The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “And the third party obligingly removed the superfluous dose of poison, for some inscrutable reason of his own, eh?”

  “H’m! It seems silly, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course, unlikely things do happen,” Sir Clinton admitted. “I’m no stickler for probability in crime. One so seldom finds it.”

  Flamborough took his notebook from his pocket and entered in it a copy of Sir Clinton’s classification.

  “I’ll have another think about this later on,” he said, as he finished writing. “I didn’t think much of it when you showed it to me at first, but it certainly seems to be one way of getting a few ideas to test.”

  “Now let’s look at the thing from another point of view,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Assume that young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale were in the room of the bungalow. There were traces of somebody at the side-window, and someone certainly broke the glass of the front window. By the way, Inspector, when you went over young Hassendean’s clothes finally last night, did you find a key-ring or anything of that sort?”

  “He had a few keys—the latchkey of Ivy Lodge, and one or two more.”

  “You’ll need to make sure that the key of the bungalow was amongst them, because if it wasn’t, then he may have had to break in—which would account for the window. But I’m pretty certain he didn’t do that. He’d been up beforehand with these flowers in the afternoon, getting the place ready. It’s most improbable that he hadn’t the key of the front door with him.”

  “I’ll see to it,” the Inspector assured him.

  “In the meantime, just let’s assume that the broken window represents the work of a third party. What do you make of things on that basis?”

  “What is there to make out of them except one thing?” Flamborough demanded. “At the side window you had somebody whom you christened Peeping Tom; at the front window was a second person who got so excited that he broke into the room. You’re not trying to make out that these two characters were filled by one person, are you, sir? There would be no point in Peeping Tom leaving his window and walking round to the front one before breaking in. Either window was good enough for that. He’d no need to shift his ground.”

  “No,” Sir Clinton assured him in a thoughtful tone, “I wasn’t looking at it from that angle. I was merely wondering where Mr. Justice came in.”

  “You mean whether he was Peeping Tom or t’other?”

  “Something of that sort,” the Chief Constable answered. Then, changing the subject, he added: “What bits of information are you going to hunt for next, Inspector?”

  Flamborough ran over some points in his mind and cleared his throat before speaking.

  “First of all, I want to know what this poison was, where it came from, and how long it takes to act. I expect to get something from the P.M. results, and we can always send some of the organs for analysis.”

  Sir Clinton nodded his agreement.

  “I think we’ll get two people on to that part of the thing independently. Say a London man and perhaps one of the chemists at the Croft-Thornton Institute here. We’ll need to see this fellow Markfield in any case, just to check the statements that Ringwood gave us, and when we’re doing that we can find out if there’s anyone capable of doing the analysis for us. Perhaps Markfield himself might take it on.”

  The Inspector, seeing that Sir Clinton was waiting for him to continue, proceeded with his list of evidence required.

  “I’ll put Yarrow on to the matter of young Hassendean’s pistol license. That won’t take long to look up, and it will help to clinch the fact that it really was his pistol that we found on the floor. I don’t suppose for a moment that it was brought in from the outside. The loose ammunition in the drawer seems convincing on that point.”

  “I’m quite with you there,” Sir Clinton admitted.

  “Then I want to look into the maid’s affairs and see if she had any grudge against Mrs. Silverdale. It’s a pity the second maid’s so ill. We can’t get anything out of her for a while, I’m afraid. And I want her for another thing: to see if Mrs. Silverdale doped herself at all. But I expect, if she did, that I’ll be able to pick up some hint of it somewhere or other. And of course, if the poison turns out to be a non-dope kind, that line of inquiry drops into a subsidiary place.”

  “Yes?” the Chief Constable encouraged him.

  “Then I’ll send a man up to try the keys we found in young Hassendean’s pocket on the lock of the bungalow door, just to clear up the broken window matter. That won’t take long.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll need to make a try at finding out who Peeping Tom was and also your Mr. Justice.”

  “Quite a lot of suggestions you seem to have extracted from my little list of possibilities, Inspector. I think you owe it an apology for the rather contemptuous way you approached it at first.”

  “Well, sir, it’s been more suggestive than I expected, I admit.”

  “One thing’s certain, Inspector. The solution of the affair must lie somewhere on that little table. It’s simply a matter of picking out the proper case. The odds at most are eight to one and they’re really less than that if one discards some of the very improbable combinations.”

  The desk-telephone rang sharply, and Sir Clinton listened to the message.

  “That interests you, Inspector. A report’s come in that Mr. Silverdale came home and has gone down to the Croft-Thornton. He mentioned where he was going to the constable in charge at Heatherfield, and he very thoughtfully suggested that as the Croft-Thornton is quite near here, it would be easy for us to interview him there if we desired to do so. The perfect little gentleman, in fact. Well, what about it, Inspector?”

  “I suppose I’d better go at once,” Flamborough proposed after a glance at his watch.

  “I think I’ll include myself in the invitation,” Sir Clinton volunteered. “And, by the way, you’d better take that fly-in-the-amber cigarette-holder with you, if they’ve finished with it downstairs. Young Hassendean was working at the Croft-Thornton and someone there may be able to identify it for us if it was his. I’m not anxious to trouble his relations in the matter.”

