by John Rhode
‘What makes you so certain that it was Dr Thornborough who sent the postcard?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘Common sense, professor,’ Hanslet replied crisply. ‘To begin with, there’s the evidence of the typewriter. It’s not conclusive, I know, but it’s highly suggestive, if nothing more. And then there’s the postmark. Who else in Adderminster but the doctor can have known where Mr Fransham bought his tobacco? Finally, there’s the fact that the executors paid the account without question. And the principal executor, as no doubt you remember, was the doctor.’
Dr Priestley smiled faintly. ‘In any case you are satisfied that the order for these cigarettes did not originate with Mr Fransham?’ he asked.
‘Of course, and that brings me to another point. In the ordinary way, one would suppose Mrs Thornborough would have written to her uncle to thank him for his present. He would have replied asking her what she was talking about and the fat would have been in the fire. But if it was the doctor who ordered the cigarettes, everything would have been easy. He only had to offer to post his wife’s letter of thanks and then to destroy it.’
‘Have you gathered anything of the relationship existing between Dr Thornborough and his wife?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘From everything I’ve heard they seem to have got along pretty well together. When a married couple don’t hit it off, they usually take a delight in repeating their grievances to their neighbours. But in this case nobody has suggested anything of the kind. And Mrs Thornborough has stuck to her husband, which is more than most women would have done under the circumstances.’
‘Would you describe Mrs Thornborough as an attractive woman?’
‘She’s a very good-looking woman and I dare say a lot of people would be attracted by her. Of course, I haven’t met her under the most favourable circumstances. No doubt she looks upon me, quite rightly, as a policeman who’s trying to lay her husband by the heels. But when all that’s said and done there’s something about her that rather puts me off. I don’t know how to explain it, except by saying that she seems distant somehow.’
‘Distant in her manner, do you mean?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘And in her mind as well. She gives you the impression when you talk to her, that she’s thinking all the time about something quite different. I don’t mean that she’s dreamy—far from it. She gives you the impression that she’s got something far more important to think about even than the murder of her uncle.’
‘Has it occurred to you to associate Mrs Thornborough with the motive for Mr Fransham’s murder?’
Hanslet looked slightly puzzled. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean, professor,’ he replied. ‘She can’t have done the job herself. Linton’s quite sure that she was upstairs at the time.’
‘That was not my meaning,’ said Dr Priestley. ‘I will express myself differently. Have you considered the possibility that the murderer’s aim may have included Dr Thornborough?’
Hanslet looked more puzzled than ever. ‘Well, no, I haven’t,’ he replied. ‘I may be a bit slow in the uptake, but I don’t see what you’re getting at, professor.’
Dr Priestley smiled. ‘What is your principal reason for believing in Dr Thornborough’s guilt?’ he asked.
‘Motive,’ replied Hanslet promptly. ‘Nobody but the doctor and, of course, his wife, have benefited in the slightest degree by Mr Fransham’s death.’
‘But suppose that Mr Fransham’s murder was only the first stage in a carefully-prepared scheme? Mr Fransham may have been a total stranger to the murderer, and yet the former’s death may have facilitated the latter’s aims. Do you follow me?’
‘Not altogether, I’m afraid, professor,’ Hanslet replied warily.
Dr Priestley made a gesture of impatience. ‘You force me into putting a purely hypothetical case in support of which there is not the slightest evidence. Let us suppose for a moment that Mrs Thornborough was the ultimate object of some unknown person’s designs. He may have been inspired by a passion for her appearance or her expectations or for both. A necessary preliminary to the realisation of her expectations was her uncle’s death. And before the unknown person could marry her, he must contrive to separate her from her husband. Since apparently she had not the desire to divorce Dr Thornborough, this separation could only be achieved by the latter’s death.
