“Well, there was a chair missing from the picture,” Colin pointed out.
“Exactly. Could the murderer have been going towards the gallows with it, intending to complete the picture, and then been alarmed or distracted, and dropped it there to make his escape?”
“That sounds feasible enough, Roger.”
“Yes, but it’s so easy to think of a feasible explanation of a fact, without knowing in the least whether it’s the right one, and without probably realising how many other feasible explanations of the same fact there may be. That was the trouble with the old-fashioned detective-story,” said Roger, somewhat didactically. “One deduction only was drawn from each fact, and it was invariably the right deduction. The Great Detectives of the past certainly had luck. In real life one can draw a hundred plausible deductions from one fact, and they’re all equally wrong. However, we’ve no time to bother with that now.”
“You were talking about the chair,” Colin reminded him.
“Yes. It’s odd that it should have been there, but I can’t see that it has any real bearing on the actual crime. Though if my explanation is right, the police would have found the murderer’s prints on it, though not Ena Stratton’s. I’m sorry, by the way, to keep on using that term for the poor fellow who retorted on her at last in the only possible way, but there doesn’t seem to be another. Executioner is too formal.”
“David,” said Colin carefully, “actually admitted it to you?”
“Oh, no. He didn’t try, and I wouldn’t have let him if he had. It just went tacitly, by default. But Ronald did.”
“Ronald told you he and David had done it?”
“No, no. Ronald apparently had no hand in it. He doesn’t appear to be in the least worried about his alibi. But he knows David did it. He told me with some care that David hasn’t said a word to him, or he to David; but he knows all right, and I should imagine that David knows he knows. But Ronald and I took some time in explaining elaborately to each other that neither of us do know anything, and don’t intend to; so that’s all quite satisfactory.”
“And the police don’t know.”
“No, that’s our great consolation. And that’s what we’ve got to build on. Let’s try to reconstruct their ideas. They can’t possibly know even that murder has been committed at all, let alone who did it. They may remotely suspect, but all they actually know is that there has been some hanky-panky going on. Some interested party wiped that chair clear of finger-prints; and not just the back, but the sides and seat and everything. You did wipe the seat, didn’t you?”
“I polished the blessed seat!” groaned Colin.
“Don’t be unhappy. It’s a very good thing you did. Don’t you see that with a wooden seat like that, not only finger-prints but traces of foot-prints would be looked for. The suicide theory involves Mrs. Stratton having stood on a chair. Well, with modern methods of detection it would be perfectly simple to establish whether anyone had or had not stepped recently on to the seat of that chair from this roof. The surface of the asphalt is covered with flint; quite a large amount of it would be carried up on to the seat of the chair, and pressed firmly into the varnish, and even into the wood, by the weight of the person. The knocking over the chair would displace some, but not all; and the traces of what had been displaced would be quite visible. A microscopic examination of the seat would tell all this as clearly as I’ve told it to you.
“And I’m not at all sure,” added Roger uneasily, “that a microscopic examination, even after the polishing you gave it, won’t show that Mrs. Stratton didn’t stand on it at all. It’s marvellous how accurate these expert witnesses are. Still, as you can understand, much better that you did polish than that you shouldn’t have done.”
“Well, come, that’s something,” said Colin, but he sounded more than a little uneasy too.
“So what do we come to then? The police know that someone has been tinkering with that chair, with or without a criminal motive. And they may be pretty certain that Mrs. Stratton never stood on it at all. If they are, then undoubtedly there is going to be the devil to pay; because that proves murder. But even then, looking on the hopeful side, to prove murder isn’t to prove a murderer; and though there certainly would be a nasty bother, and a great deal of unpleasantness all round, I’m not at all sure that David’s neck would ever be seriously in danger. Even if the police were quite, quite sure he’d done it, there’s so little real evidence in the case at all that they would have an exceedingly difficult job to prove it.
“However, that’s the worst that can happen, and it may not; so let’s leave that possibility out of the reckoning just now, and concentrate on what is quite certain. Well, all that’s really certain so far, I think, is that the police feel that there is cause for further investigation. They’ve made photographic records of the appearance of the roof, and they’re retaining all of us here in case they want to question us further. That’s all quite normal, and not so very formidable after all.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Colin.
“But what I don’t quite like is the removal of the body to the mortuary. It was inevitable, if the police weren’t satisfied; but it means a post-mortem—and goodness knows what that may reveal.”
“But hang it all, man, the cause of death must be obvious enough?”
“Oh, the cause of death, yes. But that’s not all they’ll look for. There’s the question of bruises, you see. I didn’t ask Chalmers last night whether he’d looked for any bruises on the body, but I don’t imagine he did. Or Mitchell. In a perfectly straightforward case, they probably wouldn’t. But now, of course, the man who does the p.m. will—and that may prove a little awkward.”
“But why might there be bruises on the body?”
