The Castleford Conundrum

by J. J. Connington

  You know the Scots verdict “Not Proven”? It generally means that the jury are morally sure that the accused committed the crime, but that legally the prosecution has not established its case up to the hilt. That seems to be the present position in this Carron Hill affair. You ought to be able to put your finger on the criminal; but it may be hard to prove the thing to the last dot. One jury might be satisfied; another one might not care to say: “Guilty.” But both of them would be “morally certain” of the accused’s guilt.

  I hope to add just one further bit of evidence from the Library books, which will clinch the business; and if you care to go down with me to Thunderbridge in a day or two—I’ll ring you up before then—you may see the finale.

  Yours

  C. D.

  Wendover, neglecting his breakfast, pondered for a time over these fresh data. No. 1 suggested less to him than to Sir Clinton, evidently. No. 2 recalled the fact that there were pines in the spinney about the Chalet. Nos. 3, 4, 5, and 6 were easy enough to interpret. So was 7. No. 8 evidently referred to the hot spell which Sit Clinton had found in the weather records; and a little thought enabled Wendover to catch Sir Clinton’s meaning. As to No. 9, Wendover was at first rather puzzled by the somewhat intricate situation, the more so as he had heard nothing of any insurance question in connection with Mrs. Castleford. Then light dawned on him and he began to see the case from a different standpoint. As Sir Clinton said, it was a moral certainty, but that was a very different thing from legal proof.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Case Against Castleford

  Wendover, not altogether at his ease, glanced round the drawing room at Carron Hill. He could not forget that in the hall outside were the Inspector, Sergeant Ferryhill, and P. C. Gumley, whom Sir Clinton had brought in his car. These people in the room must know perfectly well that the Chief Constable had not fetched his subordinates merely as a bodyguard. It was the number that disquieted Wendover. Surely the Inspector alone would have sufficed to arrest a criminal.

  He glanced furtively round the group before him. Castleford, evidently acutely nervous, was in a Chippendale armchair, his hands gripping the arm-rests and his feet crossed and tucked under the seat, as though he were unconsciously trying to contract himself into the smallest possible volume. His face was strained and anxious, and he kept his eyes riveted on Sir Clinton almost as though he expected a physical menace from that quarter. Hilary Castleford, very white, seemed to concentrate her whole attention on her father. From time to time she bit her under-lip to conquer a betraying quiver at the corners of her mouth; and once or twice she made a faint sound as though clearing her throat. Across the room, Miss Lindfield sat in her favourite attitude, chin on hand, staring sombrely before her. Beyond, Dr. Glencaple, apparently the least concerned of all, leaned back in his chair and examined Castleford with a kind of aloof curiosity faintly mingled with contempt.

  “You may wonder why I have adopted this procedure,” Sir Clinton began in businesslike tones. “I admit it is quite unusual. But not so long ago, public feelings were roused—rightly or wrongly—by some rumours about the manner in which people were questioned in private by officials. Suggestions were made that there was no unbiased person present to check the police reports of the interview. There may be very sound reasons, in this case, for forestalling any talk of that sort. I have asked Mr. Wendover, who is a Justice of the Peace, to be present as an unprejudiced witness; and to make matters still more open, I propose to put my questions in the presence of you ladies and gentlemen, so that there can be no allegations of a hole-and-corner affair in this case. I am going to call Inspector Westerham, who will take down in shorthand anything that we say.”

  Wendover, knowing the Chief Constable’s peculiarities, might have regarded this statement as a piece of bluff, had it not been for a certain ring in Sir Clinton’s tone which showed that he was in earnest. “Sound reasons in this case”? That slightly emphasised phrase set Wendover’s mind to work.

  “I wish to clear up certain points, one by one,” Sir Clinton explained, when the Inspector had come in and seated himself at the escritoire. “In the first place, Dr. Glencaple, you believed at the moment of Mrs. Castleford’s death that she had signed a will under which you, your brother, and Miss Lindfield stood to profit considerably?”

  “That is so,” Dr. Glencaple admitted, equably.

