Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Butley slowly. ‘By cripes, my lad, this isn’t suicide.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s murder.’

  Inspector William Rackham waited as the Divisional Surgeon completed his investigation. ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s murder, all right,’ said the doctor.

  Rackham nodded to Butley. ‘Well done, Sergeant. Good work. What can you tell us, Doctor?’

  Doctor Morris wiped his thermometer and put it back in its case. ‘You can have a report with all the fancy language after the post-mortem but I can’t see it’ll tell you much more than I know already. There aren’t any burn marks round the wound but that, by itself, doesn’t constitute a case for suicide.’ He nodded towards the gun held limply in Dunbar’s hand. ‘There frequently aren’t any, especially when an automatic pistol has been used. What is significant is the angle the gun was fired at. I won’t say that it’s impossible for a man to shoot himself in that way, but it’s virtually impossible. I don’t think it’s on the cards. The other thing to notice is this.’ He stooped down on one knee beside the body and pointed to Dunbar’s outstretched hand. ‘You can see for yourselves how stiff the corpse is. He’s absolutely rigid, which, I may say, is very common in brain injuries. Rigor’s very little guide in these cases. It often sets in immediately. However, if you look at this hand which is holding the gun –’ Doctor Morris lifted the index and forefinger of the right hand, ‘– you can see that this hand, and this hand only, is flexible. And what that means is that someone moved this hand after death.’

  Rackham smiled grimly. ‘They’ve tried to be clever, haven’t they? What about the time of death, Doctor?’

  Morris glanced at his watch. ‘It’s just gone half past six. It’s a warm day, which will affect things but, on the other hand, the window’s open, which has cooled the room. I’d say he died between half past three and about half past five. If I had to make a guess it’d be roundabout four to half past or thereabouts, but that’s only a guess, mind. It’s impossible to be any more accurate.’

  ‘He was discovered at five o’clock,’ said Sergeant Butley. ‘The chambermaid came in with fresh towels and found him.’

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Did she, by Jove? That narrows down the latter end of the timescale. We’re fortunate that the body was discovered so soon.’

  ‘He would have been discovered very shortly in any event, sir,’ volunteered the sergeant. ‘His wife should have had afternoon tea with him.’

  ‘His wife?’ said the doctor. He glanced round the room with a puzzled frown. ‘Did she have another room? She obviously wasn’t staying in this one.’

  ‘She’s not staying here at all, sir. Apparently Mr Dunbar and his wife were separated.’

  ‘I had her escorted home,’ said Rackham. ‘She lives in Kensington. Her son lives with her and she says he should be home from work when she arrives, so she won’t be alone. She was pretty upset, poor woman.’ He saw the doctor’s expression. ‘And no, before you get up in arms in her defence, I didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t think she was up to answering any.’

  The doctor subsided. ‘That’s very restrained of you. Is she a suspect?’

  Rackham frowned. ‘Technically, yes. Actually?’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt it. I’ll speak to her tomorrow. What I do need is someone who saw him this afternoon. Sergeant Butley, can you start making enquiries of the hotel staff ? I’ve already seen the chambermaid, of course, but if you find any other witnesses, let me know and I’ll interview them as soon as I can.’

  A knock sounded on the door and Constable Flynn looked into the room. ‘The photographer’s here, sir.’

  ‘Tell him to wait a few minutes,’ said Rackham. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He waited until Sergeant Butley and Doctor Morris had left the room, then walked to the window and lent against the sill, looking round the room. He wanted some time to himself to put his thoughts in order.

  Andrew Dunbar; it was odd to think it was only a couple of days ago he had discussed Andrew Dunbar with Jack. That conversation was a real bit of bad luck for someone. Even if Butley hadn’t spotted the faked suicide, Rackham would have smelt a rat as soon as he heard Dunbar’s name. Rackham looked at the body lying stiffly across the desk and pursed his lips. It now seemed more likely than ever that the whole truth about the Stoke Horam suicides hadn’t come to light.

  He stood beside the body, his head tilted to one side. Dunbar was well dressed, in a conventional morning suit of striped trousers and dark coat. His clothes gave very little idea of what he was like. He frowned. Hotel rooms were essentially anonymous, and that, speaking as a policeman, annoyed him. However, even here Dunbar must have left some imprint of his personality on the room.

