bullet hole, he detected two minute punctures; and by bringing the two together while the cardigan was draped over his arm, he satisfied himself that the shot had traversed the jacket while the fabric was doubled in a natural fold. The shot-holes were ill-defined, owing to the nature of the material; but their size corresponded roughly to what he expected from a .22 bullet.
Miss Lindfield’s vanity bag had been wrapped in the cardigan, and he took the opportunity to make a surreptitious inspection of its contents. Except for a Yale key, he found only the ordinary appliances which every girl carries with her: lipstick, comb, powder-puff, purse, mirror, and a second flimsy handkerchief.
A gesture brought the sergeant to his side and together, after uncovering themselves, they stepped gingerly on to the verandah and began a detailed examination. Inspector Westerham was the first to discover the bullet. He noted mentally the lie of the bit of metal and then picked it up for closer inspection, marking its situation on the concrete with a piece of chalk which he took from his pocket.
“A .22 bullet right enough,” he commented as he showed it to the sergeant. “All lead, you see. Might have come from one of these bulleted breech caps they sell for saloon guns.”
He took a miniature envelope from his pocket, stowed the projectile in it, and returned it to his pocket.
The tea table next attracted his attention and he walked across to it, followed by the sergeant. Westerham ran his eye over the assembled articles and catalogued them in an undertone:
“Teapot on its stand under the cosy.” He lifted the cosy, opened the lid of the pot and peered inside. “Looks as if they’d had a cup apiece and then filled up the pot again with hot water. It’s a smooth electroplate teapot. Sure to be some finger marks on it, though there may be nothing in that. Electroplate spirit kettle on stand”—he lifted it slightly—“with most of the water gone, as I expected. Spirit lamp’s been turned out. Ordinary box of house-matches. Slop-basin unused. That means just one cup of tea apiece, they had. That electroplate does take fingerprints nicely. This cut glass biscuit-box would be no good for that kind of thing. Sugar basin’s electroplate too. Very wise, that. If they’d kept solid silver here, this Chalet would have been worth breaking into, especially as it’s lonely and unused, half the time. Cut lemon and fruit-knife on a plate.”
“What’s that for?” inquired the sergeant, who was a simple person.
“Russian tea. Try a slice of lemon in your cup instead of milk, if you want to know what it’s like. See the slices in these cups. Very wise, that.”
“Why?” asked the sergeant, who was rather out of his depth among these refinements.
“How would they get fresh cream up here, when they only use the place now and again? Probably they don’t like condensed milk. There’s no cream-jug, anyhow, as you can see.”
He turned with more interest to the teacups, tilting the lemon slices aside so that he could examine the interior of the cups.
“Some sugar left in this cup, opposite the chair. Not a sign of any in the other cup. I’d have expected some.”
His eye fell on a little phial lying beside the unsugared cup.
“This explains it. Saccharin. Diabetic people use it instead of sugar. I wonder if she was diabetic. The bottle’s empty, anyhow.”
From the expression on the sergeant’s face, it seemed as though he judged that life must be very complex for some people when even so simple a thing as a cup of tea could introduce him to two novelties simultaneously.
The Inspector was examining the remains of two cigarettes which had been left in the saucers. One was a mere stub, the other had gone out when only half-smoked.
“Both of them are the same brand: Craven A, Virginia, cork-tipped,” he reported for the sergeant’s benefit. “Let’s look into this and get done with it. Where’s Mrs. Castleford’s hand-bag? She must have had one with her.”
They drew blank in their search until the Inspector bethought himself that Mrs. Castleford might have slipped her bag down beside her on her chair. He drew it out warily, handling it with caution so as not to leave his own traces on it. Inside it was the cigarette-case he was seeking; and on opening it he found it stocked with cork-tipped Craven A’s.
“So they were both smoking her cigarettes. That doesn’t help much towards the identity of this visitor, whoever it was,” he admitted to himself. “What about the matches they used?”
Two used matches lay on the concrete beside the table; but they carried him no further, since they obviously came from the box on the tea table.
