The Rynox Mystery

by Philip MacDonald

  There was a babble of five or six voices then, all talking at once, and through them, quite clearly, came the husky eagerness of Mrs Carmichael’s:

  ‘… most wonderful thing I ever heard of! Colonel Gethryn, do you realise you’ve proved what Miss Dax was saying?’

  Anthony looked at Mrs Carmichael and smiled. ‘That isn’t proof,’ he said. ‘Might be coincidence. The Captain’s dinner was—lavish.’

  But Mrs Carmichael wasn’t to be deterred. ‘You’ve got to hear,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to!’ She spoke to her husband across the table. ‘Jim, tell him all about it.’

  A worried look came into Doctor Carmichael’s tired, nice-looking face. He cast a glance towards his hostess, but she said nothing, and Mrs Carmichael said, ‘Go on, Jim!’ And Mrs Dale said, ‘Please, Doctor!’ And he capitulated.

  He looked across the table at Anthony. ‘I’m deputed for this,’ he said, ‘because I happen to look after the police work in this part of Downshire. Most of the time the job’s a sinecure. But lately—’

  He blew out his cheeks in a soundless little whistle and proceeded to tell of the two murders which had so much exercised the Press, particularly the Despatch. He was precise and vaguely official. He merely stated—but yet, and although it was no news to them, everyone else at the table was absolutely silent. They were, for the most part, watching the face of Anthony Ruthven Gethryn.

  Who said, when the statement was over, ‘H’mm! Sort of Ripper Redivivus.’ His face had offered no signs of any sort to the watchers. It had, as he listened, been as completely blank as a poker player’s, with the lids half closed over the green eyes.

  Doctor Carmichael said slowly, ‘Yes, I suppose so. If there are any more—which I personally am afraid of—although the Chief Constable doesn’t agree with me …’

  ‘He doesn’t?’ Anthony’s eyes were fully open now. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Major-General Sir Rigby Forsythe.’ Acid had crept into the Doctor’s tone. ‘He “can’t see his way” to calling in Scotland Yard. He considers Inspector Fennell and myself “alarmists”. He—’ Doctor Carmichael cut himself off abruptly.

  But Anthony finished the sentence for him, ‘—refuses to realise that two brutal murders, apparently carried out by a sexual maniac, could possibly be the beginning of a series. That it?’

  ‘Precisely!’ Doctor Carmichael brightened at this ready understanding. ‘And he goes on refusing to realise, in spite of the fact that Fennel’s tried a hundred times to show him that as the death of either of those poor women couldn’t conceivably have benefited anyone, the murders must have been done by a maniac.’ A faint expression of disgust passed over Doctor Carmichael’s face. ‘A peculiarly revolting maniac! And maniacs who’ve found a way of gratifying their mania—well, they don’t stop …’

  ‘For mysself,’ came the harshly sibiliant voice of Professor Martel, ‘I do not think a maniac.’ He was sitting back in his chair now, the beard tilted upward. ‘I think a public benefactor.’

  He paused and there came the slightly bewildered silence he had obviously expected. He said:

  ‘Thosse women! Thosse creaturess! I haff sseen them both while they were alife. They sserved no purpose and they were hideouss! The worlt is better less them.’

  Now the silence was shocked. It was broken by Marya Dax. Again she looked down the table toward Martel, and again seemed to examine him. She said:

  ‘There is one hideous thing here with us. It is your mind.’ She ceased to examine the man, and went on:

  ‘No human body,’ she said, ‘is completely without beauty.’

  ‘Oh, come now, my dear Miss Dax,’ said Lady Bracksworth surprisingly, in a mild but determined little voice. ‘Although I have nothing but sympathy’—she darted a look of dislike toward Martel—‘for those poor unfortunate women, I must say that at least one of them—Sarah Paddock, I mean—was a truly disgraceful object.’

  The Norn turned slow and blazing eyes upon this impudence.

  ‘This woman,’ said the Norn, ‘this Paddock—I suppose you did not ever look at her hands?’ She said, ‘They were dirty always. They were harsh with work. But they were beautiful.’

  ‘An interesting thought indeed!’ said Mr Shelton-Jones. ‘Can beauty in the—ah—human frame be considered, as it were, in units—or must it be, before we recognise it, a totality of such units?’

