The Mad Hatter Mystery

by The Mad Hatter Mystery (retail) (epub)

  “Yes? Well, good God! Get on with it! What about him?”

  “I am afraid I must tell you that he is dead. He has just been found at the Tower of London. There is reason to believe that he was murdered.”

  The foot of Sir William’s glass rattled on the polished table-top. He did not move; his eyes were fixed steadily and rather glassily on Hadley, and he seemed to have stopped breathing. In the long silence they could hear motor horns hooting in the street outside.

  A nerve in Sir William’s arm kept twitching. He had to take his hand from the glass to keep it from rattling on the table. He said, with an effort, “I—I have my car here.”

  “There is also reason to believe,” Hadley went on, “that what we thought a practical joke has turned into murder. Sir William, your nephew is wearing a golf suit. And on the head of his dead body somebody has put your stolen top hat.”

  III

  The Body at Traitors’ Gate

  THE TOWER of London.

  Over the White Tower flew the banner of the three Norman lions, when William the Conqueror reigned, and above the Thames its ramparts gleamed white with stone quarried at Caen. And on this spot, a thousand years before the Domesday Book, Roman sentinels cried the hours of the night from Divine Julius’s Tower.

  Richard of the Lion’s Heart widened the moat about a squat gray fortress, fourteen acres ringed with the strength of inner and outer ballium walls. Here rode the kings, stiff-kneed in iron and scarlet; amiable Henry, and Edward, Hammer of the Scots; and the cross went before them to Westminster, and the third Edward bent to pick up a lady’s garter, and Becket’s lonely ghost prowled through St. Thomas’s Tower. There were tournaments on Tower Green. There were torches for the feasts in William’s hall. Up Water Lane moves now that shadowy company of eight hundred years, in the echo of whose names you can hear arrows sing, and the thud of weighted horses.

  A palace, a fortress, a prison. Until Charles Stuart came back from exile it was the home of the kings, and it remains a royal palace today. Bugles sound before Waterloo Barracks, where once the tournaments were held, and you will hear the wheel and stamp of the Guards. In the green places under the trees, a raven comes to sit on a drinking fountain, and looks across at the spot where men and women with bandaged eyes mounted a few steps to put their heads upon a block.

  On certain dull and chilly days there creeps from the Thames a smoky vapor which is not light enough to be called mist nor thick enough to be called fog. The rumble of traffic is muffled on Tower Hill. In the uncertain light, battlements stand up ghostly above the brutish curve of the round-towers; boat whistles hoot and echo mournfully from the river; and the rails of the iron fence round the dry moat become the teeth of a prison. Low-lying under the shoulder of Tower Hill, the few white stones almost startling against dingy gray, these walls show thin slits for windows, and you think upon the unholy things which have gone on inside them. Of the two children smothered by lantern-light, and pale Raleigh walking the ramparts in ruff and feathered hat, and Sir Thomas Overbury racked with poison in the lower room of the Bloody Tower.

  Rampole had visited the Tower before. He had seen it in the grace of summer, when grass and trees mellow the aisles between the walls. But he could visualize what it would be like now. The imaginings grew on him during that interminable ride in Sir William’s car between Piccadilly Circus and the Tower.

  When he thought about it afterwards, he knew that those last words Hadley spoke were the most horrible he had ever heard. It was not so much that a man had been found dead at the Tower of London. He had eaten horrors with a wide spoon during those days of the Starberth case in Lincolnshire. But a corpse in a golfing suit, on which some satanic hand had placed the top hat stolen from Sir William, was a final touch in the hideous. After placing his stolen hats on cab horses, lamp-posts, and stone lions, this madman seemed to have created a corpse so that he could have at last a fitting place to hang his hat. The evil grotesquerie of the situation was enhanced because Rampole had already smiled at the antics of the thief as an undergraduate jest. With his memories of the Tower of London, it seemed an admirable choice of a place wherein to decorate a dead man thus.

  The ride was endless. In the West End there had been a fairly light mist, but it thickened as they neared the river, and in Cannon Street it was almost dark. Sir William’s chauffeur had to proceed with the utmost care. Hatless, his scarf wound crazily about his throat, strained forward with his hands gripping his knees, Sir William was jammed into the tonneau between Hadley and Dr. Fell. Rampole sat on one of the small seats, watching the dull light fall on the knight’s face through the blurred panes of the limousine.

