by John Rhode
CHAPTER II
On Friday, two evenings later, Oldland was sitting in Dr Priestley’s study with a glass of whisky and soda beside him. He had invited himself to dinner with the professor, and had suggested that Hanslet should be present. Now, to an audience consisting of the professor, his secretary Harold Merefield and the superintendent, he was recounting the circumstances of Branstock’s death.
‘He was a big, heavy man, weighing fifteen stone or more,’ he continued. ‘We had a devil of a job getting him out of that basement into the dining-room. If the policeman hadn’t happened to be a bit of a Hercules we should never have done it. However, we got him on to the table at last, and I set to work to make a proper examination.
‘There wasn’t a shadow of doubt that asphyxia was the cause of death. Branstock had been suffocated, and the circumstances made it pretty clear how this had happened. As I’ve already told you, I was his regular medical attendant, but had not seen him for fourteen days before his death. I had attended him six months ago when he was suffering from high blood pressure and a few weeks ago I was called to the house to see Mrs Quinton, who was suffering from influenza. That being so, I couldn’t issue a certificate, although the cause of death was obvious enough.
‘I ought to explain, I suppose, that Branstock is a widower with no near relations alive. His establishment consisted of a cook—the extremely capable Mrs Quinton—a parlourmaid who, although inclined to pertness, is bright enough, a housemaid and a scullerymaid. The two latter I didn’t see on Wednesday evening. I expect they were loafing about the back premises somewhere. Branstock, who I imagine had plenty of money, was an exponent of the gay life. He did himself far too well, as I’ve had occasion to tell him more than once. I managed to frighten him when he had that blood pressure trouble, and he eased up for a bit, but it didn’t last very long. It was his fifty-fourth birthday on Wednesday, and he wasn’t what the insurance companies call a very good life. However, if he had consented to follow the treatment which I had prescribed for him, he was good for another ten or fifteen years at least.
‘His principal amusement was entertaining—not always, in my opinion, the most desirable people. He liked to collect bright young people about him, and never seemed to worry his head about their antecedents. He may have prided himself upon his Bohemian outlook—I don’t know. I went to one of his parties once and thought myself lucky to get away without having been seduced.
‘Whether things would have been different if he had lived for another three weeks, again I don’t know. He was going to be married to a certain Miss Nancy Lanchester. I don’t know anything about her, for I only saw her once, and at that very party I mentioned. She may conceal an angel’s heart under her enamelled exterior, for all I can tell. But I didn’t like her; I can’t explain why. There was something about her that would have shocked a respectable prostitute.
‘As it happened, this Miss Lanchester and her two cousins, male and female, had been invited to dinner on Wednesday. I managed to get them out of the house at once. I mistrust the behaviour of that type of person when faced with sudden tragedy. And these three, I gather, had been regaling themselves with unlimited cocktails. The person I wanted to get hold of was young Anthony Mayland, who is a thoroughly steady, reliable sort of chap. But they told me he had gone out of London over the holidays.’
‘Who is Anthony Mayland, doctor?’ Hanslet asked.
‘Oh, haven’t I told you? Branstock, as I said just now, was a widower. Just after the war he married a widow, Mrs Mayland, who had one son, Anthony. She died within a couple of years of her marriage, and Branstock took his stepson under his care. Anthony is now twenty-eight and in practice in an architect’s office. From what Branstock once told me, I believe he’s doing very well.
‘Well, I’d hardly finished my examination when Anthony turned up. It was what the newspapers would call a dramatic return. Anthony had left London on the previous Friday to spend a few days with some friends in the country. I should explain that Anthony didn’t live with his stepfather, though he saw a good deal of him. He has rooms of his own somewhere. I rather fancy that the atmosphere of No. 3 Cheveley Street doesn’t exactly appeal to him. And I doubt that he altogether approved of Nancy Lanchester as the prospective second Lady Branstock.