  Mrs Carmichael said, ‘I think Miss Dax is right.’ She looked over at her husband. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  He smiled at her, but didn’t answer and she said insistently, ‘Isn’t she right, Jim? You think she is, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Carmichael said. He looked around the table. ‘In my profession I see a great many human bodies. And I see a great many’—he looked at Mr Shelton-Jones—‘beautiful “units” in otherwise ugly specimens. For instance’—he looked at Marya Dax—‘I particularly noticed poor Sarah Paddock’s hands.’

  Mr Shelton-Jones settled his spectacles more firmly astride his nose. ‘But, my dear sir—if I may be permitted to support my original contention—what beauty can there be in a “beauty unit” if such unit is mere island, as it were, in an ocean of ugliness?’ Obviously prepared for debate, he leaned back in his chair, fixing his gaze upon Doctor Carmichael.

  Carmichael said, ‘Plenty. You can’t deny, for instance, that Sarah Paddock’s hands were beautiful in themselves.’ He seemed nettled by the parliamentary manner of Mr Shelton-Jones. ‘Suppose Miss Dax had modelled them!’

  ‘Then,’ Mr Shelton-Jones blandly observed, ‘they would have been apart from their hideous surroundings.’

  ‘Euclidian,’ said Anthony. ‘Some of the parts may or may not be equal to their total.’

  But Doctor Carmichael went on looking at Mr Shelton-Jones.

  ‘All right,’ said Doctor Carmichael. ‘Suppose you saw magnificent shoulders on a—on an extreme case of lupus vulgaris. Would the horrible condition of the face and neck make the shoulders repulsive too?’

  ‘The whole picture would be—ah—definitely unpleasing.’ Mr Shelton-Jones was blandness itself and the Norn turned her dark, examining gaze upon him.

  Colour had risen to Doctor Carmichael’s face. He stared hard at Mr Shelton-Jones and said:

  ‘Let’s try again. Do you mean to tell me that if you saw titian hair on a typical troglodytic head, you’d think it was ugly, because of its setting?’

  ‘I agree with the Doctor,’ said the Norn. ‘The other killed woman—her name I forget—was worse formed than the first. But the shape of her skull was noble.’

  ‘Umpf-chnff!’ remarked Lord Bracksworth. ‘That’d be the fortune-tellin’ one, the Stebbins woman … D’ja know, I was talkin’ to that Inspector fellah s’mornin’, and he was tellin’ me that when they found her, this old gal—’

  At the head of the table, Adrian LeFane sat suddenly upright. He brought his open hand violently down upon the cloth, so that the glasses beside his plate chimed and jingled.

  ‘Please!’ His face twisted as if with physical pain. ‘Let us have no more of this—this—intolerable ugliness!’

  It was about an hour after dinner—which, thanks mainly to the social genius of Miss Dunning, had ended on a subdued but unembarrassing note—that Mrs Carmichael, her husband in attendance, contrived to corner Anthony in a remote quarter of the vast drawing room.

  He had just come in after a visit to Adrian LeFane’s study, where he had at last delivered the letter which has nothing to do with this tale. He allowed himself to be cornered, although he would much rather have talked with Miss Dunning, because there was something desperately appealing in the filly-like gaze of Mrs Carmichael.

  She said, ‘Oh, please, Colonel Gethryn, may we talk to you?’ Her long, freckled face was as earnest as her voice.

  Anthony said, ‘Why not?’

  Carmichael said, ‘Oh, Min, why insist on worrying the man?’ He gave Anthony a little apologetic smile.

  ‘Because it’s worrying you,
darling!’ Mrs Carmichael laid a hand on her husband’s arm, but went on looking at Colonel Gethryn.

  ‘Jim’s terribly upset,’ she said, ‘about that horrid old Chief Constable. He thinks—I mean, Jim does—that the Downshire police can’t possibly catch this dreadful murderer unless they get help from Scotland Yard. And they can’t get it unless the Chief Constable asks for it—’

  Her husband interrupted. ‘For heaven’s sake, dear, Gethryn knows all about that sort of thing!’

  She paid no attention to him. She said to Anthony, ‘And what I was going to ask you: we wondered if there was any way—any way at all—you could use your influence to—’

  She left the sentence in mid-air as she caught sight of a servant approaching her husband.