  “Very good, sir,” Flamborough acquiesced. “You’ll want your car. I’ll give the order for it now.”

  Chapter Seven

  THE FLY IN THE AMBER

  At the door of the big block of buildings which formed the Croft-Thornton Institute, Inspector Flamborough made inquiries from the porter and obtained a guide through the labyrinth of stairs and corridors.

  “This is Dr. Markfield’s laboratory, sir,” their pilot finally informed them as he knocked on a door. “Two gentlemen to see you, sir,” he announced, standing aside to allow Sir Clinton and the Inspector to enter.

  As they walked into the laboratory, Trevor Markfield came towards them from one of the benches at which he had been occupied. His face betrayed his slight surprise at finding two strangers before him.

  “What can I do for you!” he inquired politely, but without any needless effusiveness.

  Flamborough, in response to an almost imperceptible gesture from his superior, stepped to the front.

  “This is Sir Clinton Driffield, the Chief Constable, Dr. Markfield. I’m Inspector Flamborough. We’ve called to see if you could give us some expert assistance in a case.”

  Markfield, after a glance at a water-bath on which a flask was being heated, led the way to a little office which adjoined the laboratory and closed the door behind the party.

  “We shall be more private here,” he said, inviting them with a gesture to take chairs. “One of my assistants will be back shortly, and I take it that your business is likely to be confidential.”

  The Inspector agreed with a nod.

  “It’s a poisoning case and we’ll need some help in detecting the poison.”

  “That’s a bit vague,” Markfield commented with a smile. “There are so many kinds of poisons, you know. If it’s arsenic or anything of that sort, a
first-year student could spot it for you; but if it’s one of the organic lot, it’ll be a stiff business most likely.”

  “It looks like one of the mydriatic alkaloids,” Sir Clinton put in. “Atropine, or something akin to it. The eye-pupils of the body were dilated.”

  Markfield considered for a moment.

  “I’ve done some alkaloid work in my time,” he explained, “but I suppose in a case of this kind you ought to have the best man. Some of the alkaloids are the very devil to spot when you’ve only a small quantity. I’d like the fee for the case, of course,” he added with a faint smile, “but the truth is that Dr. Silverdale, my chief, is an alkaloid specialist. He’s worked on them for years, and he could give me points all along the line. I’ll take you along to his room now.”

  He rose from his chair, but a gesture from Flamborough arrested him.

  “I’m afraid that would hardly do, Dr. Markfield. As a matter of fact, it’s Mrs. Silverdale’s death that we’re inquiring into!”

  Markfield could not repress an exclamation at the Inspector’s statement.

  “Mrs. Silverdale? You don’t mean to say that anything’s happened to her? Good God! I knew the girl quite well. Nobody could have a grudge against her.”

  He glanced from one official to the other, as though doubting his ears.

  “Wait a bit,” he added, after a moment’s pause. “Perhaps I’ve taken you up wrong. Do you mean Yvonne Silverdale?”

  “Yes,” the Inspector confirmed.

  Markfield’s face showed a struggle between incredulity and belief.

  “But that girl hadn’t an enemy in the world, man,” he broke out at last. “The thing’s clean impossible.”

  “I’ve just seen her body,” said the Inspector curtly.

  The blunt statement seemed to have its effect.

  “Well, if that’s so, you can count on me for any work you want me to do. I’m quite willing to take it on.”

  “That’s very satisfactory, Dr. Markfield,” Sir Clinton interposed. “Now, perhaps you could give us help in another line as well. You seem to have been a friend of Mrs. Silverdale’s. Could you tell us anything about her—anything you think might be useful to us?”

  A fresh thought seemed to pass through Markfield’s mind and a faint suggestion of distrust appeared on his face.

  “Well, I’m ready to answer any questions you care to put,” he said, though there seemed to be a certain reluctance in his voice.

  Sir Clinton’s attitude indicated that it was the turn of the Inspector. Flamborough pulled out his notebook.

  “First of all, then, Dr. Markfield, could you tell us when you first became acquainted with Mrs. Silverdale?”

  “Shortly after she and her husband came to Westerhaven. That’s about three years ago, roughly.”

  “You knew her fairly well?”

  “I used to see her at dances and so forth. Lately, I’ve seen less of her. She picked up other friends, naturally; and I don’t dance much nowadays.”

  “She danced a good deal, I understand. Can you tell me any particular people who associated with her frequently in recent times?”

  “I daresay I could give you a list of several. Young Hassendean was one. She used him as a kind of dancing-partner, from all I heard; but I go out so little nowadays that I can’t speak from much direct knowledge on the point.”

  “What sort of person was Mrs. Silverdale, in your judgment?”

  Markfield took a little time to consider this question.

  “She was French, you know,” he replied. “I always found her very bright. Some people called her frivolous. She was out to enjoy herself, of course. Naturally she was a bit out of place in a backwater like this. She got some people’s backs up, I believe. Women didn’t like her being so smartly-dressed and all that.”

  “Have you any reason to suppose that she took drugs?”

