Busman’s Honeymoon (26 page)

  Not that Superintendent Kirk troubled his head with these biographical conjectures. What exasperated him was that the book did not mention the height of the chaise from the ground or the rate at which the vehicle was proceeding. How would the fall compare in violence with that of an elderly man from a step-ladder on to an oak floor? The next case quoted was even less to the point: this was a youth of eighteen, who was hit on the head in a fight, went about his business for ten days, had a headache on the eleventh day and died in the night. Then came a drunken carter, aged fifty, who fell from the shafts of his cart and was killed. This seemed more hopeful; except that the wretched creature had fallen three or four times, the last time being thrown under the wheels of the cart by the bolting horse. Still, it did seem to show that a short fall would do quite a lot of damage. Kirk pondered a little, and then went to the telephone.

  Dr Craven listened with patience to Kirk’s theory, and agreed that it was an attractive one. ‘Only,’ said he, ‘if you want me to tell the coroner that the man fell on his back, I can’t do it. There is no bruising whatever on the back, or on the left-hand side of the body. If you looked at my report to the coroner you must have seen that all the marks were on the right-Land side and in front, except the actual blow that caused death. I’ll tell you again what they are. The right forearm and elbow show heavy bruises, with considerable extravasation from the surface vessels, showing that they were inflicted some time before death. I should say that when he was hit behind the left ear, he was flung over forwards on to his right side with the force of the blow. The only other marks are bruises and slight abrasions on the shins, hands and forehead. The hands and forehead are marked with dust, and this suggests, I think, that he got the injuries in falling forward down the cellar steps. He died shortly after that, for there is little extravasation from these injuries. I am, of course, excluding the hypostasis produced by his having lam a whole week face downwards In the cellar. That, naturally, is all in the front part of the body.’

  Kirk had forgotten the meaning of ‘hypostasis’, which the doctor pronounced in a very unlikely way; but he gathered that it wasn’t a thing that could be made to support the theory. He asked whether Noakes could have been killed by hitting his head in a fall.

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Dr Craven; ‘but you’ll have to explain how he hit the back of his head in falling and yet came down on his face.’

  With this Kirk had to be content. It looked rather as though a flaw might be developing in his beautiful rounded theory. It is the little rift within the lute, he thought, mournfully, that by and by will make the music mute. But he shook his head angrily. Tennyson or no Tennyson, he wasn’t going to abandon the position without a struggle. He called to his assistance a more robust and comforting poet—one who hold we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better’—called to his wife that he was going out, and reached for his hat and overcoat. If only he could have another look at the sitting-room, he might be able to see how that fall could have come about.

  At Talboys the sitting-room was dark, though a light still burned in the casement above it and in the kitchen. Kirk knocked at the door, which was presently opened by Bunter in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘I’m very sorry to disturb his lordship so late,’ began Kirk, only then realising that it was past eleven.

  ‘His lordship,’ said Bunter, ‘is in bed.’

  Kirk explained that, unexpectedly, a necessity had arisen to re-examine the sitting-room, and that he was anxious to get this done before the inquest. There was no need for his lordship to come down in person. Nothing was sought but permission to enter.

  ‘We should be most unwilling,’ replied Bunter. ‘to obstruct the officers of the law in the execution of their duty; but you will permit me to point out that the hour is somewhat advanced and the available illumination inadequate. Besides that, the sitting-room is situated exactly beneath his lordship’s—’

  ‘Superintendent! Superintendent!’ called a soft and mocking voice from the window above.

  ‘My lord?’ Mr Kirk stepped out of the porch to get a view of the speaker.

  ‘
Merchant of Venice,
Act V, Scene 1. Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion, and would not be awak’d.’

  ‘Beg your pardon, my lord,’ said Kirk, devoutly thankful that the mask of night was on his face. And the lady listening, too!

  ‘Don’t mention it. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Only to let me take another look around downstairs,’ pleaded Kirk, apologetically.

  ‘Had we but world enough and time that trifling request, Superintendent, were no crime. But take whatever you like. Only do, as the poet sings, come and go en lissome, clerical, fruitless toe. The first is Marvell and the second, Rupert Brooke.’