‘Our unknown, and as I must emphasise again, entirely hypothetical, murderer was thus faced with the problem of the removal of two individuals. His attempt to solve this problem was not devoid of ingenuity. Having contrived to murder Mr Fransham under circumstances which threw suspicion upon Dr Thornborough, he believed that the subsequent removal of the doctor could safely be left in the hands of Justice. You admit yourself, superintendent, that but for a single gap in the evidence, Dr Thornborough would have been arrested shortly after the crime. And had your evidence been complete, there is very little doubt that he would have been convicted.’
The superintendent stroked his chin reflectively.
‘That’s all very well, professor,’ he replied after a pause. ‘I admit that your theory gets round the difficulty of motive. But my suspicions of the doctor don’t rest only on that. Who else could have had such an intimate knowledge of all the people and circumstances concerned?’
‘Anyone who possessed the necessary facilities for observation,’ Dr Priestley replied. ‘Sir Godfrey Branstock, for instance.’
Hanslet almost leapt out of his chair. ‘Sir Godfrey!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re not suggesting that he was after Mrs Thornborough, are you, professor? Why, he was engaged to be married to another girl next week. Besides, there’s never been any suggestion that he was at Adderminster when Mr Fransham was killed.’
‘Has there been any suggestion that he was not?’ Dr Priestley asked dryly.
‘Well, no, there hasn’t. Except that you remember he told Jimmy that he saw Mr Fransham start off that morning. According to Coates he didn’t hurry on the road and I suppose that Sir Godfrey could have got to the doctor’s house before Mr Fransham’s car arrived. But somehow, the idea doesn’t seem likely to me. Can’t you suggest someone else, professor.’
‘Certainly,’ Dr Priestley replied. ‘Young Mayland, who we are told, was brought up in Branstock’s house.’
‘Ah now, that’s just a shade less impossible,’ Hanslet exclaimed. ‘I didn’t tell you that I had a conversation with Mayland last week, did I? He told me himself that he had known Mrs Thornborough before her marriage and got on very well with her then. But he doesn’t seem to have seen much of her since. And apart from that there’s nothing whatever to connect him with the crime.’
‘I am afraid you are inclined to attach too much weight to my entirely imaginary hypothesis. It is not at all necessary that Mrs Thornborough should have been the murderer’s ultimate objective. All I wished to point out was that Mr Fransham’s removal may have been the first step in a considered plan, and not its ultimate aim. You have heard no more of the tenant of the cottage in Gunthorpe Road, I suppose?’
‘Young Willingdon?’ Hanslet replied. ‘Oh yes. Like every- one else concerned he has been kept under observation. Not directly, of course. We have merely asked the Leeds police to make a few inquiries and keep an eye on his movements. They report that his troubles have blown over, thanks to his father, who had to dip his hand pretty deeply into his pocket. Frank Willingdon has settled down in Leeds to whatever job he holds in the old man’s business. We can count him out as far as Mr Fransham’s death is concerned.’
‘And yet I think it not improbable that he is in possession of certain facts which you would find extremely valuable,’ Dr Priestley remarked quietly.
Hanslet looked doubtful. ‘Jimmy had a talk with him at the time, you remember, professor. If he knew anything likely to be useful, why didn’t he divulge the facts then?’
‘Possibly because the inspector’s questions did not cover a wide enough ground,’ replied Dr Priestley dryly. ‘Was Willingdon asked, for instance, whether he
was acquainted with Miss Nancy Lanchester?’
‘He certainly wasn’t,’ Hanslet exclaimed in considerable astonishment. ‘To the best of my recollection we hadn’t so much as heard of the lady’s name at that time. And even if Willingdon did know her, I don’t see what possible bearing the facts could have had on Mr Fransham’s death. I wonder what on earth you’re driving at, professor?’
Dr Priestley brushed the question aside with a characteristic gesture. ‘By all accounts Willingdon was not averse to youthful and somewhat dubious society,’ he continued. ‘During his enforced visit to London, he is said to have mixed with a set which my generation would stigmatise as fast. Sir Godfrey Branstock, it appears, dispensed hospitality to people of very similar tastes and habits. It would not surprise me to learn that Willingdon had become acquainted with one or more of the people who frequented Sir Godfrey’s house.’
