The Ha-Ha Case

by J. J. Connington

  “Very remarkable,” Wendover commented, playing the part which Sir Clinton had assigned to him. “Difficult to get over that, I think.”

  Dunne evidently felt that Sir Clinton was on the brink of conversion, if only these last few doubts could be dispelled.

  “To my mind,” he said, “the most convincing thing is this. Some of the prophecies have been fulfilled by inventions which were undreamed-of in Dun Kenneth’s day. He had no way of describing clearly what he saw in his vision. The underlying ideas were outside his scope completely. He had to make shift with words as best he could. Now take the case of that prediction, ‘The day will come when fire and water shall run through all the streets and lanes of Inverness.’ That represents his attempt to describe the gas-pipes and water-mains, of course. Lighting by gas wasn’t dreamed of in his day. He had no words to fit his vision, and yet he made a recognisable attempt to tell us what he saw. Then again, ‘The day will come when long strings of carriages without horses shall run between Dingwall and Inverness.’ Just imagine a man in the early sixteen hundreds being shown a railway train. What would he have made of it? Would he not have described the railway in just those very terms?”

  He glanced triumphantly at Sir Clinton, who nodded his head as though admitting the force of the argument.

  “I give in,” said the Chief Constable, with a smile. “In any case, no natural shrewdness could have predicted the Doom of the Seaforths so accurately. Tell Mr. Wendover about that, Mr. Dunne.”

  Dunne was nothing loath.

  “Dun Kenneth was put to death by Lady Seaforth,” he explained, “and when he was about to die, he prophesied that the last chief of the clan would be both deaf and dumb. He would have four sons, all of whom would die before their father. And in that day there would be four great lairds—Gairloch, Chisholm, Grant, and Ramsay—who would be neighbours of the last Seaforth. And one would be bucktoothed, another would be hare-lipped, a third half-witted, and the last a stammerer. That prophecy was fulfilled to the very letter, Mr. Wendover, when the last of the Seaforth chiefs died in 1815—more than two centuries after Dun Kenneth had spoken.”

  “That’s amazing,” Wendover ejaculated, without the need to feign astonishment. “There’s no explaining that away by guesswork or chance coincidence. Marvellous!”

  “And now, Mr. Dunne, you promised to show us Coinneach’s talisman, you remember,” Sir Clinton reminded him.

  Dunne was nothing loath. He opened a drawer and produced the stone which Inspector Hinton had seen at an earlier date.

  “This is Coinneach Odhar Fiosaiche’s talisman,” he said solemnly, as he handed it to Sir Clinton. “I found it on the shore of the loch into which he cast it on the day of his death. When he threw it away, he prophesied that its finder would be gifted as he himself was.”

  Sir Clinton took the stone and seemed to muse for a moment.

  “Coinneach Odhar—Dun Kenneth,” he said absently. And your name is Kenneth also, isn’t it, Mr. Dunne? That’s a very curious coincidence—if it is a coincidence.”

  He turned the stone over in his hand.

  “And have you inherited Coinneach’s gifts?” he asked.

  Dunne shook his head despondently.

  “Sometimes I see vague . . . it’s hard to find a word for them . . . not quite pictures, they are,” he said in a half-doubting tone. “Nothing really clear,” he added honestly.

  Sir Clinton’s attention seemed to be caught by the little tube of pasteboard inserted into the hollow of the stone.

  “What’s this?” he inquired curiously.

  “I thought perhaps the hole had been widened by wear, during all these centuries,” Mr. Dunne explained, “and I pushed that tube into the cavity to bring it back to its original size or near it. I thought it might make all the difference. But the visions are still too vague for me to understand them,” he concluded in a disheartened tone which touched Wendover’s feelings.

  “I think I might help you,” Sir Clinton said slowly. “By the way, Mr. Dunne, where did you pick up this bit of cardboard?”

  “In a wood, on the edge of a stream. There was a dead body near by,” Mr. Dunne explained in the most matter-of-fact way.

  Sir Clinton exchanged a glance with Wendover. Evidently Dunne’s memory of events after the crucial moment was fairly clear.