  He walked round the room, pausing at the heavy oak wardrobe. Inside were two leather suitcases stamped with the initials A.W.D. and, hanging from the rail, a collection of suits and coats. Rackham noted the tailor’s name and shrugged. Nothing there, as far as he could see. The drawers revealed, as expected, gloves, ties and collars. On the bedside table were two magazines, The Windsor Magazine and – this made Rackham smile – On The Town containing a story by Jack Haldean. A pill box quickened his pulse for a moment but proved to contain nothing more exciting than Doctor Trotter’s patent liver pills. Skirting round the bed, and noting that Andrew Dunbar favoured an old-fashioned nightshirt rather than pyjamas, he passed by the washstand and came to the desk under the window.

  It was nearly impossible to look at anything but the body, but Rackham dragged his attention to the desk. A pamphlet forbiddingly entitled The Proceedings of the Otorhinolaryngological Society caught his eye. Otor . . . What on earth was that? No wonder Dunbar apparently preferred Jack Haldean for light reading. An open leather folder was at the rear of the desk, containing a few sheets of paper which Rackham turned over, carefully holding them by the edges. They contained lists of figures and some names that he recognized. Lewis, Carrington and Otterbourne’s, the gramophone makers. Once again, the Stoke Horam suicides came to mind. He was glad he had looked at the Stoke Horam files only yesterday. Because of that, he knew exactly who these men were.

  There was a note on hotel paper beside the blotter. Mrs Dunbar telephoned. She will meet you in the lobby for tea at quarter to five. Rackham clicked his tongue. That was one appointment the poor beggar hadn’t kept. A letter lay open beside the blotter, the envelope beside it postmarked Sackville Street, 10.23, 15th July. Posted that morning, then. Without touching the paper, Rackham made a copy of the contents.

  It was an apology from Stephen Lewis of 47A, Mottram Place for not attending the meeting that afternoon because of unforeseen family circumstances. Taken together with the papers in the leather folder, it was clear that a meeting had been arranged for that afternoon between Dunbar, Lewis and Carrington. Although Lewis hadn’t been there, Carrington probably had been. At the very least, the man was an important witness and might, just might, be the man they were looking for. Rackham was aware he was running ahead of evidence but he couldn’t resist the train of thought.

  He looked once more at the rigid body, trying to discern the character from the face but it was difficult to see any character in the flabby, set face. Both the ruthlessness and the happiness that Jack’s pal, Hector Ferguson, had talked about had been wiped clear.

  Hector Ferguson had wondered if his stepfather had been the real villain at Stoke Horam. He’d thought, not to beat about the bush, there was a real possibility that Andrew Dunbar had murdered Charles Otterbourne and left Professor Carrington to carry the can. In Rackham’s opinion, there was no two ways about it. If Professor Carrington hadn’t hanged himself, he would’ve been charged with Otterbourne’s murder. And if Hector Ferguson could work that out, so could Gerard Carrington. Gerard Carrington, so Carrington’s doctor, Sir David Hargreaves, had testified at the inquest, had been highly protective of his father.

  It was a motive. A conditional, unproved, perhaps improvable motive, but he couldn’t ignore i
t. He pulled himself up short. A compelling motive, yes, but one that, in light of the Coroner’s verdict, it would be hard to argue in court. He needed evidence.

  Some little discrepancy about the suicide note nagged him. The paper was tucked into the corner of the blotter and something wasn’t quite right . . . Rackham clicked his tongue. That was it! The ink stains on the blotter were blue, but the note itself was written in black ink, which had been allowed to dry. Rackham gingerly picked up the fountain pen on the desk and unscrewed the cap. The ink in the pen was blue, not black and, as if to confirm it, a bottle of Swan’s blue ink stood to one side. There was certainly no other pen on or near the desk. That meant the murderer had used his own pen to write the note. After the medical evidence, he had little doubt that it was murder and not suicide, but this clinched it.

  He looked round the room once more and nodded in a satisfied way. Murder.

  Gerard Carrington spent the following night in police custody. The afternoon after his arrest he was charged with the murder of Andrew Dunbar; and Bill Rackham went to see Jack Haldean.

