Biggles Sets a Trap

by W E Johns

  “Charles always fired at the head,” contributed Leo. “He believed in a dead hit or a clean miss. It’s no use shooting a rabbit through the stomach. The beast simply gallops away and dies in its burrow.”

  Biggles dropped on his knees, and picking up the skull crunched the small bones to splinters. Slowly he allowed them to trickle through his fingers until only a small object remained. He held it up between a forefinger and thumb, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully. “We’re doing fine. So Charles fired at a rabbit. As he wouldn’t have had time to fire twice—indeed, we know now there would have been no need for him to do so —the empty case in the rifle must have been the one that held this bullet. That, Leo, explains why you couldn’t find a second case near where Charles fell, although you say you looked for it.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you look anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s see if we can find it. If it was ejected it shouldn’t be far away. Being copper it wouldn’t rust. It must still be on top of the ground. Let’s go back to the place where you found Charles.”

  They did so.

  “Now, Leo,” went on Biggles, “I want you to load the rifle, and standing on the spot, as near as you can judge, where Charles must have stood, fire at the place where we found the rabbit. We might as well do the job thoroughly. When you’ve fired stand perfectly still.”

  Leo loaded, raised the rifle, took aim, and fired. He remained motionless.

  “This was the moment when somebody fired at Charles,” went on Biggles, studying Leo’s posture. “Knowing where Charles was hit the bullet must have come from that direction. It couldn’t have come from any other because of the trees.” Biggles pointed with an outstretched forefinger. “That’s the line. The person was in the wood, and he couldn’t have been far away. Okay, Leo. That’s all. Now let’s see if we can find the other cartridge case. Be careful not to tread it into the ground.”

  Fortunately there was little or no herbage, the ground covering being mostly dead pine needles, so the task, supposing the spent case was there, did not look too difficult. Keeping to the line Biggles had indicated they walked three abreast, finally making two or three trips on their hands and knees. At the end their patience was rewarded, and in a rather curious way. Between the roots of a pine that were showing above ground level Bertie found a half of what had once been a cigarette, the paper brown from long exposure and the remains of a cork tip still clung to it. Biggles examined it thoroughly before putting it in an old envelope in his pocket book. While he was doing this Bertie let out a little cry that promised further success and held up the short, slim copper case of a point twenty-two cartridge.

  “Great work,” congratulated Biggles. “So now we know. You were right, Leo. It was murder. The murderer must have stood behind this tree while he waited for your brother to come close. He must have been a cold-blooded devil. He had the nerve to smoke a cigarette while he waited, dropping it half smoked when he saw Charles coming. This was what I wanted to know.”

  “Then you’re satisfied Charles’ death was not an accident?”

  “It’s hard to see how it could have been. There were two bullets, and from the speed at which they were fired, and the distance between this tree and where Charles must have been standing, it would have been impossible for them to have been fired by the same man. So there were two men, each with a twenty-two bore rifle. We might be able to double check that. Have you ejected the cartridge you fired, Leo?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then please do so and give the case to me.”

  Leo obliged.

  Biggles took the empty shell, and holding the two caps towards him compared them. “We don’t need any more proof than this,” he said. “Take a look. The firing pin of that old rifle of yours, Leo, struck the rim of the cap. This last case, the one we picked up here by the tree, was struck dead centre, probably as a result of the rifle being a more modern pattern.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Leo.

  “Now we know Charles was murdered we shall have to try to find the man who murdered him. The scent, of course, is stone cold, but there is still the motive if we can find it. People don’t commit murder for no reason at all.”

  Biggles lit a cigarette and drew on it thoughtfully. “If Charles was the inoffensive chap you say he was, why should anyone want to kill him? The murder must have been deliberate. Let us consider the poacher possibility. The man was here, in the spinney. He’d see Charles walking along the outside. He’d see him shoot the rabbit. Up to that time Charles had certainly not seen him or he wouldn’t have gone on after the rabbit. He’d stop and ask the man what he was doing there, with a rifle. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s reasonable,” agreed Leo.

  “At this stage the normal behaviour of a poacher would be to stand still or hide, hoping Charles would pick up the rabbit he’d shot and return home. That would leave him free to make his escape. There would be no reason for him to expose himself, let alone shoot Charles dead. Why did he do it? Leo, how long was it between the time you heard the raven croak and your arrival here?”

  “Not more than two or three minutes.”

  “Charles must have heard it.”

  “I don’t see how he could fail to hear it.”

  “And he’d know the significance of it.”

  “Of course.”

  “What would he do? Or let’s put it this way. What would you do?”

  “I’d look up in the air for sight of the bird.”

  “And not seeing it?”

  “I’d carry on with what I was doing.”

  “You wouldn’t run away?”

  “Run away? Certainly not. One doesn’t run away from a bird. I’d be more concerned with trying to see it.”

  “Yes,” said Biggles softly, as if speaking to himself. “Naturally.” He looked at Leo. “You’d look for it.”