‘Anthony turned up soon after ten o’clock with a box of cigars for his stepfather’s birthday. He knew nothing of what had happened, of course, and fortunately Mrs Quinton met him in the hall and broke the news to him. And when he came into the dining-room he was pretty badly shaken up. He and Branstock had always got on very well, in spite of their differences of taste. He told me that Branstock had always treated him as his own son, and he had always thought of him as his own father. I prescribed him a stiff brandy, and that seemed to pull him together a bit. But even then he didn’t seem able to realise what had happened. He told me that when he had last seen Branstock on the previous Friday he had been in the very best of health and spirits. He had talked of nothing but his approaching marriage and the fun he was going to have at Monte Carlo on his honeymoon. I explained to Anthony why I couldn’t issue a certificate, and went home leaving him in charge of the household.
‘Next morning I rang up the coroner, who happens to be a personal friend of mine, and explained matters to him. He agreed with me that there was no necessity to hold a post-mortem, but directed that an inquest should be held this morning. It wasn’t a very lengthy affair, as you may suppose. Anthony identified the body and gave the necessary particulars. I stated that in my opinion death was due to asphyxia, caused by inhaling a non-respirable gas, probably carbon dioxide. I mentioned Mrs Quinton’s feeling of giddiness when she bent down over the body, and also my experiment with the candle later. Mrs Quinton and the constable described the position in which the body was lying when found. Mrs Quinton and Grace explained Branstock’s habits regarding the cellar and his visits to it.
‘I didn’t mention, did I, that when we got the body upstairs I locked the cellar and put the key in my pocket? I didn’t want any more cases of suffocation on my hands. Next day, at my suggestion the coroner sent an analyst to the house. He then unlocked the cellar door and lowered a candle into the place. There was still some of the gas about, for the candle went out when it reached the floor. At the inquest this morning he reported that his analysis showed the air to contain twenty per cent of carbon dioxide.
‘The coroner, in his summing-up, suggested to the jury what had happened. When the deceased entered the cellar on Wednesday evening the door had not been opened for three days. During that time carbon dioxide had accumulated in the cellar, which was unventilated. It was well known that carbon dioxide, being a heavy gas, would sink to the lowest level it could find, in this case, the cellar of the house. By Wednesday evening a highly concentrated layer of the gas covered the floor, possibly to a depth of three feet or more. Deceased, bending down to reach the wine bin which stood on the floor, would have inhaled the concentrated gas. It was known that a concentrated atmosphere of carbon dioxide could produce immediate loss of consciousness and muscular power. Deceased would then have fallen to the floor, and death would have ensued within a very few minutes. It was very fortunate that the deceased had left the cellar door wide open behind him. This caused a current of ventilation which no doubt dispersed the gas. Had it not been for this, Mrs Quinton would almost certainly have been overcome in her turn when she bent over the body. As it was, she had felt the preliminary symptoms without knowing what they indicated.
‘At this point the foreman of the jury asked a question. He wanted to know whether it was not most unusual for such an accumulation of carbon dioxide to take place. The coroner told him that carbon dioxide always tended to accumulate at the bottom of pits, wells, the holds of ships, and such places. In this case, however, the accumulation appeared to have been comparatively rapid. There was no evidence to show the source of the carbon dioxide, but it might possibly have escaped from an adjacent sewer. The jury returned a verdict
of death by misadventure, and added a rider to the effect that the public health authority should be asked to investigate the origin of the gas.’
Oldland emptied his glass of whisky. ‘So that’s that,’ he concluded.
Hanslet looked at him shrewdly. ‘Do you agree with the verdict, doctor?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. I know what’s in your mind, of course; but there’s no room for any suggestion of foul play.’
‘Then why did you suggest that the superintendent would be interested in the circumstances?’ Dr Priestley asked.
Oldland chuckled. ‘Haven’t you guessed?’ he replied. ‘I wanted to prove to him the utter fallacy of taking any notice of what people call coincidence. It might appear to be a coincidence that two men living next door to one another should have met with sudden deaths within a couple of months. The occupant of No. 4 Cheveley Street, Mr Fransham, was, as I understand, murdered early in June. Branstock was suffocated on his birthday, the 4th August. Many people would fly to the conjecture that there must necessarily be some connection between the two events. I know nothing of Fransham’s murder beyond what I read in the papers at the time. But I’m perfectly convinced that Branstock’s death was accidental. There is absolutely nothing in common between the two events, except the accident that Fransham and Branstock happened to live next door to one another.’
