Here Comes a Chopper

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘Further to that,’ said Roger, who had been keeping this news-item up his sleeve all day, ‘somebody got into my room while we were gone and has made a great dent across the pillow, leaving a long, dirty mark.’

  ‘Shows how necessary our plot was,’ said Laura.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Go and catch a falling star,

  Get with child a mandrake root,

  Tell me where all past years are,

  Or who cleft the devil’s foot:

  Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

  Or to keep off envy’s stinging,

  And find

  What wind

  Serves to advance an honest mind.’

  JOHN DONNE, Song

  WEDNESDAY MORNING CAME and with it an outburst of early rising at the Stone House. Célestine had everybody up at half-past six, Henri had breakfast—that, to his mind, almost lascivious English cooked breakfast which, in over twenty years of service, he had not been able to train Mrs Bradley to cease from offering her guests—on the table by a quarter past seven, and George, the chauffeur, had the car on the gravel at eight.

  The inquest was called for ten o’clock, and was held in the dining-room at Whiteledge. A nervous Roger, an interested but slightly anxious Dorothy, an urbane but unusually silent Captain Ranmore, a peevish but recognizably uninhibited Lady Catherine, an incredibly beautiful Claudia, a smart, silent Sim with an incongruous bit of sticking-plaster on his head, a dignified Bugle and an alert and birdlike Mrs Bradley were provided with seats, and the coroner sat without a jury.

  ‘This is not,’ said the coroner, a precise but apparently non-committal man, a local solicitor, ‘a court of justice but a court of enquiry. We are here to ask how a man came by his death. If any of the interested parties wishes to be legally represented, that can be permitted, but please to give your names distinctly so that I may write them in my notes.’

  Roger’s eyes travelled to a tall, dark, beautifully tailored man who rose at once and said:

  ‘I represent Mrs Claudia Vesper, who is usually known as Claudia Denbies.’

  ‘Your name?’ enquired the coroner.

  ‘Alastair Charles MacAdam.’ Whilst the tall man was declaring himself, Roger noticed the inspector and the sergeant, who had seated themselves very unobtrusively at the end of his row. Whilst he was looking in their direction, another man got up and said that he was Algernon Bliss Simonds, and that he represented the railway company.

  At this point the door of the courtroom opened, and three men were shown in. The coroner looked up sharply and asked:

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘The engine-driver, fireman and guard you called, sir,’ answered the policeman who had let the men in. The coroner looked at them severely, and motioned them to a bench.

  ‘Now perhaps we can proceed,’ he said. ‘Call Inspector Lucas.’

  ‘Waste of time,’ observed Lady Catherine. ‘We had all this before.’

  The inspector gave evidence of having been called to see the body. The doctor who followed gave evidence that the man would seem to have been dead for between eight and twelve hours when he saw him, which was approximately at twelve noon on Good Friday morning.

  ‘Did you come to any conclusion as to the cause of death?’ enquired the coroner.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the doctor, who was a stolid man with a humorous mouth, ‘I did not.’

  ‘But I understood the corpse to be—to have been decapitated. You do not know whether decapitation causes death?’

  ‘It can do so,’ replied the witness, with austere enjoyment, ‘but in this case I do not think it was necessarily the decapitation which caused death.’

  ‘You mean you think that the man was already dead when he was decapitated?’

  ‘That is my opinion.’

  ‘What grounds have you for that opinion?’

  ‘The complete absence of bruises, no sign of the man having been tied up, and no physical evidence that he had been drugged. The body presented no evidence of any recent injury at all, except that the head was missing.’

  ‘Then, if so, I do not think I follow your reasoning. If the corpse showed no other sign of injury, why should you assume that decapitation was not the cause of death?’

  The doctor employed a variety of learned terms unintelligible to anybody in court but Mrs Bradley, who happened to be a doctor herself, in describing the reactions of tissue injured before and after death, and then added, ‘But the absence of other injury would be, in itself, in my opinion, sufficient proof. It is not consistent with the rest of the evidence to suppose that the man committed suicide, because of the missing head, and I am also not prepared to believe that he lay across the railway line merely at another person’s orders.’