‘It’s more than likely,’ Hanslet agreed. ‘But what of it? You’re not suggesting that Sir Godfrey’s bright young friends had anything to do with Mr Fransham’s death, are you, professor?’
Dr Priestley shook his head gravely. ‘I make no direct suggestion of the kind. You were present in this room rather more than a week ago when Oldland described the circumstances of Sir Godfrey’s death. He maintained then that it would be ridiculous to speak of coincidence in connection with the deaths of Mr Fransham and Sir Godfrey. And he was perfectly correct. No question of coincidence arises when a second event follows naturally upon a first.’
Hanslet scratched his head, then sought inspiration in the glass of beer which stood on the table beside his chair.
‘You’re getting a bit beyond my depth, professor,’ he said. ‘I suppose when you speak of two events, you mean that Sir Godfrey’s death followed naturally upon Mr Fransham’s, but I’m blest if I can see what makes you say that. The only connection between the two men was that they happened to live next door to one another and so became acquainted. Their interests were so different that this acquaintanceship never ripened into anything closer. I’m pretty certain that if there had been any intimacy between them we should have heard of it by now. From what I can make out, neither of them went out of his way to cultivate the other, although they were perfectly friendly when they met.’
‘I do not question the accuracy of your knowledge of the relationship which existed between them. It is most unlikely that any real intimacy existed. But, all the same, I have more than a suspicion that had Mr Fransham not been murdered, Sir Godfrey Branstock would be alive today.’
‘I can’t follow you there, professor,’ Hanslet objected. ‘How on earth could Mr Fransham, alive or dead, have prevented the accident which proved fatal to Sir Godfrey?’
‘That is a matter which I do not yet feel competent to discuss. But I cannot dismiss the possibility that the study of Sir Godfrey’s death may eventually be the means of throwing light upon the murder of Mr Fransham. I would therefore recommend you not to lose sight of the members of what I may call Sir Godfrey’s entourage. And while we are upon that subject a point of some interest occurs to me. Have you learnt whether Miss Lanchester or her family have benefited in any way under the terms of his will?’
‘No, I haven’t, but the solicitor ought to have got back from America by this time, and I can very easily find out. I’ll call at No. 3 tomorrow, and if Mr Mayland’s there he’ll tell me all about it.’
‘That piece of information is worth acquiring, I think,’ said Dr Priestley, in a tone suggesting that the matter had very little further interest for him. ‘Ah, I see that you have finished your beer. Harold, perhaps you will be good enough to fetch another bottle for the superintendent. Since you know where to find it, there is no need to trouble Mary.’
Harold left the room, to return a minute later with a bottle which he set down beside Hanslet. The latter opened it, poured some of the beer into his glass and tasted it.
‘By jove, that’s good!’ he exclaimed. ‘Although you don’t drink beer yourself, professor, you certainly know how it should be kept.’
‘I always endeavour to study the tastes of my guests,’ Dr Priestley replied stiffly. ‘Mary has orders to place the beer in the refrigerator shortly before it is likely to be required. I have always maintained that a domestic refrigerator is one of the greatest boons conferred upon us by science. Its influence upon health and comfort is so great that I should no more think of being without one than I should of being without a bath. You have no doubt studied the subject of refrigerators, superintendent?’
‘Well, I can’t say that I have,’ Hanslet replied, amused at Dr Priestley’s enthusiasm. ‘Not deeply, at all events. But I’m thoroughly grateful to this particular one, I assure you. Talking of Mayland, is there anything else you would like me to ask when I see him?’
But Dr Priestley was not thus to be ridden off his topic. ‘You have not studied the subject?’ he said in a tone of mild surprise. ‘And yet the prominent place occupied by the refrigerator in a modern household cannot have evaded your attention. You cannot escape the ubiquity of this most convenient instrument. For instance, a refrigerator was mentioned in the course of the inquest on Sir Godfrey Branstock. The cook, as you may remember, in describing her discovery of the body, mentioned a buzzing in her head, which she attributed at the time to the sound of the refrigerator motor, but which was subsequently explained as being due to the effects of the foul air. We know then that a refrigerator is installed at No. 3 Cheveley Street. Do you happen to be aware if Mr Fransham also possessed one?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ the superintendent replied with a touch of impatience.