  Rackham reamed out his pipe, tapped the contents tidily into the ashtray, and reached for the tobacco jar. ‘I’ve got a puzzle for you, Jack,’ he announced. ‘What on earth does –’ he took a deep breath – ‘Otorhinolaryngological mean?’

  Haldean looked startled. ‘Where on earth did you dig up a word like that? Do you need special training to say it? I haven’t a clue.’

  Rackham looked rather pleased. ‘I knew I’d do it one of these days if I tried hard enough. Found a word you didn’t know, I mean.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘This is a challenge, isn’t it? Is it something to do with Dunbar?’ Rackham nodded. ‘Blimey. The rudiments of knowledge are coming back to me. It’s Greek, or at least, it’s derived from Greek. Oto means ear, I think, and rhino means nose as in rhinoceroses. What’s the rest of it? Laryngological? Well, laryn is throat as in laryngitis – a word like that would give you laryngitis – and logos is either creative thought or word, as in the Gospel of St John.’

  ‘In the beginning was the Word, d’you mean?’ asked Rackham.

  ‘That’s the one. So how many bits of words have we got?’ Jack counted them off on his fingers. ‘Ear, nose, throat and word or thought.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘It sounds medical but, as it’s to do with Dunbar, I’d say it was sound. Recorded sound, at that. Am I right?’

  ‘I don’t know about the Greek,’ said Rackham, ‘but it’s recorded sound, all right. Dunbar had a pamphlet in his room, The Proceedings of the Thingamabob Society. He also had a copy of On The Town, by the way, with one of your stories in it.’

  ‘Bless his cotton socks. It’s the nicest thing I’ve heard about him. I do wish people wouldn’t bump off my readers. I don’t approve of it, you know. You’re certain he was bumped off, aren’t you?’

  ‘Certain. Apart from anything else, the door was locked and there was no key in the room. The chambermaid who found the body used her pass key to get in.’

  Jack made a dissatisfied noise. ‘And you’ve arrested Gerard Carrington.’

  ‘Which is why I’m here. I’m not sure about Carrington. It’s a simple explanation and I like things to be simple.’ He hesitated. ‘I just wonder if it’s too simple.’ He looked appraisingly at his friend. ‘You’ve got reservations, too, haven’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps . . . Tell me, Bill, on a purely human level, do you think Carrington is guilty?’

  Rackham tamped the tobacco firmly down in his pipe. ‘I don’t honestly know,’ he said seriously. ‘On the one hand, it’s a good case. It’s circumstantial, but sound.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something though, Jack. I said as much to the Chief but, given the evidence, we had no choice but arrest Carrington. He didn’t do himself any favours, I must say. He’s an argumentative devil.’ He puffed his cheeks out in discontent. ‘What can I say? I’ve got that niggling feeling there’s something wrong and I can’t put my finger on what it is.’ He looked at his friend ruefully. ‘I hoped if there was anything wrong with the case against Carrington, you’d be able to spot it.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  Rackham nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he said seriously. ‘I want to see the right man in the dock. The trouble is, Gerard Carrington was alone with Dunbar all afternoon and it’s blinkin’ difficult to see who else could have done it. I know both of us have got Stoke Horam in mind, but that’s not why I arrested Carrington. No, I arrested Carrington on the evidence alone. And, I may say, that evidence seems very clear-cut.’

  ‘Simple, in fact,’ put in Jack.

  ‘Yes . . .’ Rackham put a match to his pipe and sucked in a mouthful of smoke. ‘Murders often are. We know that he and Dunbar quarrelled that afternoon. We’ve got two independent witnesses to that. Dunbar and Carrington had lunch at one o’clock and Dunbar requested coffee to be served in his room. The waiter who brought the coffee, an Italian called Antonio Miretti, distinctly heard the two men quarrelling. That was about twenty past two. They were, in his words, going at it hammer and tongs. He heard raised voices from outside the room and when he went in with the tray, both men were on their feet and looking pretty agitated. The second witness is one of the porters, Walter Parker. At half past three or thereabouts he took a telephone message up to Dunbar. The two men weren’t actually quarrelling at that point, but Parker reckoned there was an atmosphere you could cut with a knife.’