  “On the other hand, Mr. Castleford knew that the will had not been signed, and that Mrs. Castleford, technically, was intestate at that moment?”

  “Yes, I knew that,” Castleford admitted in a breathless voice.

  “And Miss Castleford also knew it?”

  Hilary, at the sound of her name, gave a perceptible start.

  “Yes,” she admitted, recovering herself. “My father told me about it.”

  “Did he tell you what the exact state of affairs was: that if Mrs. Castleford died before making a new will, he would profit considerably, whereas under the new will he was to be worse off than before?”

  Hilary threw a glance at her father, but he seemed too nervous to notice it.

  “We talked over the whole affair,” she confessed at last, in a reluctant tone.

  “I believe, Miss Lindfield,” Sir Clinton went on, “that you had first-hand information that Mrs. Castleford had not signed the new will?”

  Miss Lindfield lifted her chin from her hand and nodded.

  “Yes, she told me. Very stupidly, I urged her to take her time and consider carefully before she signed anything.”

  “With the result that you have lost the legacy which Mrs. Castleford intended that you should get?”

  “Exactly,” Miss Lindfield admitted, with some bitterness in her tone. “If I had let things take their course, I’d be in a different position.”

  “I’m going to put things bluntly,” Sir Clinton said. “It comes to this. Dr. Glencaple had an apparent interest in Mrs. Castleford’s death at any time in the future; Mr. Castleford had a real interest in Mrs. Castleford’s dying before she had time to sign the new will; while Miss Lindfield had an interest in her half-sister’s living until she signed the new will. That is what appears on the surface of the evidence.”

  Castleford made a slight sound like a suppressed hiccough, which still further alienated Wendover. The sight of a man in such a state of prostration was anything but pleasant.

  “Take the next question,” Sir Clinton pursued, paying no attention to Castleford. “Who knew that Mrs. Castleford would be at the Chalet that afternoon? Mr. Castleford certainly did, for he had arranged to walk part of the way with her. Miss Lindfield did, for she heard Mrs. Castleford speak about it at lunch that day. Miss Castleford, did you hear it referred to?”

  “I don’t remember hearing about it then,” Hilary said, in a tone which convicted her of obvious fencing.

  “But your father mentioned it to you? I thought so.” Sir Clinton made no comment on this obvious disingenuousness.

  “There was another person who certainly knew: Mr. Stevenage, who had arranged to meet Mrs. Castleford at the Chalet. There is also the possibility that the information was telephoned from here to an interested party outside the house.”

  “If you mean me,” Dr. Glencaple protested politely, “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew nothing about it.”

  “I’m merely taking possibilities into account,” Sir Clinton assured him suavely. “I don’t think your name was mentioned.”

  “Now we come to a fresh matter,” he went on. “At lunch that day, Miss Lindfield arranged with Frank Glencaple to meet in the spinney beside the Chalet. That arrangement was overheard by Miss Castleford and possibly by you also, Mr. Castleford?”

  “I don’t remember,” Castleford asserted, with a catch in his voice.

  Sir Clinton did not follow the matter up.

  “No definite time was fixed for that meeting. Frank Glencaple, I believe, was not a very obedient child. If he were kept waiting, he might get tired or bored, and
leave his post.”

  “That’s true,” Laurence Glencaple confirmed. “Everyone would agree with that.”

  “The reports of the boy’s rook-rifle obviously helped to cover the actual shot fired by the murderer,” Sir Clinton suggested. “A single explosion would have attracted attention; but after the rook-rifle had been fired again and again in the spinney, no one would pay much attention to one shot more or less. As a matter of fact, what attracted Miss Lindfield’s attention was a cry which she heard at the time the fatal shot was discharged.”

  Constance Lindfield gave a nod of corroboration, which Sir Clinton acknowledged.

  “I thought so. And I take it that the boy’s presence in the spinney that afternoon was known to Miss Lindfield, Miss Castleford, and possibly Mr. Castleford. Do you definitely deny that you knew he was to be there, Mr. Castleford?” he demanded sharply.

  “No, I don’t,” Castleford said weakly. “I don’t remember. I don’t really remember.”