“Well, consider how it must have been done. I don’t suppose Mrs. Stratton was persuaded quite peaceably to put her neck in the noose while David gave her a friendly hoist, do you? How it was actually effected I can’t say, and no doubt a certain amount of guile was employed as far as possible: but there must have been some kind of a last-second struggle. Not a long one, because, so far as we know, she never screamed; and I think she would have been heard if she did. I wonder,” said Roger thoughtfully, “how the devil the man did succeed in getting it done so quietly. And so quickly. He can’t have been more than three or four minutes over it, at the most, so far as I can work out the times. Though it is a little doubtful just when he got back into the ballroom.”
“You always say,” Colin remarked tentatively, “that the psychology of the murderer is a great help in reconstructing a crime. Couldn’t that apply, too, to the psychology of the victim?”
“That’s a very shrewd observation, Colin,” said Roger with enthusiasm. “And it interests me particularly, because it reminds me of a remark I made last night about Ena Stratton, which sounded very profound, but which I thought, as soon as I’d made it, might not bear very much examination. Perhaps it was deeper than I suspected. In fact, Colin, I believe I made it to you. Do you remember my saying that something or other, I forget now what, was significant not only of everything that had happened to Mrs. Stratton so far, but of anything that might happen to her in the future?”
“Yes, I do remember. I wondered at the time what the deuce you meant.”
“To tell you the truth, so did I. But I must have meant something, surely. You can’t call to mind what the occasion was, I suppose?”
“Yes, I do. It was the exhibitionism.”
“Ah, was it? I said her exhibitionism was significant of anything that might happen to her in the future; and what did happen was that she got murdered. Well, could her exhibitionism have been responsible for that? I don’t quite see how.”
“It was the time she climbed on that beam. Can you get anything out of that? Suppose she climbed up on the gallows, and wee David swarmed up after her?”
Roger laughed. “That’s taking me a trifle too literally. But it’s a possible idea, for all that. That’s the trouble
. Any extravagant idea in that line is possible with Mrs. Stratton. But I’m afraid that if your theory were right, and David had slipped the noose over her head on top of the gallows instead of underneath them, her neck would have been broken. And there’s no question of that. She died from strangulation all right. The rope was much thicker and stiffer than the ordinary hangman’s rope, and the excoriations on her palms show that she tried to clutch at it, so she probably died more slowly; but her own movements would tighten the noose round her neck in a fairly short time.
“Still, you may not be so wide of the mark, Colin. It’s certain, if we accept that there was no more than a very short struggle, as I think we can, that some kind of ruse was employed; and I’ve no doubt that Mrs. Stratton herself, and possibly her exhibitionism, dictated the ruse’s nature. Still, that’s beside the point. The trouble is that there must have been some violence used, if only at the last second; and violence always leaves traces.
“And if there are such traces, the suspicion of the police will be confirmed, the inquest will be adjourned tomorrow after just a formal opening for further evidence, and there’ll be the devil and all to pay.”
“Hell’s bells,” observed Colin gloomily.
“So what,” said Roger, “are we going to do about it?”
II
What Roger did about it first of all was to go downstairs and ask Ronald to find out for him when the post-mortem was to be performed and what doctor was going to perform it.
Ronald rang through to Chalmers, and learned that it was to be carried out that afternoon, by a doctor from Westerford named Bryce, and that both Chalmers and Mitchell were to be present.
“Half a minute,” said Roger, and took over the receiver. “Is that you, Chalmers? Sheringham speaking.”
“Oh, yes?” came Dr. Chalmers’s pleasant tones.
“This man, Bryce. He’s a good man?”
“Quite. An elderly man, with a good deal of experience.”
“A little odd, isn’t it?” Roger said cautiously. “A little odd, I mean, the police wanting a p.m. in such a very straightforward case?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, really. They usually do here.”
“Coroner fussy?”
“Oh, no. But the police haven’t much to do, you know, and that makes them keener when they do get anything.”
“I see. You think that’s all there is to it?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure there’s nothing more,” said Dr. Chalmers, most reassuringly.
Roger handed over the receiver to Ronald. “Ask him to ring you up as soon as the post-mortem’s over, and tell you its findings,” he said, “even if it is a bit unofficial. I expect he will.”
Ronald put forward the request. Then he nodded to Roger, to intimate that Dr. Chalmers had agreed to do so.
Roger sidled out of the room with the noiseless shuffle to which one feels driven when another person is telephoning.
It appeared to him that nothing further could be done until the result of the post-mortem was known.
He wandered slowly out into the garden.
The inaction irked him, for he was more worried even than he had let Colin see. That thoughtless action in adding the one detail which Ena Stratton’s murderer had stupidly overlooked, might have unpleasantly serious consequences. Roger was not thinking so much of possible punishment, as of the effect on his hobby. If things did reach the point when he had to admit what he had done, the confidence of the police would be lost to him for ever; never would he be allowed to go officially detecting again. And yet he could not regret the action. Better that Roger Sheringham should be in the permanent black books of Scotland Yard than that David should suffer what blind justice would certainly order him to suffer, for an act of almost insane desperation.
But, if Roger could prevent it, things should not reach that point.
And the really important thing was to prevent the inquest from being adjourned. An adjourned inquest, in such circumstances, would mean the ears of every pressman in the kingdom cocked to high heaven. Inevitably mud would be slung, reputations spotted, and the whole childish joke of the party twisted to fit the most preposterous insinuations. The party, and all those who had attended it, would be “news,” of the yellowest description. If it could possibly be done, that must be stopped.