  ‘I’m very much obliged,’ said Mr Kirk, generally, to cover the permission and the information. ‘The fact is, I got an idea.’

  ‘I only wish I had half your complaint. Do you want to unfold your tale now, or will it do in the morning?’

  Mr Kirk earnestly begged his lordship not to disturb himself.

  ‘Well, good luck to it and good night.’

  Nevertheless, Peter hesitated. His natural inquisitiveness wrestled with a right and proper feeling that he should credit Kirk with intelligence enough to pursue his own inquiries. Proper feeling prevailed, but he remained for fifteen minutes perched on the window-sill, while soft scrapes and bumpings sounded from below. Then came the shutting of the front door and steps along the path.

  ‘His shoulders are disappointed,’ said Peter aloud to his wife. ‘He has found a mare’s nest, full of cockatrice’s eggs.’

  That was perfectly true. The rift in Kirk’s theory had widened and with alarming rapidity silenced all that he could find to say for Joe Sellon. Not only was it extremely hard to visualise any way by which Noakes could have fallen so as to injure himself on both sides at once, but it was now plainly evident that the cactus had remained all the while solidly in its place.

  Kirk had thought of two possibilities: the outer pot might have been unhooked from the chain, or the inner pot removed from the outer. On careful examination, he discounted the first alternative. The brass pot had a conical base, which would prevent it from standing upright when taken down; moreover, in order to relieve the strain on the hook, the ring which united the three chains that rose from the sides of the pot itself had been secured to the first link above the hook by a sixfold twist of stout wire, the ends of which had been neatly turned in with the pliers. No one in his senses would have gone to the trouble of undoing that when he could more readily remove the inner pot. But here Kirk made a discovery which, while it did credit to his detective ability, destroyed all possibility of any such removal. Round the top of the shining brass pot ran a band of pierced work forming a complicated pattern, and within the openings the earthenware of the inner flower-pot was blackened with the unmistakable stain of brass-polish. If the flower-pot had been removed since the last cleaning, it was inconceivable that it should have been replaced with such mathematical exactness as to show no thin red line of earthenware at the edges of that band of openwork. Kirk, disappointed, called Bunter to give his opinion. Bunter, disapproving but correctly ready to assist, agreed absolutely. What was more, when they tried, together, to shift the inner pot in the outer, it proved to be an exceedingly tight fit. Nobody, unaided, could have turned it after wedging it in so as to make the pierced band coincide with the outlines stencilled on the earthenware—certainly not an elderly man in a hurry by the light of distant candle. As a forlorn hope. Kirk asked:

  ‘Did Crutchley polish the brass this morning?’

  ‘I fancy not; he brought no brass-polish with him, nor did he use the materials contained in the kitchen cupboard. Will there be anything further tonight?’

  Kirk gazed blankly about the room.

  ‘I suppose,’ he suggested, despairingly, ‘the clock couldn’t have been moved?’

  ‘See for yourself,’ said Bunter. But the plastered wall showed no trace of any hook or nail to which the clock might have been temporarily transferred. The nearest landmark to the east was the nail supporting ‘The Soul’s Awakening’ and that to the west, a fretwork bracket with a plaster image on it—both too light to take the clock and in the wrong line of sight from the window.

  Kirk gave it up. ‘Well, that seems to settle it. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Thank
you,
’ retorted Bunter, austerely. Still dignified, in spite of his shirt-sleeves, he conducted the unwelcome guest to the door, as though ushering out a duchess.

  Being human. Kirk could not but wish he had left his theory alone till after the inquest. All that he had done was to rule it definitely out of court, so that he could not now, in honesty, even hint at such a possibility.

  ‘Serpent, I say again!’ repeated the Pigeon ... and added with a kind of sob, ‘I’ve tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,’ said Alice.

  ‘I’ve tried the roots of trees, and I’ve tried banks, and I’ve tried hedges,’ the Pigeon went on without attending to her; ‘but those serpents! There’s no pleasing them!’