  ‘Which, given that Dunbar was murdered shortly afterwards, is what you’d expect him to say,’ said Jack. ‘I doubt if he or anyone else could resist the temptation to be in on something as sensational as murder.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Rackham with a grin. ‘However, in fairness to Parker, he did remark to Rice, the head porter, after he’d delivered the note, that the two jossers in 206 seemed to have taken the hump about something and no mistake.’

  ‘That sounds authentic enough,’ agreed Jack. ‘What was the message? The one that Parker delivered, I mean?’

  ‘It was from Dunbar’s wife, Evelyn Dunbar, saying she’d meet him in the hotel lobby for afternoon tea at quarter to five. I found the note in Dunbar’s room. She arrived early and was sitting in the lobby when Carrington, who she’s met a couple of times, came through the hotel lobby at what was virtually a run. He saw her, muttered an apology and dashed past her. That was at half past four. She remembers the time as Carrington drew attention to it, saying that he had an appointment and would have to rush as he was afraid of being late. The clock in the hotel lobby’s accurate, by the way. I checked it. She’s certain about the time. You see where that leaves us, Jack? As the body was found at just gone five, it doesn’t leave much time for anyone else but Carrington, especially when you add in five to ten minutes for arranging the suicide and all those shenanigans.’

  ‘It leaves some,’ said Jack. ‘I agree anyone else would have to be pretty nippy though. What about Mrs Dunbar herself ? After all, she was on the spot and I know she’s separated from her husband. Couldn’t she have done the deed?’

  Rackham pulled a face. ‘I thought about her, of course, but I just can’t see it somehow. She struck me as a dopey sort of woman. I daresay if she tried to make a murder look like suicide, she’d make a complete botch of it.’ He grinned. ‘She’s very keen on Higher Powers and Guidance.’

  ‘Good God,’ muttered Jack.

  ‘Exactly. She was very shaken though. She wasn’t pretending, unless she’s a terrific actress. Besides that, she’s not physically up to it. She crocked her ankle a couple of weeks ago. If she had gone up to Dunbar’s room, she would have needed the lift and the lift-boy is positive that he didn’t take her.’

  ‘She could be putting on the dodgy ankle, though, couldn’t she?’

  ‘I saw her doctor. He confirmed she had twisted it badly.’

  ‘That sounds fairly convincing,’ agreed Jack. ‘How did she react when the news broke?’

  ‘She wasn’t heartbroken, but, as she’d been separate
d from Dunbar for some time, I wouldn’t expect her to be. I let her go home and interviewed her the day after the murder. Her son was with her, by the way, your pal, Hector Ferguson. He seems a nice enough chap. He’d taken the morning off work to be with her when I called. He said he hadn’t known his stepfather was in London, but Dunbar came down fairly often, and always stayed at the Marchmont. That’s borne out by the hotel people, by the way. Dunbar was a frequent guest.’

  ‘How did Mrs Dunbar know Dunbar was in London?’

  ‘She didn’t know, until the day he arrived. She’d written to Dunbar at the company’s offices in Falkirk and received a note from the manager, Mr Bryce, to say Dunbar was in London for a few days. She knew he usually stayed at the Marchmont, so rang the hotel, confirmed he was actually a guest, and, as we know, instructed a note to be delivered to him.’ Rackham chewed his pipe stem. ‘I dunno. It seems so unlikely that she’d be the murderer. As you’d told me there wasn’t an awful lot of love lost between Ferguson and his stepfather, I thought he might be a possible, but he’d been at work the previous afternoon and was certainly at home when his mother arrived, escorted by one of my men.’

  ‘Did you check his alibi?’ asked Jack. ‘I don’t want to sound overly suspicious, especially as he’s a friend, but it’s as well to be sure.’

  ‘I thought so too. He’s a clerk at the Shanghai and Oriental Shipping Company in Leadenhall Street. The office closes at half past five and the clerks have to sign out. I saw Mr Wallace, the manager, who checked the register. Ferguson left the building at twenty-five to six, so he’s comfortably in the clear. You see why I kept on coming back to Carrington, Jack? He really does seem to be the only reasonable possibility. I wish to goodness we could get a clear time of death,’ he said, relighting his pipe. ‘I know it’s asking a lot, but the doctor can’t narrow the time down. I’ve grilled everyone in the hotel I can think of, but no one seems to have heard a shot. I bet they did, mind, but it’d be easy to mistake it for a backfire, especially as the windows in the room were open.’