  The next witness was Roger. He found that he was no longer nervous, for the court was so quietly formal, in spite of the fantastic evidence which had to be given, that he felt calm and entirely clear-headed.

  ‘Now, Mr Hoskyn,’ said the coroner, ‘you are the person who discovered the body. I think you had better tell the court exactly what occurred.’

  ‘I was walking on the common not far from Whiteledge on the morning of Good Friday last when I entered a small copse and saw the body.’

  ‘One moment, Mr Hoskyn. Were you alone when this occurred?’

  ‘Oh, no. I was with Mrs Bradley and Miss Woodcote.’

  ‘Are they in court?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had you any particular reason for entering the copse?’

  ‘Yes. I followed the dog which we had taken out for a run.’

  ‘Could you not have called him?’

  ‘No. He was not my dog and wouldn’t have come, I imagine.’

  ‘But you did not even try calling him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘To whom did the dog belong?’

  ‘To Miss Clandon, I believe, but at any rate, not to any of us who were with him.’

  ‘Is it, in your opinion, right or reasonable to take out a dog over which you have no control?’

  ‘Well, you see …’

  ‘I think you had some special reason for taking a dog out that morning. Will you please tell me clearly what it was?’

  ‘We thought the dog might track Mr Lingfield, who, of course, had been missing all night.’

  ‘With your permission,’ said Mrs Bradley rising, ‘I should point out, perhaps, that the dog was taken out by me, and not by Mr Hoskyn. When the dog ran into the copse Mr Hoskyn gallantly followed.’

  ‘So did you,’ said Roger.

  ‘And the dog had, in point of fact, tracked down Mr Lingfield’s body?’ said the coroner.

  ‘That is so, sir. Mrs Bradley and I then saw the body, and—well, the police came up then, and took over.’

  ‘The police came up? Why?’

  ‘They were all over the heath searching for Mr Lingfield, and Mrs Bradley whistled them up.’

  ‘Oh? She could whistle up the police although she couldn’t whistle up the dog! Was that it?’ asked the coroner, pleased with his own wit.

  ‘The police were more intelligent than the dog,’ said Roger, smoothly. ‘They came when called.’

  Claudia Denbies was the next witness. She was taken over her previous evidence, but still declared resolutely that the dead man was not Lingfield.

  ‘But you do realize,’ said the coroner, remarkably gently, ‘that the body has been recognized and sworn to by the chauffeur and valet, Herbert Sim, whom I shall call in a moment, to be that of Mr Lingfield, don’t you, Mrs Den—Vesper?’

  ‘I realize it, yes,’ said Claudia, ‘but my statement——’

  ‘My client’s statement,’ said Mr MacAdam, smoothing his waistcoat as he rose, ‘is also made upon oath, sir.’

  ‘No one was suggesting anything else,’ said the coroner, looking prim. ‘One of the witnesses is mistaken, that is all. It remains to discover which one.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr MacAdam.

>   ‘Do you pretend,’ continued the coroner, returning to Claudia, ‘to know as confidently as his manservant the details of——’

  ‘Mr Lingfield’s physical peculiarities,’ said Mr MacAdam, rising again, ‘were very well known to my client. She nursed him in hospital during the first World War, which you probably recollect, sir.’

  ‘Oh, ah, er, yes,’ said the coroner, recoiling from this simple revelation. ‘Oh, I see. And during this—er—nursing——’

  ‘Certainly. Mr Lingfield was suffering from——’ He ostentatiously flicked open a typewritten folder.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the coroner. ‘I think we can leave that, Mr MacAdam. Nevertheless,’ he continued, turning to Claudia again, ‘I must ask you (and not your lawyer,’ he added, glaring boldly at the beautiful solicitor who appeared to be cracking a small joke with Mrs Bradley), ‘I must ask you to give me an answer to my question.’