  “Obviously the boy’s shooting in the spinney suggested something further to the murderer,” Sir Clinton continued. “It made it possible to simulate an accident with the rook-rifle. That, in its turn, made it essential that Mrs. Castleford should be killed with a single shot—apparently a stray shot from the spinney. But that demanded that Mrs. Castleford should be sitting in a certain place. At the tea-table, she would have been sheltered from a dropping shot by the verandah roof. Her chair had to be dragged along the verandah into a better position. And, as Inspector Westerham found, she was actually occupying the chair while it was being shifted into its fresh position.”

  “How do you make that out?” Dr. Glencaple demanded.

  “Inspector Westerham compared the scrape made by an empty chair with that made by Mrs. Castleford’s chair, which was much more clearly marked on the concrete flooring,” Sir Clinton explained. “One possible inference from that is that Mrs. Castleford may have been unconscious while her chair was shifted. And that brings me to the morphine question.”

  Dr. Glencaple glanced up at this, but made no remark.

  “I haven’t the slightest doubt that the dose of morphine administered to Mrs. Castleford came from Dr. Glencaple’s supply. He was four tablets short when I inspected his books. Five people had a chance of access to that morphine when it was in Dr. Glencaple’s bag which he brought here the night he was invited to dinner: the boy Frank, Miss Lindfield, Miss Castleford, Dr. Glencaple himself, and possibly Mr. Castleford.”

  “I never touched it. I never knew it was there, even,” Castleford protested feebly.

  “I think I’m correct in saying that your brother had no chance of taking it on that occasion,” Sir Clinton said to the doctor, ignoring Castleford.

  “Quite correct,” Dr. Glencaple agreed. “My brother was never alone from the moment he entered the house until he left it with me.”

  “I didn’t steal anything from Dr. Glencaple’s bag,” Hilary broke in heatedly. “I didn’t even know that he had morphine with him that night.”

  Miss Lindfield threw a faintly cynical glance towards the Castlefords. Evidently she thought it unnecessary to add her own disclaimer to the chorus.

  Sir Clinton seemed to attach little importance to the point.

  “All I need say,” he continued, “is that somebody came into possession of four morphine tables—say two grains of morphine hydrochloride. That’s more than a fatal dose in some cases. In any case, it’s enough to stupefy a person in ten minutes or so—in less than that if it’s injected hypodermically. Now in the case of Mrs. Castleford, the major part of the morphine was found in her stomach, which points to oral administration. Morphine has a very bitter taste and the normal person would spot its presence in a drink as soon as the first sip was taken. But I understand that Mrs. Castleford had a habit of leaving her tea to go tepid and then swallowing the contents of her cup at one gulp—and in that case she might have swallowed the whole dose before she detected the full bitterness of the drug.”

  “That’s quite correct,” Dr. Glencaple confirmed. “She might easily have gulped down the lot, from what I’ve seen of her way of drinking.”

  “You have some saccharin tablets here, perhaps, Miss Lindfield?” Sir Clinton inquired. “I’d like to see them.”

  Miss Lindfield rose and from a drawer produced an unopened packet of saccharin which she handed to the Chief Constable. He extracted three tablets and laid them on a table beside him.

  “And now, doctor, would you mind putting down three of the morphine tablets I asked you to bring?”

  Dr. Glencaple did so, and Wendover examined the two sets. The morphine tablets were not exactly the same size as the saccharin ones; but the difference was so slight that either set might have been mistaken for the other unless they were placed side by side.

  “Mr. Stevenage took three tablets from Mrs. Castleford’s saccharin phial—the last three tablets in it—and dropped them into her tea-cup. That, I think, was the way in which the morphine was administered. There seems to be no alternative hypothesis. He did not observe any peculiar symptoms in Mrs. Castleford, for the simple reason that Mrs. Castleford did not drink her tea immediately, but left it to grow cold, according to her usual habit. But, curiously enough, when the residue in Mrs. Castleford’s cup was examined, no morphine was found in it; and the analyst found traces of saccharin.”