  “I would.”

  “But you never have seen this bird of ill-omen?”

  “Never. If ravens were common here it would be a different matter, but they’re not. The only ravens I’ve ever seen are those at the Tower of London, where the ugly brutes strut about on the spot where the executions took place.1 Some people suppose it was the blood of the people who had had their heads chopped off which took them there in the first instance. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m wondering if there ever was a bird here.”

  “I heard it.”

  “But you didn’t see it. You only heard it croak. It isn’t difficult to imitate a raven. The sound might have been made by a man who was standing here in the spinney. The man who shot Charles. If so, it seems that he must have known something about The Curse.”

  “That’s a possibility that has never occurred to me.”

  “All right, let’s agree that you heard a raven. It doesn’t really matter whether it was genuine or a fake. The significant fact is that you heard it, and Charles must have heard it. You say that had you been in Charles’ position you’d have looked for it. It is reasonable to assume, therefore, that Charles would look up in the hope of seeing it.”

  “Well?”

  “The intention of that croak may have been no more than to intimidate anyone who heard it—I mean anyone who knew the sinister meaning of the sound. To such a person it would come as a shock. Upset his nerves. But it now occurs to me that it might also have had a more practical purpose.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The sound might have been a decoy to entice the victim to a spot where the murderer was waiting for him with a rifle.”

  “Could be,” agreed Leo.

  “As you ran towards the spinney did you see anyone— repeat, anyone?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Did you look?”

  “Frankly, no. I may have glanced around, but nothing more. I was too taken up with Charles.”

  “Naturally.”

  “When I found him
I was half stunned with shock. It took me a minute to get over it. I hardly knew what I was doing, but instinctively, I suppose, I ran back to the house for Falkner to help me.”

  “You found him in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “During this period the murderer would have ample opportunity to get clean away.”

  “No doubt. The last thing I was thinking of then was the murderer.”

  Biggles nodded. “I can understand that. Next time you hear a raven croak, Leo, you’d be well advised to go the other way. Look, but don’t go near.” He dropped his cigarette and put a foot on it. “While we’re out here I might as well have a look round your ground.”

  “For any particular reason? There’s nothing to see.”

  “I had in mind a spot of birds’ nesting.”

  “Birds’ nesting!”

  “To see if there’s anything about that might suggest a raven’s nest.”

  “Are you fooling?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “All right. Look around by all means but there’s nothing to see except a lot of rough stuff. The park, if we can call it that, is practically square. On three sides it’s bounded by farm land or forest. The only road anywhere near is the one that runs right across the south side. That’s the one by which we came here. There’s no fence but there’s a good thick-set hedge with a wide grass verge on the other side. The only way in is through the gap where the entrance gates used to be.”

  “No matter. I always like to get my bearings.”

  “Just as you like.”

  They did a slow tour of the grounds, but as Leo had said there was little to see, and nothing of interest, wherefore they made their way back to the house.

  “Are you going to stay the night?” asked Leo, as they walked towards it.

  “We mustn’t trespass too much on your hospitality,” returned Biggles. “Let’s leave that for the moment. I’ll decide later. Meanwhile I could do with another glass of your excellent cider.”

  * * *

  1 According to legend the ravens came to the Tower in 1078 from the (then) surrounding woods, because there was no sanitation and scraps of food could be picked up in the gutters. In the reign of Charles II a rumour started to the effect that when there were no ravens in the Tower the British Empire would collapse. Since then each bird has a wing clipped to prevent it from flying away. They are allowed to roam about as they wish, but they can only hop about the greens, often on the site of the execution block. Their favourite food is meat.

  CHAPTER V

  THE OLD OAK CHEST

  THEY had just reached the house when a car came up the drive to arrive a moment later.

  “Here’s Diana,” said Leo, turning towards it as the sole occupant got out. This was an attractive young woman of about twenty, wearing a tweed suit as for the country. Fair, with flaxen hair, blue eyes and a flawless skin showing no sign of make-up, she was obviously the “open air” type.

  Leo introduced his companions without mentioning their police ranks. This done, to Diana he said: “You’re later than usual.”

  She answered: “Between the village and the Spurs I was held up by a flock of sheep. Couldn’t get past. Now I must hurry. Do you want anything today?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Then I’ll push right along.”

  “Care for a drink?”

  “No thanks, Leo. I won’t stop now. Are your friends staying with you?”

  “Possibly, for a day or two, if I can persuade them.”

  “Bring them over to dinner one evening.”

  “Thanks. That’s most kind of you.”

  “Good-bye, then. Take care of yourself.” Diana got back into her car and headed for the main road.

  Biggles looked at Leo inquiringly. “What did she mean by take care of yourself?”

  Leo shrugged. “I imagine it was only a figure of speech. She knows our reputation for accidents.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t told her about The Curse.”

