Campion took his defeat calmly. He looked very young, standing on the hearth-rug before her. He had removed his spectacles and all trace of his lackadaisical and inconsequential manner had vanished.
‘If I were only sure,’ he said, ‘it would be different. I should insist. But I am not sure. There is an explanation of this affair which frightens me. If it is the truth, no one in this house is safe. As it is, you will see that I can’t possibly make any accusation, now, but I beg you to leave yourself.’
Great-aunt Caroline sat back in her chair, her hands folded.
‘No one in this house is safe,’ she repeated. ‘Almost my exact words to you, young man, if you remember. But I shall not stir, and you may do as you please about the others. Personally, until you are certain I should let them remain where they are. If Nemesis is to overtake them, you know, it will. However, I feel rather differently about Joyce. Does she come within the scope of your rather sweeping suggestion?’
‘Certainly,’ said Campion emphatically.
‘Then Joyce shall go,’ said the old lady with decision. ‘If you will send her to me I will see that she raises no objections. She will want to stay with Miss Held, I suppose: a charming girl, quite unusually intelligent. And you yourself, Mr Campion – what a curious name that is; I wonder why you chose it? – what do you propose to do?’
Campion looked hurt. ‘I remain where I am, if I may,’ he said. ‘But I wish you would go yourself. I suppose it’s no use my reopening the subject?’
Her small mouth set in a firm obstinate line. ‘None whatever,’ she said shortly.
Mr Campion realized that he had heard the literal truth.
CHAPTER 17
OPEN VERDICT
THE GAIETY AND warmth of Ann Held’s unacademic study seemed only half-hearted when its owner and Mr Campion sat one on either side of the fire at half-past five on Monday, waiting for Marcus and Joyce to return from the inquest on Aunt Julia. Ann, who had cheerfully shouldered half Joyce’s troubles, smiled at the bespectacled young man opposite her.
‘Of course I’m awfully glad to have you,’ she said, ‘but why didn’t you stay for the verdict?’
Campion turned a mournful face towards her. ‘I couldn’t bear Stanislaus’s cold and slightly unchristian attitude any longer,’ he said. ‘He’s an old friend of mine, and contrary to the best traditions of the amateur sleuth, I have put my foot in it rather badly with him. It’s most unfair, too,’ he went on. ‘I gave him the broadest possible hint; in fact I told him that if he visited every public-house between the Grantchester meadows footpath and Socrates Close he would find Uncle William’s alibi. But just because I didn’t go further and mention that I had already interviewed the redoubtable Mrs Finch, of “The Red Bull”, who had assured me that she could state on her oath that Mr William Faraday, dazed and a little queer, had entered her establishment at fifteen minutes to one and left it in an aimless fashion half an hour later, he is quite ridiculously annoyed with me. I consider myself down-trodden. Did you ever read a book called Misunderstood?’
Ann Held began to laugh. ‘I always thought that child deserved all he got,’ she remarked.
‘He did,’ said Mr Campion. ‘So do I. That’s where the tragedy comes in. They’re late,’ he went on. ‘The jury must have taken longer to make up their minds than I expected. The coroner is a first-class man. He knows what he is about, and he seems to be able to write faster than most of his tribe.’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with it,’ said Miss Held.
He enlightened her. ‘Everything said in the court is taken down by the coroner in longhand. That’s why witnesses are encouraged to be short and snappy. We are extremely lucky to get this inquest over in one day,’ he added, ‘although of course there was precious little evidence of any kind to be given.’
Ann curled up in her chair. ‘This is a most remarkable business,’ she said, ‘and of course I’m an outsider, so I may easily make a fool of myself. But it seems to me that this is obviously a matter for – well, a medico psychologist, or whatever you call them.’
Mr Campion stretched his long thin legs to the blaze and the firelight flickered on his spectacles.
‘It is,’ he said. ‘But what’s the good of that? The difficulty about psychology is that it hasn’t any rules. I mean, if one person can imagine the state of mind in which another might perform certain acts, then those acts are sound psychology. In other words, given a person’s batty enough, there is nothing he or she may not do. That’s as far as anyone seems to have got at present.’