But how?
Time was so infernally short. The police had somehow got to be convinced that very day that there was no ground for further inquiry: that the case really was as simple as it had looked at first. And with that damning chair in their possession, Roger did not see how on earth he was going to convince them of anything of the sort.
Besides, the trouble was that he himself, for all he knew, might be suspect. It would only be justice, and not merely poetic justice at that, if he were. He tried to remember what his attitude to the police had been, and theirs to him. Had he for instance appeared too partisan that morning in dismissing the position of the chair as of no importance? And yet the irritating thing was that it had been of no importance; none at all. Had he tried to lead the inspector too obviously last night?
Roger mounted the steps that led to the raised walk round the rose-garden, his hands sunk in his pockets, his head dropped in thought.
Yes, the attitude of the police towards him had altered. Last night the inspector had been delighted to meet him, only too eager to ask his advice and listen to his suggestions. This morning on the roof Roger’s suggestions had plainly failed to convince him. Later, when the scenes with which he was so familiar were being enacted, he had not even been consulted at all. More, it might be that he had been purposely excluded. The arrival of the police at the back door and the injunction to the maid to say nothing to the master of the house about it might have been aimed more at Roger than at Ronald.
It was not nice to feel suspect. Roger, who had chased so many quarries with gusto, felt horrid little cold finger-taps up and down his spine at the idea of being a quarry himself. Was it possible that the police suspected him even of the actual murder? He must not get morbid: but was it? And if so, and the fact of his having handled that chair did come out, together with the fact that he had been on the roof, alone, during the crucial time—well, Colin had put up a very nasty case against him last night; how would that case sound in open court, from the dock?
No, it was ridiculous. He was Roger Sheringham.
But still…
“Hullo, Mr. Sheringham,” said a voice at his elbow. I’ve been watching you pace round like a lion in a cage. I’m sorry to disturb the reverie, but I’m simply dying to know what it’s about.” Mrs. Lefroy was sunning herself in a little arbour let into the rambler walk.
“Then I shan’t tell you,” said Roger, recovering himself not without difficulty. “You brought my heart into my mouth, and nearly out through the top of my head. You really mustn’t speak suddenly like that to people in the dock for murder.”
“Were you in the dock for murder?” Mrs. Lefroy asked curiously.
“I was. I’m not, thank goodness, now.” He seated himself on the bench beside her. The presence of Mrs. Lefroy was right. Obviously there was not the least use in brooding. “Do you mind talking to me,” he said carefully, “about—about pancakes. Yes, pancakes.” Pancakes are very soothing things.
“Pancakes!” Mrs. Lefroy repeated rather dubiously. “I’m not sure that I know much about pancakes. But I can tell you how to cook a chicken à la Toulousaine.”
“Tell me,” said Roger eagerly.
III
At a quarter to four Ronald Stratton, on Roger’s impatient instigation, rang up Dr. Chalmers. No, the doctor was not yet back.
Roger possessed himself somehow for twenty-five minutes, but certainly not in patience.
“And they started at three!” he groaned. “Oh, ring up again Ronald.”
Ronald rang up again.
This time he was more lucky. “Dr. Chalmers has just come in? Ask him to speak to me, will you? Mr. Stratton.”
In t
he pause, Ronald beckoned to Roger. “If you put your head close to the receiver, you’ll probably be able to hear too.”
Roger nodded, and put his head close to the receiver.
He could actually hear Ronald’s heart thumping, and knew that Ronald could probably hear his.
Then came Chalmers’s voice, just as cheerful as ever.
“That you, Ronald? I was just going to ring you up, my man. Yes, just got in.”
“The p.m.’s over?”
“Oh, yes. Quite simple. Of course, the cause of death was never in doubt.”
“No, no. But …”
“What is it, my man?”
“Well, did you find anything else? Bruising on the body, or anything like that?”
“Oh, yes. The body was rather badly bruised. The skin broken on both knee-caps, a large contusion on the right hip and another on the right buttock, and a bit of a bruise on the back of the head which I’m afraid we must have overlooked last night. Otherwise nothing.”
“I see,” said Ronald, in a dull voice.
He looked inquiringly at Roger, who shook his head. There was no need to ask anything further.
“That all you wanted to know? We shall just send in a formal report. In fact, the whole thing was nothing but a formality. Yes. Well, good-bye, Ronald,”
Ronald hung up the receiver and looked at Roger.
Roger looked at him.
A bruise on the back of the head, Roger was thinking. Then he must have overlooked that, too, as well as the doctors, for he had felt the back of Mrs. Stratton’s head last night for the exact purpose of finding out if there was any bump or swelling, and had detected none; it must have been too high up under her hat. In any case, that explained only too clearly why there had been no struggle or noise. David had stunned her. Roger wondered what with, and whether it was now safely concealed. David had stunned her, and she had slumped down on to her knees, breaking the skin on the rough surface of the asphalt. How the other bruises had been acquired did not matter; the one on the back of the head was the damning one. So that was how David had done it.
Jumping Jenny Page 16
