The Castleford Conundrum

by J. J. Connington

  “And the profit’s yours, eh? Admirable arrangement,” Sir Clinton admitted absently. “And now, by the way, what do you make of this point? Mrs. Castleford must have been shot at close range, if the shot went clean through her and landed away yonder in the spinney. Besides, she was shot clean through the heart, which only an expert could have managed from a distance. The pistol wasn’t fired in actual contact with the skin, or the surgeon would have noticed the tearing due to the gas from the discharge. And both you and he observed that there was no singeing of the fine hairs about the wound. What do you make of all that?”

  “Well, sir, I look at it this way. The thing was faked so as to look like an accident—a long-distance shot with the rook-rifle. It was very well-thought-out; and the murderer took care to avoid firing too close up, lest the hairs get singed and give him away. Also, as you say, he avoided too close a shot for fear of tearing the skin.”

  “There was no sign of burning the fabric of her blouse or of any tattooing of the skin by the powder? Smokeless powder leaves peculiar marks at close range, you know.”

  “There was nothing of that sort, sir. The shot must have been fired a good distance away.”

  “What do you call ‘a good distance’?” Wendover demanded, suddenly. “Would you yourself guarantee to hit a person clean through the heart from three feet away? There’s the kick of the pistol to be taken into account at that range.”

  “It’s an interesting point,” Sir Clinton commented. “By the way, have you that bullet from the rook-rifle? I’d like to see it.”

  “I’ve got it here, sir. I thought you might want to look at it.”

  Sir Clinton examined it minutely for a moment or two, and then held it tip uppermost so that the others could inspect it.

  “I shouldn’t think this shot came down on the concrete here,” he suggested. “If it were a dropping shot, the bullet would have been flattened a bit on one side. Actually, as you see, the tip’s been flattened as if it had struck something, dead on.”

  “Besides,” Wendover pointed out, “the bullet would have been far more knocked out of shape if it had hit concrete. Barring the tip, it’s much as it was originally.”

  “Look at the tip,” Sir Clinton advised. “There seem to be some marks on it.”

  “There’s a faint pattern, sir, I can see,” the Inspector admitted. “Two sets of parallel lines crossing each other at right angles, it looks like.”

  Wendover held out his hand for the projectile and in his turn he examined the tiny indentations.

  “Sometimes the threads on a victim’s clothes leave their pattern on a soft lead bullet,” he pointed out.

  “Then the victim of this bullet must have been dressed in post-office mail-bags,” said the Inspector sulkily. “Look at the coarseness of the pattern, sir. And besides, this shot didn’t hit her at all, so how could it take the pattern of her dress?”

  “I think that finishes our work here,” Sir Clinton interposed before Wendover had time to retort. “Now what about this man Haddon? You have him waiting at his cottage, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I arranged that,” Westerham confirmed. “It’s only a few minutes’ walk through the plantation. I’ll show you the way.”

  “I only want to ask him a couple of questions,” Sir Clinton volunteered as he followed the Inspector. “And I don’t think I’ll trouble Mrs. Haddon. I got the impression that she’s extremely voluble and though that’s some times valuable in a witness, it’s always wearisome to a listener.”

  Haddon was lounging on the threshold of his cottage when they arrived; and he scanned the little procession with obvious disfavour as it trooped up to his door.

  “Well, what d’you want?” he demanded rudely.

  “Some information, and no insolence, Mr. Haddon,” Sir Clinton answered explicitly.

  Haddon evidently had not expected this opening. “Well, ask away and I’ll see what I can do for you,” he conceded ungraciously.

  “Let’s have things clear,” Sir Clinton suggested. “You’re in a bad position, Mr. Haddon, over these friendly little notes you’ve been sending round the countryside. You’re not out of the wood yet. But if you give me the information I want, it’ll do you no harm. It might even”—Sir Clinton took a note-case from his pocket and looked at it thoughtfully—“be slightly to your advantage.”

  Haddon’s eyes fastened greedily on the notes.