‘Batty,’ said Ann Held. ‘You’ve said it. I suppose they’ll bring this in a verdict of murder.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Campion. ‘At least, I hope not. No one will be more surprised than my ex-friend Inspector Oates if they do. Of course they may do anything. There’s a problem in psychology for you. Why does the collective mind of twelve men work more irrationally, more prejudicially than that of any of those same twelve men taken separately? Hullo, here they are.’
He swung round in his chair and rose as Joyce and Marcus entered. Joyce looked exhausted, and she sank wearily into a chair. Campion looked inquiringly at Marcus.
‘Open verdict?’ he asked.
The young man nodded. ‘Yes. “The deceased met her death by conium poisoning, but there is not sufficient evidence to show whether it was self-administered or not.” They were away for some time. I think there was a strong vote in favour of suicide. Ann, you’re a heroine to put up with us like this.’
‘You sit down,’ said his hostess. ‘I’m making tea. Joyce, you look all in.’
There was a welcome pause while the little brass kettle on the hob was persuaded to boil and the tea brewed. Joyce took off her hat and passed her hand over her hair.
‘It’s wonderful to be back here after that terrible room,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realized it was going to be so public, and I loathed the people who came to watch. What’s it got to do with them, anyhow? They tell me I shan’t be needed tomorrow. I’m so glad. Ann, I don’t know what I should do without you.’
Miss Held smiled at her across the teacups. ‘Mr Campion was saying they are lucky to get it over so soon,’ she remarked.
‘We are,’ said Marcus. ‘By the way, I thought the coroner was splendid. He’s a first-class man.’ He paused, recalling the scene to his mind. ‘Uncle William came out unexpectedly well,’ he remarked. ‘I hope he has the same luck tomorrow when the inquest on Andrew is resumed.’
‘It is extraordinary,’ said Joyce slowly, ‘what a different person Uncle William is in public. It’s just as though he’s able to put over the impression one always feels he’s trying to create at home.’
Marcus smiled sourly. ‘He’ll have Campion to thank if he doesn’t make an extremely awkward impression tomorrow at the inquest on Andrew,’ he said. ‘But I think that alibi will save his bacon altogether. By the way, I had a line from Sir Gordon Woodthorpe this morning. He’s going to be a very decent old boy over the business. Uncle William really has been a first-class lunatic. Still, it’s the alibi which is really important. It’s rather odd that the police, by concentrating on the time of Seeley’s murder, have punctured what case they had against William completely. Why did you wait until today to tell the Inspector, Campion?’
‘That’s what Stanislaus says,’ said that young man regretfully. ‘In fact, he’s very rude about it. Yet I gave him every hint I could. You see, I wanted him to concentrate on Uncle William, because,’ he added slowly, ‘I believe that Uncle William has the key to the whole problem in his hand if he could only realize it.’
The three looked at him questioningly, but he offered no further explanation, and something in his manner prevented them from pressing him. Joyce shivered.
‘When that expert gave evidence that there had been a trace of conium in Aunt Julia’s cup, I was waiting for a verdict of murder,’ she said. ‘Then of course that long rigmarole about the patent medicine we found came out. That
cleared Aunt Kitty. But they didn’t say they had found any trace of conium in the paper which held the medicine.’
‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘That’s why there wasn’t a murder verdict. There wasn’t any trace. But it doesn’t take much imagination to see that that was the way the stuff was administered. The drug must have been soaked into one of the pellets which was then recoated. It probably looked exactly like the others.’
Joyce nodded. There was a far-away look in her brown eyes.
‘Albert,’ she said, ‘we’re all being indiscreet, and thank goodness it doesn’t matter here. Did you ever find out about the rope?’
He nodded. ‘It was identical,’ he said. ‘This isn’t to be broadcast, of course, although it’ll all come out tomorrow. Yes, it was obviously the same stuff. That takes us straight back to the house again. We haven’t accounted for the clock weight yet, either.’