  Sir William was breathing heavily.

  “We’d better talk,” Dr. Fell said in a gruff voice. “My dear sir, you will feel better. It’s murder now, Hadley. Do you still want me?”

  “More than ever,” said the chief inspector.

  Dr. Fell puffed out his cheeks meditatively. He was sitting forward, his hands clasping one cane so that his chin was almost upon them, and the shovel hat shadowed his face.

  “Then if you don’t mind, I should like to ask—”

  “Eh?” said Sir William, blankly. “Oh. No, no. Not at all. Carry on.” He kept peering ahead into the mist.

  The car bumped. Sir William turned and said, “I was very fond of the boy, you see,” and then continued to crane his neck ahead.

  There was a silence, while the horn honked savagely, and the three figures in the rear seat wove about before Rampole’s eyes.

  “Quite,” said Dr. Fell, gruffly. “What did they tell you over the phone, Hadley?”

  “Just that. That the boy was dead; stabbed in some way. And that he wore a golf suit and Sir William’s top hat. It was a relay call from the Yard. Ordinarily, I shouldn’t have got the call at all. The matter would have been handled by the local police station, unless they asked the Yard for help or we intervened of our own accord. But in this case—”

  “Well?”

  “I had a feeling. I had a feeling that this damned hat business wasn’t sheer sport. I left orders—and got smiled at behind my back for it—that if any further hat antics were discovered, they should be reported to the Yard by the local station, and sent through Sergeant Anders directly to me. There. That’s what a fool I thought I was.” Hadley jerked his head, and stared across at Dr. Fell with vindictive eyes. “But, by God! I told you I wasn’t one of those fools who boasted about being a thoroughly practical man. And I’ll take charge of this case myself.”

  “That’s sensible. But I say, how did the people at the Tower know it was Sir William’s hat?”

  “I can tell you that,” snapped Sir William, rousing himself. “I’m tired of picking up the wrong hat when I go out in the evenings. All top hats look alike in a row, and initials only confuse you. I have Bitton stamped in gold inside the crown of the formal ones, opera hats and silk ones; yes, and bowlers too, for that matter.” He was speaking rapidly and confusedly, and his mind was on other things. He seemed to utter what thoughts went through his head without thinking about them at all. “Yes, and come to think of it, that was a new hat, too. I bought it when I bought the Homburg, because my other opera hat got its spring broken. I’d only worn it once before; it was—”

  He paused, and brushed a hand over blank eyes.

  “Ha,” he went on, dully. “Odd. That’s odd. You said my ‘stolen’ hat, Hadley. Yes, the top hat was stolen. That’s quite right; how did you know it was the stolen hat they found on Philip?”

  Hadley was irritable. “I don’t know. They told me over the phone. But they said General Mason discovered the body, and so—”

  “Ah,” muttered Sir William, nodding and pinching the bridge of his nose. He seemed dazed by trifles. “Yes. Mason was at the house on Sunday, and I dare say I told him. I—”

  Dr. Fell leaned forward. In a subdued way he seemed excited.

  “So,” he said, “it was a new hat, Sir William? A new hat?”
r />   “Yes. I told you.”

  “An opera hat,” Dr. Fell mused, “which you were wearing for the first time. When was it stolen?”

  “Eh? Oh. Saturday night. When I was coming home from the theatre. We’d turned off Piccadilly into Berkeley Street. It was a muggy night, rather warm, and all the windows of the car were down. Besides, it’s rather dark along there. What was I saying? Oh, yes. Well, just opposite Lansdowne Passage Simpson slowed down to let some sort of blind man with a tray of pencils, or something, get across the street. Then somebody jumped out of the shadows near the entrance to the passage, thrust his arm into the rear of the car, twitched off my hat, and ran.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I was too startled. Just—just spluttered, I suppose. What the devil can one do when a person—”

  “Did you chase the man?”

  “And look a fool? Good God! No. Rather let him get away.”