Hanslet’s professional pride was hurt by Oldland’s reference to Mr Fransham. ‘I’m duly grateful to you, I’m sure, doctor,’ he said with some asperity. ‘There’s been no arrest in the Adderminster affair so far, I’ll admit. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that the police don’t know all about it. There’s insufficient evidence at present to justify an arrest, that’s all.’
‘It’s not one of your cases, is it, superintendent?’ Oldland asked.
‘Well, it is and it isn’t. It was Jimmy’s originally, but he came to a dead end. I thought there was just a chance that I might succeed where he had failed, so I took him off the job and had a look into it myself. But I immediately found myself up against the same difficulty that had bowled Jimmy out. You remember the case, I dare say, professor. It’s perfectly obvious who killed Mr Fransham. Our difficulty is that we can’t prove how he did it.’
‘I remember the case perfectly well,’ said Dr Priestley. ‘Have there been any developments during the past two months?’
‘We’ve been keeping our eyes on everybody concerned, of course. Dr and Mrs Thornborough have had to clear out of Adderminster. Not more than have a dozen of the doctor’s patients would have any more to do with him. And one evening a gang of roughs went up to his house and threw stones through his window. He’s taken a flat in Mayfair, and Dr Dorrington has found himself a new partner. I interviewed the doctor myself and, after warning him, tried to trip him up, but I couldn’t. He stuck to his story that he didn’t know anything about the affair, and didn’t write the letter which brought Mr Fransham down to Adderminster that day.’
‘It struck me that that letter was the crux of the whole affair. If we could prove that he had written it, after he had strenuously denied doing so, it would be a very strong point against him. The experts wouldn’t give a definite opinion upon the signature; they said that it might be a forgery, or might not. So I took possession of the doctor’s typewriter and handed it over to them to experiment with. But that didn’t lead to anything more definite. They all agree that the letter was typed upon a nearly new Smith Premier portable. The doctor’s instrument is a Smith Premier portable only a few months old. The experts say that the letter was typed on an instrument of which none of the letters were damaged or deformed. All the letters in the doctor’s typewriter are perfect, but so they would be on any new machine. So we get no further in that direction. The letter may have been typed on the doctor’s machine or it may not.
‘The doctor himself raised a point. He declared that he never signed letters with his Christian name only. He certainly varied his signature in accordance with his intimacy with his correspondents. When he had occasion to write to Mr Fransham he always signed the letter with his initials alone—C.J.T. In the course of our investigations, we looked through such correspondence of Mr Fransham’s as we could find at No. 4 Cheveley Street. We came across a letter from Dr Thornborough written, not typed, upon a sheet of paper exactly similar to the one found in Mr Fransham’s pocket. It was in reply to a letter from Mr Fransham, who had apparently written to the doctor asking him if he knew what Mrs Thornborough would like for a birthday present. And that letter was certainly signed C.J.T. But to my mind that doesn’t prove anything. If the doctor had written a letter which he meant to repudiate later, one of his obvious dodges would be to employ an unusual signature.
‘Of course we went very carefully into the question of his whereabouts at the time the crime was committed. I don’t think there’s any doubt that Linton heard Mr Fransham fall, which established the time of his death at seven minutes past one. I went to Mark Farm myself and interviewed Farmer Hawksworth and his wife. They remembered the doctor’s visit that day, and are agreed that he left the house just about one o’clock. Mrs Hawksworth declares that she heard the grandfather clock strike one just after he went. It is Hawksworth’s habit to listen to the time signal at half-past ten every Sunday morning. He did so on the day after the doctor’s visit and found that the grandfather clock was four minutes slow. We may suppose, then, that the doctor left Mark Farm about three minutes past one. Linton says that he got home about ten minutes past one. This allows him seven minutes for the journey. Not an unreasonable time when one considers that he had to get out of the car to open the gate at the end of Gunthorpe Road, drive through and shut it again after him. On the other hand, if he had been quick about it, he would have had time to jump out, run along beside the wall and back again.’