  ‘Doctor Carmichael,’ said the man. He lowered his voice, but his words came clearly. ‘Excuse me, sir, but there’s an important message for you.’ A curious blend of horrified dismay and cassandrine pleasure showed through his servitor’s mask. He said:

  ‘Inspector Fennel telephoned. There’s been another of these dreadful murders. He wants you to come at once, sir, to Pilligrew Lane, where it comes out by Masham’s …’

  ‘Just around the next corner,’ said Doctor Carmichael, and braked hard.

  Beside him, Anthony grunted—he never has liked and never will like being driven.

  The little car skidded around a sharp turn and into the mouth of a lane which lay dark and narrow between a high hedge and the looming backs of three great barns.

  Through the steady glittering sheet of the rain, a group of men and cars showed ahead, barring the way completely and standing out black in the concentrated glare of headlights.

  Carmichael stopped his engine and scrambled out. Anthony followed and felt the sweeping of the rain down over him and the seeping of viscous mud through his thin shoes. He followed Carmichael toward the group and a figure turned from it, advancing on them and flashing an electric torch—a man in a heavy black stormcoat and the flat, visored cap of a uniformed Police Inspector.

  Carmichael said, ‘Fennel, this is Colonel Gethryn—’ and didn’t get any farther because the man, having darted a look at Anthony, turned back to him in amazement.

  ‘But, Doctor,’ said Inspector Fennell, in a hoarse and confidential whisper, ‘Sir Rigby’s done it already. Did it last night, without saying a word to me. Called London and got the Commissioner, and turned up, after I’d phoned him about this, all complete with a Detective-Inspector just arrived from the Yard!’

  Carmichael stared as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and Anthony said to Fennel, ‘Who did they send? Hobday?’

  Fennel said, ‘That’s right, sir,’ and led the way toward the group in the light.

  They slithered after him through the mud, and in a moment Hobday was looking at Anthony and saying, ‘Good Lord, sir, where did you drop from?’

  And then there was a word with Sir Rigby Forsythe, who seemed somewhat taken aback by Anthony’s presence, and a moment or so of waiting while the photographers finished their work over what lay in the ditch against the hedge.

  Anthony said, ‘This new victim? I suppose it’s a woman—but what kind? Was she another local character?’

  Fennel said, ‘Yes, she’s a woman all right, sir. And it’s—it’s horrible, worse than the others.’ He glanced toward the ditch and quickly away again. He seemed to realise he had strayed most unprofessionally from the point, and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think she’s—she was a local, sir. So far nobody’s recognised her. Seems to’ve been one of those gypsy basket menders. She had an old horse and cart—prob’ly was just passing through on her way to Deyning.’

  Hobday said, ‘If it hadn’t been for the horse, we wouldn’t have known yet. But a farm labourer found it wandering and began to look for its owner.’

  The photographers finished their work, and one of them came up to the Chief Constable and saluted. ‘All through, sir,’ he said, his voice shaky and uncertain.

  Sir Rigby Forsythe looked at Anthony, then at Carmichael and the others. His weather-beaten face was lined and pallid. He said, ‘You fellahs go ahead. I’ve seen all I need.’ He stood where he was while Fennell, visibly conquering reluctance, led the way with Carmichael, and Hobday and Anthony followed.

  The headlights of the police cars cut through the water-drenched darkness. They made a nightmare tableau of the thing which lay half in and half out of the ditch. Anthony muttered, ‘God!’ and the usually stolid Hobday drew in his breath with a little hiss. Carmichael, his face set and grim, dropped on his knees in the oozing mud. He made a cursory examination.

  Then he stood up. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We can move her now,’ and then, helped by Anthony and Hobday, lifted the thing and set it upon clean wet grass and in merciful shadow. He straightened the saturated rags of its clothing, and then suddenly dropped on one knee again and said, ‘Anyone got a torch?’

  Hobday gave him one, and he shone the light on the head and gently moved the heavy mud-covered mass of red hair away from the features it was covering.

  ‘Just wondering whether I’d ever seen her’ he said. He kept the light of the torch on the face and it stared up at them, washed cleaner every moment by the flooding rain. It was a brutish, sub-human face, and although it was distorted by death and terror, it could have been little more prepossessing in life.