  “You mean that the cup was washed after she had drunk from it, and that some saccharin was added to a few drops of fresh tea?” Dr. Glencaple asked.

  “If you can suggest anything else that covers the ground?” Sir Clinton said encouragingly.

  Dr. Glencaple shook his head.

  “Then the murderer must have had access to saccharin,” he pointed out.

  “Anyone has access to saccharin at the nearest druggist’s,” Sir Clinton retorted. “As a clue, it’s valueless.”

  He glanced at the tablets on the table.

  “That suggestion of mine would account for three morphine tablets,” he went on. “As four are missing, we have one to account for. That one was used in the hypodermic syringe which Mr. Castleford had for injecting his wife with insulin. It might be suggested that the syringe was filled in order to give a hypodermic injection of more morphine after Mrs. Castleford had been stupefied by the dose she swallowed in her tea.”

  “I never had any morphine. I never put it into the syringe. I deny that,” Castleford ejaculated convulsively.

  “I said it might be suggested,” Sir Clinton pointed out, coldly. “I didn’t accuse anyone in particular. And, if I may say so,” he added in a stern voice, “I hope that you will be as ready to give information later on, when I have to put some direct questions.”

  Castleford shrank back in his chair at this. Evidently he saw a net closing round him. “That little beggar will be sick in a minute or two,” Wendover commented to himself after a glance at Castleford’s face. “He’s just in the state for it.” A feeling of disgust for his former protégé came over him. A dreadful exhibition for a man to make in front of his own daughter.

  “That brings us up to the actual murder,” Sir Clinton continued in a matter-of-fact tone, as though murder was an event like any other. Wendover could guess that it had been purposely assumed.

  “The murderer’s object was to suggest accidental shooting. Hence the shifting of Mrs. Castleford’s chair after she had been drugged. But accidental shooting implies death by a single shot. Therefore the murderer had to be certain of killing with the first bullet. The obvious thing would be to shoot the victim in the head. And yet Mrs. Castleford was shot through the heart.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Miss Lindfield said aloud, and then grew slightly confused as if she had blurted out what was meant to be a mental comment.

  “There was a sound reason for it, I think,” Sir Clinton explained. “A high-velocity bullet leaves an entrance-wound smaller than its own diameter—provided that the bullet strikes at a place where there is some ‘give’ in the tissues. The
re’s no such ‘give’ in the skin of the head, which is stretched over the bones of the skull. The murderer’s idea was to shoot with a .32 calibre bullet and yet leave the impression that the wound had been inflicted with a .22 bullet—the calibre of the rook-rifle. That determined the choice between the head and the heart, I believe.”

  Wendover, glancing inadvertently at Dr. Glencaple, was surprised at his expression. He seemed to be waiting for the Chief Constable to make a slip in the next step of his argument. At Sir Clinton’s first words, his expression altered.

  “It’s not so easy to shoot a person through the heart,” the Chief Constable went on. “Most people have very vague—and usually erroneous—ideas of the heart’s position. A medical man”—he turned politely to the doctor—“is better equipped with knowledge. But even a medical man might find it difficult to shoot his victim through the heart at, say, ten yards. You’re not a crack pistol-shot, I suppose, doctor?”

  “Far from it,” Dr. Glencaple confessed, brusquely.

  “My point is that unless the murderer was a good shot, he must have fired at very close quarters so as not to miss the heart; and yet he had to suggest that the shot was fired from far off. He had to avoid powder-blackening on the skin and singeing of the fine hairs. That was managed rather neatly. A large sheet of paper, fire-proofed with alum, was held close to Mrs. Castleford’s back; and the pistol was fired just far enough away to prevent the out-rushing gas from tearing the skin. The paper shielded the skin and fine hairs from the pistol-flame, and thus we get the simulation of a shot fired from a fair distance. Some of the paper-fibres were driven into the wound and have been identified by characteristic pine ‘pores’ which show that it was wood-pulp paper. After the murder, the paper was burned, probably with the help of paraffin, in the grate of the Chalet. The ashes had an abnormal amount of aluminium in them, evidently derived from the alum used in partial fire-proofing of the paper.”