  “So naturally,” said Dr. Fell, “you didn’t report it. Did you catch a glimpse of the man?”

  “No. It was too sudden, I tell you. Flick, and it was gone. Ha. Damn him. And now— You see,” Sir William muttered, hesitantly, turning his head from side to side—“you see— Never mind the hat; I’m thinking about Philip. I never treated him as I should. I was as fond of him as a son. But I always acted the Dutch uncle. Kept him on a starvation allowance, always threatened to cut him off, and always told him how worthless he was. I don’t know why I did it, but every time I saw that boy I wanted to preach. He had no idea of the value of money. He—” Sir William struck his knee with his fist. He added, in a dull voice, “Never mind now. He’s dead.”

  The limousine slid among gigantic red houses, and street lamps made pale gleams through its windows in a canopy of mist. Emerging from Mark Lane, it swerved round the Monument and descended Tower Hill.

  Rampole could see nothing more than a few feet ahead. Lamps winked in smoky twilight, and the immensity which should have been the river was full of short, sharp whistle blasts answered by deeper hootings from a distance. Cart wheels rattled somewhere. When the limousine passed through the gate in the rails surrounding the whole enclosure, Rampole tried to rub the blur from the window to peer out. Vaguely he saw a dry moat paved in white concrete, with a forlorn hockey-net near the middle. The drive swung to the left, past a frame building he remembered as the ticket office and refreshment room, and under an arch flanked by low, squat round towers. Just under this arch they were brought up short. A sentry, in the high black shako and gray uniform of the Spur Guard, moved out smartly and crossed his rifle on his breast. The limousine slithered to a halt and Hadley sprang out.

  In the dim, ghostly half-light another figure emerged at the sentry’s side. It was one of the Yeoman Warders, buttoned up in a short blue cloak and wearing the red-and-blue Beefeater hat. He said, “Chief Inspector Hadley? Thank you. If you’ll follow me, sir?”

  There was a quick, military precision about the whole proceeding which made Rampole shiver. But that, he reflected, was literally what it was. The Yeomen Warders were selected from sergeants of the Army of long and distinguished service, and rank as sergeant-majors with warrant rank. There would be no waste motion.

  Hadley asked, shortly, “Who is in charge?”

  “The chief warder, sir, under the orders of the deputy governor. These gentlemen?”

  “My associates. This is Sir William Bitton. What has been done?”

  The warder looked impassively at Sir William, and back to Hadley.

  “The chief warder will explain, sir. The young gentleman’s body was discovered by General Mason.”

  “Where?”

  “I believe it was on the steps leading down to Traitors’ Gate, sir. You know, of course, that the warders are sworn in as special constables. General Mason suggested that, as you were a friend of the young gentleman’s uncle, we communicate directly with you instead of with the district police station, and deal with the matter ourselves until you arrived.”

  “Precautions?”

  “An order has been issued that no one is to enter or leave the Tower until permission has been given, sir.”

  “Good! Good! You had better leave instructions to admit the police surgeon and his associates when they arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.” He spoke briefly to the sentry, and led them under the arch of the tower.

  A stone bridge led across the moat from this (called the Middle Tower) to another and larger tower, with circular bastions, whose arch formed the entrance to the outer walls. Gray-black, picked out with whitish stones, these heavy defenses ran left and right; but the damp mist was so thick that the entrance was entirely invisible. As he crossed the bridge with Dr. Fell, Hadley and Sir William striding ahead behind the warder, Rampole felt himself shivering once more. It was all at once ancient and modern, with the swift deadliness of both times.

  Just under the arch of this next tower, another figure appeared with the same eerie suddenness as the others: a thick, rather short man with a straight back, his hands thrust into the pockets of a dripping water-proof. A soft hat was drawn down on his brows. He came forward, peering, as he heard their muffled footfalls on the road. He peered again in the mist and started slightly.

  He said, “Good God, Bitton! How did you get here?” Then he hurried up to grasp Sir William’s hand.

  “Never mind,” Sir William answered, stolidly. “Thanks, Mason. Where have you got him?”