  Markfield listened to this question with obvious amazement.

  “Drugs? No. She’d never touch drugs. Who’s been putting that lie around?”

  Flamborough tactfully disregarded this question.

  “Then from what you know of her, you would say that suicide would be improbable in her case?”

  “Quite, I should say.”

  “She had no worries that you know of, no domestic troubles, for instance?”

  Markfield’s eyes narrowed slightly at the question.

  “Hardly my business to discuss another man’s affairs, is it?” he demanded, obviously annoyed by the Inspector’s query. “I don’t think I’m called upon to repeat the tittle-tattle of the town.”

  “You mean you don’t know anything personally?”

  “I mean I’m not inclined to gossip about the domestic affairs of a colleague. If you’re so keen on them, you can go and ask him direct.”

  It was quite evident that Markfield had strong views on the subject of what he called “tittle-tattle”; and the Inspector realised that nothing would be gained by pursuing the matter. At the same time, he was amused to see that Markfield, by his loyalty to his colleague, had betrayed the very thing which he was trying to conceal. It was obvious that things had not gone smoothly in the Silverdale household, or Markfield would have had no reason for burking the question.

  “You mentioned young Hassendean’s name,” Flamborough continued. “You know that he’s been murdered, of course?”

  “I saw it in the paper this morning. He’s no great loss,” Markfield said brutally. “We had him here in the Institute, and a more useless pup you’d be hard put to it to find.”

  “What sort of person was he?” the Inspector inquired.

  “One of these bumptious brats who think they ought to have everything they want, just for the asking. He’d a very bad swelled head. Herring-gutted, too, I should judge. He used to bore me with a lot of romantic drivel until I sat on him hard once or twice. I couldn’t stand him.”

  It was evident that young Hassendean had rasped Markfield’s nerves badly.

  “Had anyone a grudge against him, do you think?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing him as I did. He would have put a saint’s back up with his bounce and impertinence. But if you mean a grudge big enough to lead to murder, I can’t say. I saw as little of him as possible even in working hours, and I had no interest in his private affairs.”

  It was quite evident that nothing of real value was to be elicited along this line. The Inspector abandoned the subject of young Hassendean’s personality and turned to a fresh field.

  “Young Hassendean smoked cigarettes, didn’t he?”

  “I’ve seen him smoking them.”

  “Is this his holder, by any chance?”

  Flamborough produced the fly-in-amber holder as he spoke and laid it on the table. As he did so, he glanced at Markfield’s face and was surprised to see the swift change of expression on it. A flash of amazement followed by something that looked like dismay, crossed his features; then, almost instantaneously, he composed himself, and only a faint trace of misgiving showed in his eyes.

  “No, that isn’t young Hassendean’s holder,” he answered.

  “You recognise it?”

  Markfield bent forward to inspect the article, but it was evident that he knew it well.

  “Do I need to answer these questions of yours?” he demanded, uncomfortably.

  “You’ll have that question put to you at the inquest, when you’re on your oath,” said the Inspector sharply. “You may as well answer now and save trouble.”

  Markfield stared for a moment longer at the fly in the amber.

  “Where did you pick this thing up?” he demanded, without answering the Inspector’s question.

  But Flamborough saw that he had got on the track of something definite at last, and was not inclined to be put off.

  “That’s our business, sir,” he said brusquely. “You recognise the thing, obviously. Whose is it? It’s no use trying to shield anyone. The thing’s too conspicuous; and if you don’t tell us
about it, someone else will. But it doesn’t look well to find you trying to throw dust in our eyes.”

  Markfield could not help seeing that the Inspector attached special importance to the holder; and he evidently recognised that further shuffling was out of the question.

  “I’m not going to identify it for you,” he said. “You’ve let slip that it’s an important clue; and I don’t know it well enough to make assertions about it. I’ll send for a man now who’ll be able to swear definitely, one way or another. That’s all I see my way to do for you.”

  He put his hand on a bell-push and they waited in silence until a boy came in answer to the summons.

  “Send Gilling to me at once,” Markfield ordered.

  Then, when the boy had withdrawn, he turned to the two officials again.

  “Gilling is our head mechanic. You can question him about it. He’s an intelligent man.”

  In a few minutes the mechanic appeared at the door.

  “You wanted me, sir?” he asked.

  Markfield introduced the Inspector with a gesture, and Flamborough put his questions.

  “You’ve seen this thing before?”

  The mechanic came forward to the table and examined the holder carefully.

  “Yes, sir. I made it myself.”

  “You’re quite sure of that?”

  “No mistake about it. I know my own work.”

  “Tell us what you know about it,” the Inspector demanded.

  The mechanic thought for a moment or two.

  “It was about three months ago, sir. If you want it, I can look up the exact date in my workshop notebook where I keep a record of each day’s work. I made two of them for Dr. Silverdale at that time.”

  Flamborough shot a glance at Markfield’s downcast face. It was pretty obvious now who was being shielded; and the Inspector remembered how Markfield had fenced in the matter of the domestic troubles of the Silverdales.

  “Tell us exactly what happened then,” Flamborough encouraged the mechanic.