“One match used to light the spirit lamp and one to light the cigarettes,” the Inspector surmised. “Not worth bothering to look for more just now.”
He moved over to the easel and stood for a moment before the unfinished picture on it. Apparently it suggested nothing to him from the artistic point of view. He put out a fingertip and ascertained that while most of the paint was dry, a small portion was still moist.
“She didn’t do much work today, by the look of things interrupted by her visitor, perhaps.”
Then, as his eyes travelled down to the painting materials, he noted something which Mrs. Haddon had missed. One brush, loaded with paint, was splayed out against the concrete flooring as though someone had trodden it flat in passing.
Inspector Westerham was endowed with one gift which may be either a blessing or a curse, according to the way in which it is used. He had a well-balanced mind. When he had started his investigation, he had begun entirely without prepossessions of any sort. If he had been forced to put his views into words, he would probably have said: “Here’s a woman dead. It doesn’t matter a damn to me, personally, whether she died by accident, or was murdered, or committed suicide. My job’s to find out which it was and how it happened. I’d be a fool to get preconceived notions into my head until I’ve got data enough to go on. My case grows out of the data. Some people make up their minds first and then collect data to fit the case they’ve chosen. I can’t do things that way, somehow.” There was, in fact, a total lack of those flashes of intuition which played so large a part in P. C. Gumley’s methods of detection.
Even at this advanced stage of his investigation, Inspector Westerham had only reached the point of dismissing suicide from the problem; and he had done that on the prosaic grounds that he could find no weapon near the body and that suicides do not usually shoot themselves in the back. Beyond this, he retained a completely open mind.
He stared thoughtfully at the crushed paintbrush for a few moments; then, apparently dismissing it from his mind, he turned to examine the general lie of the objects on the verandah. One chair, slightly pushed back from the table, was plainly that which had been occupied by the unknown guest. Equally obviously, Mrs. Castleford had been sitting at the table when she smoked her cigarette after tea, since she had dropped the unfinished remains of it into her saucer. The table had been set up close to the Chalet wall. Now the chair with the body in it was statio
ned some ten feet from the table and midway between the house-wall and the verandah rail. At the table, its occupant would have been fairly screened against a high dropping shot from the wood; whereas in the new position the verandah roof offered hardly any protection. To get the chair into this final situation, it must have been pulled diagonally across the verandah for some ten feet. And in the end, it had obviously landed in a position which must have made conversation more difficult than before, if the guest remained at the table.
Somewhat perplexed by this curious state of things, Inspector Westerham went forward and examined the faint track left by the wooden feet of the chair as they grated on the concrete during the movement. Clearly enough, the chair had been dragged into its new position and not simply lifted up and transferred.
Apparently the Inspector was not satisfied. He went along to the far end of the verandah where a similar chair was standing, and with one hand on its back he pulled it across the concrete in imitation of the movement of the fatal chair. Then, going down on his knees, he examined the track left by his own operation. It was strikingly fainter than the other; but otherwise both were much alike—simply straight lines of uniform thickness.
Why had Mrs. Castleford’s chair left a plainer mark than the other? That seemed easy enough to answer. Probably she was sitting in it while she manoeuvred it into a fresh position, and her weight had made the scrape plainer. The empty chair would not bear so heavily on the concrete.
But this merely opened up a fresh problem to the Inspector, and he went back to examine the track left by Mrs. Castleford’s chair. When a person tries to move the chair in which he is sitting, he does it by a series of jerks, since he has to shift his feet between each effort. These jerks should produce a track which is uneven in intensity and which is made up of a series of short zigzags instead of a single straight line. But the track of Mrs. Castleford’s chair, as he assured himself, was a straight one of uniform intensity along its course.
The inference seemed plain enough. Mrs. Castleford was in the chair when it was moved—the intensity of the marks showed that. But the uniform and undeviating track proved that she herself had not been the agent in the movement. Therefore the chair must have been pulled or pushed into its new position by a second person, while Mrs. Castleford sat in it, callous to the uncomfortable grating which its movement was bound to cause.
The Castleford Conundrum Page 11