  ‘Yes, I do know,’ said Claudia sharply, ‘and Mr MacAdam has told you why. I know perfectly well that Mr Lingfield had two noticeable scars on the left buttock, and I even know how he got them, because, as a matter of fact, he told me all about it himself. He was getting through some barbed wire when he was poaching rabbits, and he caught his trousers and tore them and his—and himself, too.’

  ‘Poaching? But he had plenty of land of his own!’

  ‘He always preferred poaching on other people’s property. My late husband often remarked on it,’ said Claudia with an emphasis unmistakable in the circumstances.

  Somebody laughed and the coroner coughed a rebuke. Then he asked suddenly:

  ‘Which buttock?’

  ‘The—the left; no, the right,’ said Claudia.

  ‘Call Herbert Sim,’ said the coroner. Sim, his buttons shining and his chauffeur’s cap smartly under his arm, looked as though he were going to click his heels and salute the coroner. The coroner regarded him mildly.

  ‘You have no doubt that it was your employer whose body you saw?’ he enquired in gentle tones.

  ‘No doubt, sir.’

  ‘Describe the marks of identification which gave you the impression that it was Mr Lingfield who was dead.’

  ‘Scars, sir. On the posterior, sir. Two. About three inches apart. Shaped like you’d tear your trousers, sir, on barbed wire. Bluish, sir. For a dark-complected man, Mr Lingfield had a very white skin.’

  ‘Which side were these scars?’

  ‘On the left, sir. Mr Lingfield was a right-handed gentleman.’

  ‘What has that to do with it?’

  ‘If you’ll notice, sir, with very few exceptions a right-handed gentleman will put his left leg through first, sir. Same with getting into his trousers, if you’ll notice.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed, but you may be right. You swear to the left buttock?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. And, as I say, sir, the marks had kind of bluish edges, and was raised a bit. The wire was very rusty, I should fancy. He was lucky not to have blood-poisoning, and so I told him at the time I see them first.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have been very lucky afterwards,’ said the coroner, dismissing the witness, whom he privately classed as a scoundrel, although not, in this instance, a liar. He then called Claudia again.

  ‘Mrs Den—Vesper, you will understand why I attach so much importance to these scars. We must correctly identify this man. Now, since you came before me at the preliminary enquiry, I have devoted some thought to the matter, and I want you to tell me, if you can, any other reason you had for supposing that the dead man was not Mr Lingfield.’

  ‘I had no other reason. It was just the scars. I’m afraid there was nothing else to go by.’

  ‘And are you still prepared to hold to your statement in view of what Sim has just said?’

  ‘Of course I am. If I really thought it was Harry I should have said so.’

  ‘I am not——’ The coroner stopped, and gazed in exasperated enquiry at Mr MacAdam, who had risen in his place and was elevating a handsome nose (not completely of Scottish extraction) preparatory to offering battle.

  ‘Sir!’ said Mr MacAdam, in awful tones.

  ‘If you please,’ said the coroner, waving him back into his seat. ‘I was about to say, Mrs Den—Vesper——’

  ‘Do call me Denbies. I’m so much more used to it,’ said the witness.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Denbies. I was about to say that I am not impressed with your evidence of identification. It seems to me much less convincing than that of the valet Sim. Nevertheless, to clear the matter up, as there seems to be this dispute, if you did not believe the dead man to be Mr Lingfield, whom did you suppose it to be?’

  ‘My husband, Vassily Vesper,’ replied the witness, creating by this statement such a sensation that, as she caught her lawyer’s horrified eye, she involuntarily smiled.

  ‘But,’ said the coroner, himself completely taken aback by this disclosure, ‘how did you—what made you—why did you not tell me this at the last hearing?’

  ‘If you did not believe me when I told you I did not think it was Harry Lingfield——’

  ‘But the scars?’

  ‘Vassily had similar scars.’

  ‘That is very curious, surely?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very.’

  ‘How do you explain it?’

  ‘I suppose there was some more barbed wire somewhere.’

  ‘Were they—was it——?’

  ‘They were not both climbing under barbed wire at the same time—no. But my husband had his scars first.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘No. You must take my word for it. I am still under oath, you know.’