  Carmichael shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They’re right. She’s a stranger round here.’ He switched off the torch, but Anthony said, ‘Just a minute,’ and took it from him and knelt beside the body himself and switched the light on again and peered at the throat, where a darkness like a big bruise showed in the hollow below the chin.

  But after a moment, he too shook his head. ‘No. It’s a birthmark,’ he said, and Carmichael peered at it and said, ‘Yes. Or possibly an old scar.’

  They stood up, and Hobday took the torch and knelt in his turn and began a slow, methodical examination of the clothing.

  Anthony said, ‘Silly question, I know, but about how long since death?’ A little cascade of water tumbled from his hatbrim as he bent his head to button his raincoat, which had come undone.

  Carmichael said, ‘Oh—very loosely, and subject to error—not more than five hours, not less than two.’

  Anthony looked at his watch, whose glowing figures said eleven forty-five, and found himself calculating times. But this didn’t get him anywhere, and he was glad when, thirty minutes later, he found himself being driven back to LeFane’s house by Carmichael. He said to Carmichael on the way:

  ‘You see, it’s definitely not my sort of thing. Mass murders are mad murders, and mad murders, in the ordinary sense of the word, are motiveless. Which makes them a matter for routine policio-military methods. At which I’m worse than useless, while men like Hobday are solid and brilliant at the same time.’

  Carmichael smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re both here—Hobday and yourself. I’ll sleep better tonight than I have for a week.’

  They reached the house and were no sooner in the big hall than they were surrounded. They were plied with drinks and food, and besieged with questions. Was it really another of the same murders? Where had it happened? Was the victim the same sort of person? Did they think the murderer would be caught this time? Wasn’t there something terribly wrong with police methods when things like this were allowed to go on? Wouldn’t it be a good idea to have a curfew, or a registration every day of the movements of every man, woman and child in the district?

  Mr Shelton-Jones said, ‘An interesting point. How far may the liberties of the individual be restricted when such restriction is—ah—for the purpose of protecting the community?’

  Miss Dunning said, ‘Human beings are terrifying, aren’t they?’

  Professor Martel said, ‘I woult like to know—wass thiss one usseless and hideouss like the otherss?’

  Mrs Carmichael said, ‘Oh, had Sir Rigby sent for Scotland Yard already? Oh, thank goodness!’

  Every
one said something. Except Adrian LeFane and Marya Dax. And they were not present.

  Anthony, throwing aside civility, at last forced his way upstairs. It seemed to him that he was even more grateful than the Carmichaels for the advent of Detective-Inspector Hobday.

  He made ready for bed and then, smoking a last cigarette and wondering how soon in the morning he could decently leave, strolled over to a window.

  The rain had stopped now and a pale moon shone through clouds on to the sodden earth. By the watery light he saw a figure striding up the steps of a terrace beneath him, making for the house. It was tall and powerful and square-shouldered and unmistakable in spite of its shapeless coat and headgear.

  He watched it until it was out of sight beneath him. He heard a door open and close.

  He went over to the bed and sat on the edge of it and finished the cigarette. He pondered. He stubbed out the cigarette at last and got into bed. After all, if sculptresses liked to walk at night, why shouldn’t they?

  But he knew he would stop on his way home tomorrow and have a word with Hobday.

  He went to sleep.

  It was six o’clock on the next afternoon. He had been in London and at home since one. He sat in the library at Stukely Gardens with his wife and his son.

  A violent storm had replaced yesterday’s deluge. It had raged intermittently over London and the whole south of England since early morning, and still the hard, heavy rain drove against the windows, while thunder rumbled and great flashes of lightning kept tearing the half darkness.

  Master Alan Gethryn gave his approval to the weather. ‘It sort of makes it all small and comf’table in here,’ he said, looking up from the jigsaw puzzle strewn about the floor.

  Anthony said, ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ and looked at his wife, who sat on the arm of his chair.

  Master Alan Gethryn pored over the puzzle—an intricate forest scene of which he had only one corner done. He sighed and scratched his head, and then suddenly laughed.

  ‘It’s like what Mr Haslam’s always saying,’ he said—and Lucia looked at Anthony and explained sotto voce, ‘Master at the new school,’ and then said to her son, ‘What d’you mean, old boy?’