The girl leant back and closed her eyes. ‘I’m ashamed to say it,’ she said, ‘but when Aunt Faraday insisted that I should leave the house yesterday I was glad. I never thought I was a funk before, but I am. That ludicrous footmark, the attack on Uncle William, the dreadful atmosphere of something dark and awful going on right under one’s nose, it got me down. Poor Aunt Kitty! Is she all right? She looked so little and helpless in the box.’
‘I think of all the people in that house,’ said Mr Campion judicially, ‘Aunt Kitty’s position is the safest. But I’m glad you’re out of it.’
Once again they looked at him inquiringly, and it was Ann Held who put the question.
‘When?’ she said. ‘When will you know?’
To their astonishment he rose to his feet and strode restlessly up and down the room. Neither Marcus nor Joyce had ever seen him so agitated before.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘My theory is only a theory. I have no proof. I have only an idea that came in the night. Look here, my children, I must go back. I shall see you all tomorrow.’
Marcus followed him to the doorway. ‘I say,’ he said anxiously, ‘it’s not a thing I advise, of course, but if you need a revolver . . .’
Campion shook his head. ‘Thanks, old boy, I have one,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, there’s only one thing I could have to make me feel really safe.’
‘And that?’ inquired Marcus eagerly.
‘Suits of armour and solitary confinement for four,’ said Mr Campion.
CHAPTER 18
REPORT OF THE DEPUTY CORONER
This is the report of the Deputy Coroner (Mr W. T. Thomas) sitting in the temporary Cambridge coroner’s court, directing the jury in the inquest of the body of Andrew Seeley, of Socrates Close, Trumpington Road Cambridge, at the conclusion of the third day of the hearing, Friday, the 18th of April.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN of the Jury, we are here to inquire into the death of Andrew Seeley, 61 years of age, of Socrates Close, Trumpington Road, Cambridge, whose body was taken from the River Granta on 10 April last.
We have heard the evidence of various witnesses summoned to this court, and we must agree, I think, with Inspector Oates, of Scotland Yard, when he tells us that we have heard all the available evidence to help you to arrive at your decision.
We know that Andrew Seeley had been missing from his home since Sunday, 30 March, when he attended morning service in the company of his aunt, Mrs Faraday, his niece by marriage, Miss Blount, and his three cousins, Mrs Berry, Miss Julia Faraday, and Mr William Faraday, all of the same address.
Now, the unfinished letter which has been read to you indicates quite clearly that the deceased had every intention and expectation of returning to finish it after the service. With reference to this letter, there is one point about it which may have appeared to some of you as extraordinary. The intended recipient has not been traced. But you must remember that Mr Seeley does not seem to have been a man who talked much about his friends or his personal affairs, and it is quite conceivable that he should have correspondents of whom the rest of the household knew nothing. I must say here that I am surprised and a little shocked to hear that this person, who, unless she is abroad or otherwise prevented from reading the newspapers, must have recognized herself as the one addressed in this letter, which has been widely published, should not have come forward in spite of police appeals. However, this is a small point, and we must not let it confuse us as to the main issue.
We have heard evidence to show that Andrew Seeley did not drive home with his three cousins as had apparently been his intention before entering the church. You have heard the deposition of John Christmas, stating that the deceased instructed him to drive the two ladies, Mrs Berry and Miss Julia Faraday, home in the car, as the deceased and his cousin, William Faraday, had decided to walk. He has gone on to say that these instructions astonished him, as they were contrary to custom. You will remember that you have heard that the habit was not for the car to proceed directly home, but to take a roundabout route in order to arrive at the same time as the slower horse carriage, in which Mrs Caroline Faraday chose to drive with her great-niece companion, Miss Joyce Blount. So you will see that should the two men have decided to walk straight home, they would have arrived not much later than the rest of the party.
We now come to the evidence of William Faraday, cousin of the deceased, and I ask you to consider this very carefully.