  LEWIS CARROLL:
Alice in Wonderland.

  ‘And what,’ inquired Lord Peter Wimsey of Bunter the following morning, ‘did the Superintendent want last night?’

  ‘He wished to ascertain, my lord, whether the hanging cactus could have been removed from its containing pot during the events of last week.’

  ‘What, again? I thought he’d realised that it couldn’t. The marks of the brass polish should have told him that with half an eye. No need to get the step-ladder and bump round at midnight like a bumble-bee in a bottle.’

  ‘Quite so, my lord. But I thought it better not to intervene, and your lordship wished him to have every facility.’

  ‘Oh, quite. His brain works like the mills of God. But he has some other divine qualities; I know him to be magnanimous and suspect him of being merciful. He is trying hard to exonerate Sellon. That’s natural enough. But he’s attacking the strong side instead of the weak side of the case against him.’

  ‘What do you think about Sellon yourself, Peter?’

  They had breakfasted upstairs. Harriet was dressed, smoking a cigarette in the window. Peter, in the halfway dressing-gown stage, was warming the back of his legs at the fire. The ginger cat had arrived to pay its morning compliment, and had taken up a position on his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know what to think. The fact is, we’ve got dashed little material for thinking with. It’s probably too early for thinking.’

  ‘Sellon doesn’t look like a murderer.’

  ‘They very often don’t, you know. He didn’t look, either, like the sort of man who would tell me a thundering great lie, except for a very good reason. But people do tell lies when they’re frightened.’

  ‘I suppose he didn’t notice till after he’d said that about the clock that it implied having been inside the house.’

  ‘No. You’ve got to be a very sharp-witted person to see ahead when you’re telling half-truths. A story that’s a lie from beginning to end will be consistent. And since he obviously hadn’t meant to tell the story of the quarrel at all, he had to make up his mind on the spur of the moment. The thing that’s bothering me is, how did Sellon get into the house?’

  Noakes must have let him in.’

  ‘Just so. Here’s an elderly man, locked up alone in a house. Up comes a young man, big and strong and in a murderous rage, and quarrels with him, using strong language and possibly threats. The old man tells him to be off, and bangs the window shut. The young man goes on knocking at the doors and trying to get in. The old man has nothing to gain by admitting him; yet be does it, and obligingly turns his back to him, on purpose that the angry young man may attack him with a blunt instrument. It is possible, but, as Aristotle might say, it is an improbable-possible.’

  ‘Suppose Sellon said he
had
got the money after all, and Noakes let him in and sat down to write a—no, he wouldn’t write a receipt, of course. Nothing on paper. Unless Sellon threatened him.’

  ‘If Sellon had the money, Noakes could have told him to hand it in through the window.’

  ‘Well, suppose he did hand it in—or said he was going to. Then, when Noakes opened the window, Sellon could have climbed in himself. Or could he? Those mullions are pretty narrow.’

  ‘You can have no idea,’ said Peter, irrelevantly, ‘how refreshing it is to talk to somebody who has a grasp of method.

  The police are excellent fellows, but the only principle of detection they have really grasped is that wretched phrase,
Cui bono.
They
will
hare off after motive, which is a matter for psychologists. Juries are just the same. If they can see a motive they tend to convict, however often the judge may tell them that there’s no need to prove motive, and that motive by itself will never make a case. You’ve got to show how the thing was done, and then, if you like, bring in motive to back up your proof. If a thing could only have been done one way, and if only one person could have done it that way, then you’ve got your criminal, motive or no motive. There’s How, When, Where, Why and Who—and when you’ve got How. you’ve got Who. Thus spake Zarathustra.’

  ‘I seem to have married my only intelligent reader. That’s the way you construct it from the other end, of course. Artistically, it’s absolutely right.’

  ‘I have noticed that what’s right in art is usually right in practice. In fact, nature is a confirmed plagiarist of art, as somebody has observed. Go on with your theory—only do remember that to guess how a job
might
have been done isn’t the same thing as proving that it
was
done that way. If you will allow me to say so, that is a distinction which people of your profession are very liable to overlook. They will confuse moral certainty with legal proof.’