  “Well,” he promised with a grin, “if it’s a matter of ten bob or a quid into my pocket, I’ll try to give satisfaction.”

  “I shouldn’t expect a pound, if I were you,” Sir Clinton suggested. “It would merely lead to disappointment, pitching your hopes as high as that; and that would be a pity, wouldn’t it? Say five shillings and you might be surprised by ten. Or again you might not be surprised at all. It depends on what your news is worth. Now what I want is a complete list of the people you sent anonymous letters to, about Mrs. Castleford.”

  Haddon took off his cap and scratched his head thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Lemme see,” he began. “I wrote a couple to Castleford himself. The second one was a snorter,” he commented with a crude chuckle. “Then I wrote an amusin’ one to Connie—to Miss Lindfield, I mean. I knew she’d be interested on account of young Stevenage.”

  “You sent these to Carron Hill, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you think Miss Lindfield would be interested?”

  Haddon gave a coarse guffaw.

  “Because Stevenage was running the two of them in double harness, didn’t you know that?”

  “Who else did you favour with your notes?”

  “Lemme see. Dr. Glencaple got one. I thought he’d like to know how his brother’s shoes was being well filled. I’d ’ave sent one to his brother too, only I didn’t know his address.”

  “Dr. Glencaple’s letter went to his house, I suppose?”

  “It did. And that was all, so far’s I remember, except one to Castleford’s daughter . . .”

  Wendover’s toe was itching; and a glance at his face seemed to suggest a more prudent tone to Haddon. Sir Clinton merely put another question.

  “You sent nothing to either Stevenage or Mrs. Castleford, then?”

  “No,” Haddon explained. “That’d ’ave spoilt the fun, see?”

  “I see,” Sir Clinton acknowledged, gravely. “You left them in ignorance of the fact that anyone else knew about their doings.”

  “That’s it. No good being a spoil-sport, is there?”

  Sir Clinton abstained from criticising this sentiment.

  “And now,” he said, “if you’ll hand over some samples of your notepaper and envelopes to Inspector Westerham, here, I think that closes our business, Mr. Haddon.”

  Haddon made no objection. He seemed more than a little relieved to get off so lightly. In a moment or two he procured some of the yellowish paper and envelopes, which he handed over to the Inspector.

  Sir Clinton opened his note-case, leafed over the contents, extracted the dingiest ten-shilling note he could find, and passed it over to Haddon.

  “Rather dirty money, I’m afraid, Mr. Haddon. But you’re not the sort to object to that, I’m sure.”

  Haddon seized the note and stowed it away in his pocket. Then he seemed to catch the second meaning of the Chief Constable’s remark.

  “If people didn’t do things, there’d be nothing for me to write about,” he declared, impudently.

  “If you ever put pen to paper in that way again,” Sir Clinton said, incisively, “I’ll see you gaoled for the full two years. You can count on that. In the meantime, if you breathe a word on this affair, we’ll have to take up the case against you. So you’re warned.”

  Haddon shrugged his shoulders as though making light of the threat; but his pretence was a feeble one. The Chief Constable’s tone had carried conviction.

  As they walked through the wood towards the Chalet, Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector.

 
“I’ll take you down in the car, if you like, and drop you in Thunderbridge. After that, I’ve a call or two which I’ve got to make. Now there are just two or three things I want you to do for me. In the first place, I want you to clip a bit of the bloodstained cloth from Mrs. Castleford’s dress. You have it still, I suppose?”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll do that for you at once.”

  “And another bit from the bloodstain on Mr. Castleford’s coat.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Dr. Ripponden found some fibres in the wound, didn’t he? I’d like some samples of them—as much of the stuff as you can spare. You’ll not get them back, perhaps; but at any rate you’ll get a report on them. I’m going to submit them to an expert.”

  “Very good, sir,” the Inspector repeated.

  “Another point,” Sir Clinton pursued. “You examined the cups and saucers on the tea table for fingerprints. I don’t suppose you found much?”

  “No, sir. The cup Stevenage had been using had some blurred prints on the handle. I could see nothing at all on Mrs. Castleford’s cup.”