We know that the service concluded at half-past twelve. William Faraday has told us that he accompanied his cousin as far as Coe Fen Lane, leading to Sheep’s Meadows. Here, he tells us, there was a thick ground mist, a fact which has been borne out by other witnesses. He has also said that he suggested to his cousin that they should return, pointing out that the route they were taking was an extremely roundabout one. This, he says, his cousin refused to admit, and they quarrelled.
Mr Faraday then went on to tell us that he turned back alone and remembers coming out on to the road by the Leys school. There, he states, he was seized by an attack of amnesia, a complaint from which he has suffered intermittently for some time. You have heard expert evidence in support of this statement, although no one has come forward who has actually seen Mr Faraday under the influence of the malady before the date in question. However, that does not of itself make his statement untrue. Indeed, we know that he visited a very famous doctor as far back as June of last year and described his case.
Continuing William Faraday’s evidence we come to some very important points. I must ask you to make particular note of the times mentioned. Mr Faraday says he remembered no more after the attack seized him until he found himself walking into the gates of his home in Trumpington Road at a time which the evidence of the rest of the family shows to have been 1.35 p.m.
There I want to leave Mr Faraday’s evidence for a moment.
The next part of this tragic story which we have to consider is the discovery of the body of Andrew Seeley by two students whose evidence you have heard. You have had medical evidence which shows that the deceased met his death as the result of a bullet wound in the head. You have also heard experts who have told you that in their opinion the shot was fired at close range. The bullet taken from the body has been proved to be one discharged from a .45 revolver, the type of weapon which was used in the army during the late war, and of which there are, no doubt, many examples still unregistered in this country.
The medical evidence has also shown that the body had probably remained in the water for some considerable time. Doctor Hastings, of the Home Office, has told us that in his opinion death took place before the body was put into the water, and that as nearly as can be ascertained, it had remained immersed for a period not less than eleven days and not more than fourteen. Now Andrew Seeley was last seen on Sunday, 30 March. This, you will see, is twelve days before the discovery of his injured body in the river.
We now come to the evidence of Stanley Waybridge, of Lady-smith Cottages, Grantchester Road, who has told us that on Sunday, 30 March last, he was just about to sit down to the midday meal which his wife had set upon the ta
ble, remarking that she was five minutes early and thus providentially fixing the time in his mind as 12.55, when he heard a shot from the direction of the river. Being naturally interested and surprised to hear such a noise on a Sunday, he went to his back door to see if he could catch a glimpse of the firer of the shot. But, he has told us, and his statement coincides with that of William Faraday, there was a thick ground mist rising to a height of five or six feet in the valley and over the river, and he saw no one. His wife called to him that his meal was becoming cold, and he returned to it, not unnaturally forgetting the entire incident until nearly a fortnight later, when the body was discovered.
Now, I must warn you that there is no proof that the shot which Stanley Waybridge and his wife heard was the same shot which killed Andrew Seeley, but you must also remember that although the police have made unremitting inquiries no one has been found who heard any other shot in that vicinity on the Sunday in question, or indeed on any of the three subsequent days. Doctor Hastings has said that the condition of the body is consistent with death having taken place at this time. I think it is safe, therefore, for us to agree that at least the probability is that this was the fatal shot which Stanley Waybridge heard at five minutes to one o’clock.
This brings us to the conclusion that if our surmise is correct, Andrew Seeley met his death somewhere in the near vicinity of the river within ten minutes of his arrival there, presuming he walked straight to that place after leaving the church. Mr Faraday has told you that in his opinion it was about ten or twelve minutes after they left church that he parted from his cousin. Witnesses have come forward to show that these two men, William Faraday and the deceased, were seen turning into Coe Lane together at the time stated, but no one seems to have encountered either of them on the lonely footpath between the lane and the river. Nor will you, as residents of Cambridge, find anything remarkable in this. The town is empty at this time of year, and most people who had been abroad in the morning would be hurrying to their homes for luncheon and not walking in the meadows, more especially as the weather was damp and misty.
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