But Dr Priestley appeared not to notice his guest’s symptoms of irritation. ‘The point would be of interest from a statistical point of view,’ he said dreamily. ‘Here we have an example chosen at random. In connection with the murder of Mr Fransham, four houses have been mentioned, two situated in London and two in the country. An examination of these four houses would provide an enlightening test of the popularity of the refrigerator. In how many of them had one been installed, I wonder?’
Hanslet shrugged his shoulders. But it was always wise to humour the professor, however extravagant his whims might appear. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But if you’re really interested, I can easily find out.’
Dr Priestley’s voice and expression suddenly became more alert. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘So you are still in a position to ascertain fresh facts, however trifling? And how would you proceed to obtain the necessary information in this particular case, may I ask?’
Hanslet smiled. ‘You won’t catch us out as easily as that, professor,’ he replied. ‘Although no active steps have been taken recently, it doesn’t follow that matters are being allowed to slide. We are still in close touch with all the people who came under our notice at the time of Mr Fransham’s murder. You ask how I could find out which of those four houses, two of which are now empty, had refrigerators installed? Well, I’ll tell you.
‘In the case of Mr Fransham’s house, No. 4 Cheveley Street, I should send a man round to ask the Stowells. On the strength of the annuity which they enjoy under his will, they have retired from service and are living in a house at Hammersmith.
‘In the case of Dr Thornborough’s house, Epidaurus, I should get Superintendent Yateley on to the job. When Dr and Mrs Thornborough left Adderminster, they asked their cook and parlourmaid to come with them, but they refused; one can easily guess why. They are now both in service in Adderminster. The cook, for instance, is now with Colonel Exbury, whose name was mentioned in connection with Alfie Prince. The parlourmaid has taken a situation at the local inn, the Red Lion.
‘With regard to the cottage in Gunthorpe Road, Yateley would only have to ask the owners, Mr and Mrs Whiteway, who are now living there. But as it happens that would not be necessary, for Jimmy, who went over the place with Didcot the house agent, mentioned in his report that it was fitted up with every modern gadget, refrigerator included.’
; ‘Excellent!’ Dr Priestley exclaimed. ‘It is very satisfactory to learn that the police are in a position to ascertain fresh facts or to verify old ones. They could, for instance, find out where Mr Fransham’s car was kept when it was not in use?’
‘They know that already, professor,’ Hanslet replied. ‘When I took over the case from Jimmy, I went to No. 4 Cheveley Street as a matter of routine, and had a good look over the premises. Behind the six houses, there is a range of mews which consisted originally of coach houses and stabling with rooms above. The range was divided into six portions, one being allotted to each house, on to which they backed. The entrance to the mews is between numbers 4 and 5 and runs down at rather a steep pitch. The result of this is that the surface of the ground in the mews is on a level with the basements of the houses. In the case of No. 4 and possibly of the others, there was a communicating door between the basement and the stabling, but Stowell, who was there when I looked over the place, told me that it was never used.’
‘Is there a similar door in the case of No. 3?’
‘There may have been at one time, but there isn’t now. The stabling belonging to No. 3 was pulled down when the house was modernised, and new kitchen premises were built on the site. In the case of the other five houses, the stabling remains much as it was, but only the coach houses are now in use as garages. Mr Fransham kept his car in the coach house belonging to No. 4.’
‘Do you happen to know if any of the rooms above these coach houses are now occupied?’
‘I noticed that in one or two cases chauffeurs seemed to be living in them. But Coates didn’t. Stowell told me that Mr Fransham preferred him to live in the house itself.’
‘Since the kitchen premises of No. 4 are still situated in the basement, access can presumably be obtained to the house by means of the area?’