  “When you say ‘nothing at all,’ do you mean it literally, or do you mean you could make nothing of the marks that were there?”

  “I mean just what I said, sir. There were no marks of any sort that I could develop up. The marks on Stevenage’s cup were just marks—nothing distinct. I didn’t expect anything in either case, because you know how one picks up a teacup. You couldn’t expect anything but a smudge, if even that.”

  Sir Clinton seemed to think of something fresh.

  “Oh, by the way, I’d like to see the two rook-rifle bullets you got hold of—the one from the verandah and the one that broke Mrs. Haddon’s window.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll see you get them this afternoon. If you want them sooner, you’ve only to say so.”

  “This afternoon will do,” Sir Clinton said carelessly. “And now, just one more point. Can you show me exactly where the wound was, on Mrs. Castleford’s back? Mr. Wendover here will do as a demonstration-ground. Turn round, Squire, will you? Now, Inspector, just put your finger on the corresponding spot, please.”

  Westerham did so at a point near the spine and almost level with the lower tip of the left shoulder-blade.

  “There?” Sir Clinton verified. “It surprises me that the shot didn’t hit a rib, either in entering or in passing out. The exit couldn’t very well have been arranged; but the point of entry must have been carefully chosen to miss the bones, if that was intentional!”

  “Dr. Ripponden would tell you I’m not far out in my estimate, sir,” the Inspector affirmed. “He’s got the exact measurements, of course; but I’m near enough in my guess, for all practical purposes.”

  “It’s not very important, perhaps,” Sir Clinton admitted. “It seems suggestive of something, that’s all. And now I think we’ll get down to Thunderbridge.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Morphine

  When they had dropped Westerham in Thunderbridge, Wendover expected Sir Clinton to make for Carron Hill. He had difficulty in restraining himself during the interview with Haddon. He knew, of course, that in police work some dirty tools had to be used; but Haddon had made his gorge rise. The malice of the creature, coupled with that jovial assumption of jocosity, had made him regret that flogging was not a possible punishment in this case. His recollections of Hilary were vague but pleasant; and his face flushed as he thought of her reading one of Haddon’s literary masterpieces dealing with her father’s dishonour. The modern girl might be up-to-date and all that, he reflected impatiently, but a letter of that sort was trying her rather high.

  “Carron Hill, next?” he asked.

  “No, Squire, I’ve other fish to fry, first. Dr. Glencaple is the next on the list.”

  “But aren’t you going to get the Castlefords’ own story?”

  “In its proper place,” Sir Clinton said, curtly. “Don’t forget that I’m not here on the Castlefords’ behalf. I’ll see them when I know exactly what I want to ask them.”

  Sir Clinton had evidently notified the doctor of the intended visit, for they were shown at once into his consulting room. In a few minutes Dr. Glencaple came in, Wendover examined him with some interest. He noted the long lean face, the thin and rather bloodless lips, the faintly cynical expression, and the reserved manner. Laurence Glencaple, he decided, was not a very approachable person; and this impression was deepened by the fact that, after a laconic greeting, the doctor made no effort to open a conversation. “I didn’t ask you here. It’s for you to state your business—” That was the suggestion in his attitude.

  Sir Clinton, in an official tone, plunged straight into business.

  “I’ve come to inspect your register under the Dangerous Drugs Regulations,” he said.

  Laurence Glencaple nodded in acquiescence, crossed over to a tier of drawers, extracted a manuscript book and placed it on the table before Sir Clinton.

  The Chief Constable turned to the recent entries and conned them over for a moment or two before speaking.

  “This patient Heckworth seems to represent most of your doses,” he said, after a pause.

  “He’s a dope-fiend,” Laurence explained shortly. “The police put him under my charge to cure him, if possible. He gets a regular series of jags.”

  Sir Clinton turned back in the register and examined the entries.

  “Phew! He seems to have been taking a couple of grammes a day in the early stages. What’s the fatal dose for a normal person?”