  The other man looked into his face. He wore a gingery mustache and imperial, drooping with the damp; there were furrows in his dull-colored face and lines round his hard, bright unwinking eyes. For some moments he regarded Sir William with those unwinking eyes, his head slightly on one side. There were no echoes in this vast place. Only a querulous tug whistled on the Thames.

  “Good man!” said the other, releasing his hand. “This is—”

  “Chief Inspector Hadley. Dr. Fell. Mr. Rampole—General Mason,” explained Sir William, jerking his head. “Where is he, Mason? I want to see him.”

  General Mason took his arm. “You understand, of course, that we couldn’t disturb the body until the police arrived. He’s where we found him. That’s correct, isn’t it, Mr. Hadley?”

  “Quite correct, General. If you will show us the place? Thank you. I’m afraid we shall have to leave him there, though, until the police surgeon examines him.”

  “For God’s sake, Mason,” Sir William said, in a low voice, “who—I mean, how did it happen? Who did it? It’s the insanest—”

  “I don’t know. I only know what we saw. Steady, now! Would you like a drink first?”

  “No. No, thanks. I’m all right. How was he killed?”

  General Mason drew a hand down hard over his mustache and imperial. It was his only sign of nervousness. He said, “It appears to be a crossbow bolt, from what I can judge. There’s about four inches projecting from his chest, and the point barely came out the other— Excuse me. A crossbow bolt. We have some in the armory. Straight through the heart. Instantaneous death, Bitton. No pain whatever.”

  “You mean,” said the chief inspector, “he was shot—”

  “Or stabbed with it like a dagger. More likely the latter. Come and look at him, Mr. Hadley; and then take charge of my court”—he nodded towards the tower behind him—“in there. I’m using the Warders’ Hall as a—what d’ye call it—third-degree room.”

  “What about visitors? They tell me you’ve given orders nobody is to leave.”

  “Yes. Fortunately, it’s a bad day and there aren’t many visitors. Also, fortunately, the fog is very thick down in the well around the steps of Traitors’ Gate; I don’t think a passer-by would notice him there. So far as I’m aware, nobody knows about it yet. When the visitors try to leave, they are stopped at the gate and told that an accident has happened; we’re trying to make them comfortable until you can talk to them.” He turned to the warder. “Tell the chief warder to carry on until I return. Find out if Mr. Dalrye has got the names and
addresses of all the visitors. This way, gentlemen.”

  Ahead of them the hard road ran arrow-straight. Towards the left, a little distance beyond the long arch beneath which they stood, Rampole could see the murky outlines of another round tower. Joining it, a high wall ran parallel with the road. And Rampole remembered now. This left-hand wall was the defense of the inner fortress; roughly, a square within a square. On their right ran the outer wall, giving on the wharf. Thus was formed a lane some twenty-five or thirty feet broad, which stretched the whole length of the enclosure on the riverside. At intervals along the road, pale gas-lamps were strangled in the mist, and Rampole could dimly see the spiky silhouettes of tree branches.

  Their footfalls rang in the hollow beneath the walls. On the right gleamed the lighted windows of a little room where post cards were sold; the head and hat of a Yeoman Warder were darkly outlined as he peered out. For perhaps a hundred yards along this road General Mason led them; then he stopped and pointed towards the right.

  “St. Thomas’s Tower,” he said. “And that’s the Traitors’ Gate under it.”

  It was full of evil suggestion. The tower itself went almost unnoticed because of the great gateway over which it was built. Traitors’ Gate was a long, flattened arch of stone, like the hood of an unholy fireplace in the thick wall. From the level of the road, sixteen broad stone steps led down to the floor of a large paved area which had once been the bed of the Thames. For originally this had been the gateway to the Tower by water; the river had flowed in at a level with the topmost steps, and barges had moved under the arch to their mooring. There were the ancient barriers, closed as of old: two heavy gates of oaken timbers and vertical iron bars, with an oaken lattice stretching above them to fill in the arch. Thames wharf had been built up beyond, and the vast area below was now dry.

  It had made a powerful impression on Rampole when he saw it before. And he needed to reconstruct such details from his imagination, for the great arch was blurred with mist. Faintly he could see the ugly teeth of the spikes on top of the gates, and flickers of white through the lattice. But, beyond the iron fence which guarded the descent, the area below was a smoky well.