  The Chief Constable turned the stone in his hand as though not quite sure of his ground.

  “It occurs to me,” he said to Dunne in a half-hesitating voice, “that perhaps you’ve done more harm than good by inserting this thing into the talisman. You’re an expert in such things. I’m the merest amateur. Still, one hears of natural sympathies and antipathies, doesn’t one? Suppose this had been a loadstone and you inserted an iron tube into it, wouldn’t that have a bad effect on the magnetic properties of the loadstone?”

  “I believe it might,” Dunne concurred with a gleam of hope in his face. “And you think . . .?”

  “My impression is that if you’re going to put anything into that cavity, it ought to be of the same nature as the stone itself. This is quartz, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s quartz,” Dunne assured him with almost painful eagerness.

  Sir Clinton seemed to reflect for some seconds.

  “These things are beyond me,” he admitted at last. “One can but try, and luckily trying can do no harm. They make silica tubes now out of fused quartz. Now if I get you a tube of silica to fit that hole, will you give it a trial, Mr. Dunne? It might help. It might be no good. Still, it’s worth trying, I think.”

  Dunne’s depression seemed to pass off in a pathetic wave of hope.

  “If you could, Sir Clinton!”

  “We must have it made to the exact size,” the Chief Constable pointed out. “This cardboard affair would serve as a model. It’s no use to you. I’ll take it, and get a duplicate made in quartz for you. It’s no trouble. I know where these things can be done.”

  Dunne, evidently excited by a renewal of his hopes, made no objection. In fact, he pressed the tiny object on Sir Clinton with a flood of warm thanks.

  When they had taken their leave of him and were back in the car, Wendover turned to his guest with an air of disapproval.

  “You’re rather a beast, Clinton, deluding that poor devil as you did.”

  Sir Clinton shrugged his shoulders.

  “He’s no worse off than before,” he said. “In fact, he’s happier, owing to my kindness. For a week at least, until he gets this quartz tube, he’ll be living in a pipe-dream of expectancy, gloating over the coming visions. I’ve given him that, and he wouldn’t have had it without me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it in that way,” Wendover acknowledged.

  “Besides,” Sir Clinton continued, “I had to get hold of that bit of cardboard. If I’d insisted on taking it from him, he’d have been terribly upset, I expect. But with a little tact, one can get what one wants without ruffling people’s feelings, as you see.”

  “What is it?” Wendover inquired. “I didn’t get much of a look at it before you slipped it into your pocket.”

  Sir Clinton took out the little object, and Wendover stopped the car to examine it. He saw a ring of green-covered paste-board which seemed faintly familiar. Then as he turned it round in his fingers he read

  BRI

  SMOK

  CART

  Above this was a printed ring with part of some animal’s head in the centre and the inscription: “KYN . . . Trad . . .” round about. The rest of the printing had been cut away. Wendover had no difficulty in filling the blanks: “BRITISH SMOKELESS CARTRIDGE. KYNOCH. Trade Mark.” His memory told him that this little ring had been cut from the shot-filled end of a sporting cartridge; and a closer inspection showed the knife-mark where the cut had been made. The other end of the ring had a rough edge, where the turn-over had been blown out in the discharge of the shot. Apparently the ring had fitted neatly into the cavity of the stone, for there was no sign of crushing or abrasion on the smoo
th paper surface.

  “How did you know to look for this?” Wendover asked, as he returned it to Sir Clinton.

  “I told you that Hinton writes excellent reports,” the Chief Constable answered as he stowed the little object in his pocket. “He saw this thing—Dunne forced it on his notice, in fact. He knew where it came from, for Dunne made no secret of it. The finding of it was a check on Dunne’s memory, so Hinton entered it up in his report. That’s how I knew. Quite simple.”

  “It’s a bit cut off the top of an exploded cartridge?”

  “The cartridge it came from is the same make as the ones they were using that morning,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “I haven’t got the covering-disk; but I’ve no doubt it had Number Five shot in it, like the others.”

  “What do you make of it?” Wendover demanded.