  ‘Mrs Denbies, you must please not to appear flippant. This is a serious matter. You now tell me that to the best of your belief the body you were shown in the mortuary was that of Vassily Vesper, your former husband?’

  ‘Not my former husband. I mean, we were not divorced. The answer to your question is, yes I do. I know quite well that it was.’

  ‘Although you cannot remember on which side Mr Lingfield had his scars?’

  ‘I’m no good at right and left, but if you’ll get the clerk or someone to stand and turn round—oh, thank you, Mr MacAdam!—I can assure you that Vassily’s scars were on this side.’

  She pointed to Mr MacAdam’s perfectly clothed and elegantly rounded posterior.

  ‘Oh, on the left, were they?’

  ‘If that’s the left, yes, they were.’

  ‘I think you know that the scars on the body were also on the left.’

  ‘Of course I know. That’s what I’m trying to point out. Harry’s were the opposite side.’

  ‘But Sim disputes that,’ said the coroner.

  ‘I never knew you were married to Vassily Vesper!’ said Lady Catherine, annoyed that she was disregarded. She remained so, however, except for the coroner’s irritated click of the tongue.

  ‘You know that for certain?’ he demanded. ‘You seemed very doubtful just now. Was Mr Lingfield a left-handed man?’ He was still addressing the witness.

  ‘I can’t remem——Oh, yes, I can, though! I think he must have been right-handed. At least, he used to shoot right-handed. Still, it might be awkward not to, so that wouldn’t prove much, would it?’

  ‘It would depend upon what you wanted to prove,’ said the coroner. ‘Call Inspector Lucas, again.’

  The inspector made way for Claudia, and the sergeant gallantly handed her a chair.

  ‘A bow and arrow?’ said the coroner, when the inspector had answered his first question. ‘Oh, I see. That’s the kind of shooting Mrs Denbies had in mind. I suppose that makes rather a difference.’

  ‘Our submission, sir,’ continued the inspector, ‘is that the deceased was killed by being shot through the throat or the jugular vein by an arrow, his head being afterwards removed.’

  ‘But it’s only a theory?’

  ‘Nothing but a theory, sir, of course. And, at that, we owe it to Doctor Lestrange Bradley, sir,’ he added ha
ndsomely, ‘who was the first to make the suggestion. We thought of a gun.’

  ‘I see. That was why the head was cut off?’

  ‘That again is only theory, sir, of course, but there would be need to disguise the actual means of causing death.’

  ‘It might be worth your while to look into it. I can see that. But why a bow and arrow? I believe that was mentioned before. Ah, yes! I have it here in my notes about using the right and left hand.’

  ‘The house-party were apt to practise archery, sir. It was one of the pastimes provided for the guests by Mr Lingfield. I believe he was himself a good archer.’

  ‘Call Hector MacIver,’ said the coroner.

  MacIver was short and squat. He had a small scrubby beard which made him look a good deal older than he was, and the childishly candid eyes which are not often set in brachycephalic skulls. He was sworn with a solemnity and a frightening importance which he himself involuntarily created by calling for the Roman Catholic instead of the Authorized Version.

  ‘Your name?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Hector James Andrew MacIver.’

  ‘You are an engine-driver?’

  ‘I am so.’

  ‘Will you describe your experiences on the night of Thursday, the 29th of March?’

  ‘I will do that. We were a wee thing late, ye ken, and I was not just easy in my mind that we would run to time. There is being just a bit anxious I was, but not greatly.’

  ‘There was nothing else troubling you, Mr MacIver, except that the train might be late?’

  ‘Och, now, no, there was not anything troubling me at all, at all but that same. I will be a man wi’a record, ye ken.’

  ‘No domestic worries?’

  ‘Och, that!’

  ‘Your wife was expecting a baby.’

  ‘Och, aye. And we have him, aye, and he’s bonny!’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. You were naturally a little anxious about your wife on that particular night?’

  ‘Och, aye. She’s no very bonny at siccan times, ye ken. But a’s well. Aye, and the wean’s fine!’