  “Nor have I; but she may have heard some tittle-tattle in the village. You know how country people gossip about local affairs, and although it hasn’t come back to me I imagine the locals, the older ones, anyhow, haven’t overlooked the Landaville habit of dying with their boots on. I don’t think what Diana said was intended to be taken seriously.”

  “Maybe not, but all the same, if I were you I’d feel inclined to watch my step,” returned Biggles seriously.

  “How do you suggest I do that—lock myself in the house?” questioned Leo, with mild sarcasm.

  “I don’t know; but as I told you a moment or two ago, if you hear any ravens croaking I’d let ‘em croak. I wouldn’t go out to look for them.”

  Leo looked at Biggles curiously. “Do you really think I’m in immediate danger?”

  “Again I can only say I don’t know. It could be. After all, as you yourself have pointed out, you’re the last of the Landavilles, so if anything should happen to you the family would become extinct. That might suit some people.”

  Leo’s eyes opened wide. “For heaven’s sake! Why? We haven’t done anything to anyone. Why should it suit someone to wipe us out?”

  Biggles shook his head. “I wouldn’t know, but it seems to me that someone has been trying to do just that for quite some time.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “It’s you, not me, who insists that all these sudden deaths were murders. We’ve just proved the last one was, and that being so the others may have been. We don’t know, and we may never know, but it begins to look like a possibility. Let us assume you’re right. Can you think of any other reason why these murders should occur unless someone is trying to wipe you out, or frighten you out of the house?”

  Leo did not answer.

  Biggles dropped into one of the deck chairs Falkner had put out with a small table and a tray of refreshments. He went on: “If these so-called accidents were in fact murders there must have been a purpose behind them; and before they can be stopped we’ve got to find out what that was, otherwise they could go on while there’s a Landaville left alive. In a civilized country there are not many motives for murder. One is financial gain. If you like, call it robbery. Was Charles robbed of anything?”

  “No. He owned nothing worth stealing.”

  “Were any of the others robbed?”

  “If they were there’s no record of it. I wouldn’t really know. They were long before my time.”

  “Has the house ever been burgled?”

  “No.” Leo smiled wanly. “There’s nothing in it worth stealing.”

  “Very well. Let’s say the motive was not robbery. What else have we? Jealousy? That means a woman in the case. Did Charles ever have any trouble with a woman?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Okay. Then where do we go from here? If we’re correct in supposing that somebody has been bumping off members of your family for years we can only ask ourselves why.”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “And that’s what I’m trying to find out. I’d feel pretty cheap if you were bumped off while I was working on the case. That’s why I’m asking you to be as careful as is reasonably possible.”

  “I can’t spend the rest of my life indoors.”

  “It wouldn’t necessarily save you if you did.”

  “As far as I know there has never been a murder or a fatal accident inside the house. It has always been outside. How do you account for that?”

  “If it happened inside it would be more difficult to make it look like an accident.”

  “It could be coincidence.”

  Biggles shook his head. “We’ll fall back on coincidence when everything else has failed. By the way, Miss Mortimore said something about spurs. What did she mean?”

  “The Spurs is simply the name of a pub on the outskirts of the village. Pretty old place. Used to be an old coaching inn. Nice to look at but that’s about all. They don’t do meals.”
<
br />   Falkner came out. “Shall I serve lunch, sir?”

  “Please.”

  As Falkner retired Leo turned back to Biggles. “What are you going to do after lunch?”

  “I thought we might have a look through your family records to see if we can find anything that might give us a lead. It would be interesting, for instance, to have a look at that letter you told us about, the one that was supposed to lay a curse on you. That’s if it could be found.”

  “By all means, but I’m afraid it’ll be a dusty job. Let’s go in and have something to eat.”

  They went into the great dining-room where Falkner served another simple but satisfying meal. When it was finished, and Biggles had lighted a cigarette he asked: “By the way, Leo. Where was Charles buried?”

  “In the village churchyard. All the Landavilles who died here are buried there. As lords of the manor we have our own plot.”

  “How old is the church?”

  “Very old. They say it was built in Norman times. Why do you ask?”

  “The records there might yield something interesting. That’s where all parish records are kept. Old churches up and down the country have provided a lot of history. It isn’t done so much nowadays, but years ago, apart from births and deaths, the priest in charge often kept a sort of diary, notes on anything unusual that happened in the parish.”

  “Somebody once told me that the register here goes back to about 1430.”

  “Have you ever seen it?”

  “No. I’m afraid it is some time since I was in the church. I haven’t been since Charles’ funeral. In the old days, you know, it was customary to bury important people inside the church, often under the main aisle. It used to give me the creeps to know I was walking over the bones and dust of my early ancestors.”

  “I can believe that,” said Biggles. “Forget it. Let’s have a look at any old papers you have.”

  “There isn’t much paper. It’s all parchment. Sheepskins, as stiff as a board, so Charles told me. He once tried to read some of them. I doubt if you’ll be able to make out what’s written on them.”