  “It’s more fun to work out a puzzle than to look up the answer,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “I’d hate to deprive you of that pleasure, Squire. Excellent practice for the rural brain, especially for a sporting man like yourself. Think away. It’s plain enough, since you’ve got all the facts from Hinton’s reports. And while you’re cogitating, suppose you buzz along to Dr. Aloysius Brinkworth’s. I made an appointment with him this afternoon, and we’re just about due.”

  They found Dr. Brinkworth in his consulting-room awaiting them, and the Chief Constable plunged at once into the business in hand.

  “I shan’t detain you long, Dr. Brinkworth,” he explained. “I merely wish to ask one or two questions. You carried out the post-mortem on Mr. John Brandon’s body?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Brinkworth acknowledged. “I have my notes here . . . er . . . if you wish to see them.”

  “Hardly worth while, unless you wish to refer to them yourself,” Sir Clinton assured him. “Now what did you give as the cause of his death?”

  “Er . . . I put it down that he died from shock resulting from a gunshot injury to the skull and brain, with subsequent loss of blood.”

  “Shock, one can understand. The points I wish to be clear about are the injury and the haemorrhage. Never mind about the surface injuries, the skin, and so forth. I’ve read about these. A bone was injured, wasn’t it?”

  “Er . . . yes . . . the right temporal bone. It lies here,” Dr. Brinkworth explained, passing his fingers to and fro from his eye to the top of his ear on the right side. “That bone was badly damaged by the shot and part of it was broken off.”

  “This part?” Sir Clinton asked, taking out a little box and showing the piece of bone he had got from the inspector.

  “Yes . . . er . . . that part, that is a bit of the so-called petrous part of the temporal bone. It’s one of the hardest bones in the skeleton.”

  Sir Clinton seemed to think for a moment before putting his next question.

  “If this petrous fragment got detached by the force of the shot on the outer part of the temporal bone, it might be driven inward, mightn’t it?”

  “Er . . . I think that’s correct. It might be forced forward and inward, possibly.”

  “So that it would be bedded on soft tissue?”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  Sir Clinton seemed satisfied with this.

  “Now, Dr. Brinkworth, I’m no anatomist, so you must help me to understand. In the case of a gun-shot like that, where would the blood come from?”

  Dr. Brinkworth considered for a few moments.

  “Er . . . Mainly, I think, from the principal vein there, the lateral sinus.”

  “Does that run in the neighbourhood of where this petrous bone would land among the tissues after its detachment from the main block of the temporal bone?”

  Dr. Brinkworth closed his eyes and seemed to be visualising the relative positions of the objects.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “the bone fragment would be lying near the vein. I think one might . . . er . . . go a step further and assume that the rupture of the vein was due to the action of this bit of the petrous bone.”

  “Now this is what I want to get at,” Sir Clinton explained. “Suppose that state of affairs, is it not just on the cards that this petrous fragment, after rupturing the vein, remained in situ and plugged the wound in the vein so as to prevent an immediate haemorrhage?”

  “I hadn’t . . . er . . . thought of that point; but you’re quite right, Sir Clinton. Undoubtedly the bone fragment might block the tear it had made and prevent any effusion—any marked effusion, at any rate.”

  “But if there was a second shock of any sort, the bone might be slightly displaced and a flow of blood might occur?”

  “Yes. Assuming, of course, that the second shock was not too long delayed.”

  “A good shake, or anything of that sort, would do it? And this fragment of the bone might be loosened from its temporary bed and might drop out of the main wound, or it might be carried out by a heavy flow of blood if there was one, owing to the position of the body?”

  “That might quite well happen,” Dr. Brinkworth agreed. “How did you come to think of this, Sir Clinton? It’s very . . . er . . . ingenious.”

  “But not to my credit,” Sir Clinton said with a smile. “The defence pleaded it in one of the most famous shooting cases when I was in my cradle. I’ve read about it, and it struck me that something of the same sort might have happened here.”

  He returned the bone fragment to its box and rose from his chair.

  “Thanks for your help, Dr. Brinkworth. You could, of course, give evidence on this point, if necessary?”