‘In other words, the possibility exists that Dr Thornborough was behind the wall opposite the cloakroom window at seven minutes past one,’ Dr Priestley suggested.
‘That’s it, professor. The possibility exists, but we can’t prove it. The doctor swears that he never left his car after he had shut the five-barred gate behind him until he got out of it at his own garage. It was just as he drove away from the gate that he saw the man cross the road in front of him. He recognised Alfie’s coat, assumed that the man in it was actually Alfie, and took no further notice of him. He was accustomed to Alfie camping out in the corner of the grass field.’
‘This man, whoever he was, could have been behind the wall at seven minutes past one,’ Dr Priestley suggested.
‘Yes, if he ever existed, which I don’t believe he did. I believe the doctor invented the story to put us off the track. He knew that Alfie used to hang about the field, and thought it quite safe to say that he’d seen him coming out of it. What he didn’t know was that Alfie had been located three miles and more away twenty minutes earlier. It’s my belief that if anybody came out of the field at that time, it was the doctor himself.
‘Then there’s no doubt that Alfie must have got those cigarettes from the doctor himself or from one of his household. The Adderminster Police made a house-to-house inquiry through the town, and couldn’t find anybody who had so much as heard of Black’s Russian Blend. I asked Mrs Thornborough about them, and she said she had never seen the brand until a box of a hundred arrived about a week before the crime. There was nothing in the box to show who had sent them, but she assumes that it must have been her uncle. He often used to send her cigarettes and chocolates and things like that. The address was typewritten on an adhesive label, she remembered, and she supposed the parcel had been sent straight from the shop where the cigarettes were bought. She said that her uncle sometimes sent her things that way. She hadn’t kept the paper in which the parcel was wrapped, and she hadn’t smoked many of the cigarettes because she hadn’t liked them.
‘I talked to Alfie, who struck me as being a very decent hard-working chap, at least when he’s normal. He says he remembers nothing whatever of that particular S
aturday, and I believe him. But the Adderminster Police have tried to trace his movements. There’s no doubt about his call upon Colonel Exbury at a quarter to one. He was seen by at least three people walking through the town in the direction of Gunthorpe Road shortly before two o’clock. It would have taken him just about that time to walk from Colonel Exbury’s, and it corresponds with his call upon Mr Willingdon some time after two.
‘Then we come to the coat. Colonel Exbury says definitely that Alfie was not wearing it when he saw him. Two of the people who saw him in Adderminster an hour later noticed that he wasn’t wearing the coat, a fact which surprised them, since they’d never seen him without it before. On the other hand, Willingdon’s description to Jimmy leaves no room for doubt that Alfie was wearing the coat when he called at the cottage. I don’t think myself that there’s any mystery involved there. Alfie’s story of the man with the torch who bought his coat for half a crown and a handful of cigarettes is all moonshine. In his disordered state of mind, he may very well have dreamt the whole thing. On the Friday night he slept, probably with the coat wrapped round him, in the corner of the field. On Saturday morning he discarded it and walked to Colonel Exbury’s place and back. He returned to the field, put his coat on and then, discovering an urgent need for more cigarettes, walked across to the cottage and demanded some. Later in the evening he again discarded his coat and wandered down the town, dreaming again that he had sold it. We know what happened to him after that, and Jimmy found the coat next morning where he had left it.’
‘Then in your opinion neither Alfie Prince nor his coat have any connection with the crime?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘None whatever. The next person to be considered was Coates the chauffeur. As you know, professor, both Jimmy and I were a little bit doubtful about him. The doctor, as Mr Fransham’s executor, gave Coates a month’s wages and told him that he was free to look for another job. He told him at the same time of the amount of the legacy that was coming to him. Coates went straight down to his brother’s place somewhere near Winchester, and set to work upon the filling station which Jimmy had heard about. As Mr Redbourne, Mr Fransham’s solicitor had backed out of the affair, the doctor employed another lawyer, who got probate of the will without difficulty. His legacy was paid to Coates about three weeks ago. I’m pretty well convinced by now that he had no share in the crime.