  “What’s a square meal for an ordinary man?” retorted the doctor. “It varies from individual to individual. It might be as low as a tenth of a gramme. I’m more accustomed to think of it in grains. Anything from a grain-and-a-half up to five grains might kill.”

  Sir Clinton turned over the leaves of the register.

  “I see you put in a note when you open a fresh carton of tubes. Does that mean that at that point your previous box was completely exhausted?”

  “My previous box of that particular dosage,” Laurence pointed out. “For ordinary cases, I use one-sixth grain tablets. Heckworth needs heavier doses, as you see, so in his case I use half-grain tablets from another carton.”

  Sir Clinton took out a notebook and went through the register’s later pages more carefully, jotting down figures as he went along. Finally he added up a couple of columns and wrote down the totals.

  “I’d like to see your stock of morphine tablets,” he said, when he had finished his examination.

  Laurence Glencaple seemed to be taken aback by this suggestion. For a moment he seemed inclined to object. Then, taking out his keys, he unlocked a drawer in his desk and extracted two small brown cardboard boxes which he handed over to the Chief Constable.

  “These are the cartons in use at present,” he explained.

  Sir Clinton examined the label on one of them.

  “‘This unopened package contains one dozen tubes of twenty. Morphine hydrocholoride. No. 66. One-sixth grain, 0.011 gramme,’” he read. “And the other packet’s the same, except for the difference in dose.”

  He pushed open the slides, removed the glass tubes from their compartments, and proceeded to count the tablets of each type which remained unused. Laurence Glencaple watched him with an expression which Wendover thought was anxious. When Sir Clinton had finished, he looked up at the doctor with a grave look on his features.

  “Your entries are quite correct?”

  “Quite correct,” Laurence Glencaple asserted, with a touch of annoyance in his tone.

  “Then there’s something which needs explanation,” Sir Clinton said, with a marked return to his official tone. “Your entries don’t tally with your stock of the drug. You’re four tablets short—four half-grain tablets. The others are quite in order.”

  “You must have made a slip,” Laurence Glencaple asserted.

  “I don’t make slips in a simple matter like this,” Sit Clinton said coldly. “Check it yours
elf. It might be well that you should.”

  The doctor pulled the register across the table towards him and began to go through the entries. Wendover, watching him closely, could see that he was seriously perturbed. Quite obviously he had not expected to have his affairs investigated so thoroughly as this; and the detection of a discrepancy between his stock and his records had given him an uncomfortable jar.

  “I can’t account for it at the moment,” he admitted at last, with an assumption of carelessness. “Perhaps I may have forgotten to enter up one of the doses I gave Heckford.”

  Sir Clinton shook his head decidedly.

  “That won’t fit the facts. I see you’ve been giving Heckford six-grain doses, according to your register. That’s twelve half-grain tablets, not four. And all your other entries are in multiples of one-sixth-grain units obviously drawn from your second carton. No, it won’t do.”

  Wendover noticed that Dr. Glencaple had lost a good deal of his initial assurance.

  “Well, frankly, I can’t account for it,” he confessed, rather diffidently. “I’m quite sure I entered up all that I used in Heckford’s case, because obviously I had to keep the run of my treatment of him. It’s very strange.”

  He picked up the register and re-checked the entries, as though hoping to find some way out of his difficulty.

  “Unless somebody’s been getting at my supply . . .” he suggested at length in a tentative tone.

  “Is it likely?” Sir Clinton demanded, incredulously. “That’s a Yale lock on your drawer, isn’t it? Do you leave your keys about?”

  “No, my latch-key’s on the same ring.”

  “H’m! Then how do you suggest the theft could have been made?”

  Dr. Glencaple pondered for some moments before answering.

  “Unless it was taken from my bag, I can’t see how it could have happened,” he said slowly. “I see Heckford every day, before dinner. He’s the last patient I call on, unless I’m sent for specially.”

  Again he seemed to be considering. He took an engagement diary from his pocket and consulted it. Then for a few moments he seemed to be making up his mind on some point. Finally he handed the diary to Sir Clinton.