  Dr. Brinkworth concurred without ado, though with the qualification that the matter was one of opinion rather than of fact. Sir Clinton and Wendover took their leave and went back to the car.

  “So that puts a blue pencil through Hinton’s notion about Laxford’s evidence,” Wendover remarked with a trace of Schadenfreude, as they drove off towards the Grange. “The boy was shot on the edge of the ha-ha and fell on to the ground below, just as Laxford said. But there was no blood on the grass there because this bit of bone plugged the big vein. Then when they shifted the body, the jolt loosened the bone. Out it came, and the vein began to bleed. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “It’s mostly hypothetical,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if it had happened. And now, Squire, let’s get home quick. I’ve got young Brandon’s diary to read over. To judge from what one’s heard, he seems to have been a simple soul, poor cub. We’ll see if the diary bears that out.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Assignment

  “HERE we are, then,” said the Chief Constable cheerfully, as the car pulled up before The Cottage. “A yard or two farther on, I think, Wendover. Leave room for Hinton. He’s just coming.”

  As Jim Brandon stepped out of the big saloon, the inspector’s car drew up immediately behind, so that in moving towards The Cottage gate, Jim had to pass its windows. He halted momentarily as his eye lighted upon Hay, sitting in the back seat between two impassive uniformed constables. Jim’s glance seemed to make him uneasy, for after an attempt to brazen things out, he turned his head and stared sullenly through the farther window.

  The inspector got down from his driving-seat and went up to Sir Clinton, who was standing at the gate with a small attaché-case in his hand.

  “What about him, sir?” Hinton inquired in a low tone as he made a covert gesture towards Hay.

  “We don’t need him immediately,” Sir Clinton answered. “Leave him in charge of your men for the present, in the car.”

  “And about a warrant, sir?”

  From the inspector’s intonation, it was clear that he was nursing a grievance. He had received his orders, but no explanation of them had been vouchsafed to him, and his dignity had been offended by this procedure. He guessed, from the Chief Constable’s preparations, that the case was coming to a crisis, and the failure to provide a warrant seemed to him a gross oversight on the part of his superior.

  “I’m not sure we shall need a warrant,” Sir Clinton replied cautio
usly. “I haven’t heard what Hay has to say for himself yet. You’ve told him nothing? Asked no questions that might put him on the alert?”

  “No, sir. I’ve done exactly as you ordered,” Hinton explained, with an air of throwing all responsibility on his superior.

  “Very well. Then we’d better go in, now. I got Mr. Wendover to ring up and make an appointment with Mr. Laxford, to make sure he’d be on the spot; but I don’t suppose he’s expecting half the local police force to drop in on him. It’ll be a pleasant surprise, no doubt.”

  The inspector grudgingly admitted to himself that Wendover had his uses. That move would enable them to descend on Laxford like a bolt from the blue. Much better than ringing up officially and giving him time to prepare himself for the interview. Very much better than swooping down in force, only to find that Laxford was not on the premises.

  The Cottage was built on much less generous lines than Edgehill, and when the four of them were ushered into its sitting-room they made it seem almost crowded.

  “My friend, Sir Clinton Driffield,” said Wendover in an easy tone, as Laxford rose to his feet. “He wants to see you about something or other, Mr. Laxford, so I came across to introduce him. You know the inspector, of course, and Mr. Brandon also.”

  Laxford’s glance flitted from one to another of his undesired guests as he mechanically acknowledged Wendover’s introduction. He seemed doubtful of Sir Clinton, distrustful of the inspector, and resentful of Jim Brandon’s presence. His face was pale, and it was clear that this invasion in force had come as a most unpleasant shock.

  “You won’t mind answering a question or two, Mr. Laxford?” Sir Clinton said briskly, as though he took consent for granted and was anxious to get through some purely formal business as quickly as possible.

  Laxford glanced again round the group: at Wendover who had effaced himself when his part was played, at the inspector’s hard eyes in the official mask, at Jim Brandon’s lowering face, and at Sir Clinton awaiting his answer with an encouraging smile.