  ‘I shall throw something at you in a minute.... I say, do you think something might have been
thrown
at Noakes? Through the window? Bother! Now I’ve got two theories at once. No—wait! ... Sellon gets Noakes to open the window and then starts to climb in. You didn’t answer about those mullions.’

  ‘I think I could climb in through them; but then I’m rather narrow in the shoulders compared with Sellon. But on the principle that where your head can go your body can follow I dare say he could manage it. Not very quickly, and not without giving Noakes plenty of warning of his intentions.’

  ‘That’s where the throwing comes in. Suppose Sellon started to climb and Noakes got alarmed and made for the door. Then Sellon might snatch up something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s true. He would scarcely have brought a stone or anything on purpose. He might have picked one up in the garden before he came back to the window. Or—I know! That paper-weight on the sill. He could have snatched that up, and chucked it at Noakes’s retreating back. Would that work? I’m not good at trajectories and things.’

  ‘Very likely it would. I’d have to go and look.’

  ‘Well then. Oh, yes. Then he’d only have to finish scrambling in, pick up the paper-weight and put it back and go out through the window again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course not; it was locked inside. No. He’d shut and lock the window, get Noakes’s keys from his pocket, open the front door, put back the keys and—well, then he’d have to go out leaving the door unlocked. And when Noakes came to, he obligingly locked it behind him. We’ve got to allow for that possibility, whoever did the murder.’

  ‘That’s really brilliant, Harriet. It’s very difficult to find a flaw in it. And I’ll tell you another thing. Sellon was the only person who could, with comparative safety, leave the door unlocked. In fact, it would be an advantage.’

  ‘You’ve got ahead of me there. Why?’

  ‘Why, because he was the village policeman. Look what happens next. In the middle of the night, he takes it into his head to go on a round of inspection. His attention, as he would put it in his report, is directed to the house by the circumstances of the candles being still alight in the sitting-room. That’s why he left them burning, which no other murderer would be likely to do. He tries the door and finds it open. He goes in, sees that everything looks nice and natural, and then hurries out to call up the neighbours with the announcement that some tramp or other has been in and knocked Mr Noakes on the head. It’s a nuisance to be the last man to see the deceased alive, but it’s a hell of a good wheeze to be the first to discover the body. It must have been a nasty shock to find that door locked after all.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose that would make him give up his idea. Especially if he looked in through the window and saw that Noakes wasn’t lying where he’d left him. The curtains weren’t drawn, were they? No—I remember—they were open when we arrived. What
would
he think?’

  ‘He’d think Noakes wasn’t killed after all, and would wait for the morning, wondering when—and how—’

  ‘Poor man!—And then, when nothing happened after all, and Noakes didn’t turn up—why, it was enough to drive him dotty.’

  ‘If it happened that way.’

  ‘And then we came and—I suppose he was hanging about here all morning, waiting to hear the worst. He was right on the spot when the body was found, wasn’t he? ... I say, Peter, all this is a bit grim.’

  ‘It’s only a theory, after all. We haven’t proved a word of it. That’s the worst of you mystery-mongers. Anything’s a solution so long as it holds together. Let’s make a theory about somebody else. Whom shall we have? How about Mrs Ruddle? She’s a tough old lady and not an altogether sympathetic character.’

  ‘Why on earth should Mrs Ruddle—?’

  ‘Never mind. Why. Why never gets you anywhere. Mrs Ruddle came to borrow a drop of paraffin. Noakes was sniffing round and heard her. He invited her to step in and explain herself. He said he had often had doubts of her honesty. She said he owed her a week’s money. High words passed. He made for her. She snatched up the poker. He ran away and she threw the poker at him and caught him on the back of the head. That’s Why enough, when people lose their tempers. Unless you prefer to believe that Noakes made improper advances to Mrs Ruddle and she dotted him one accordingly.’

  Idiot!’

  ‘Well. I don’t know. Look at old James Fleming and Jessie MacPherson. I shouldn’t fancy Mrs Ruddle myself, but then, my standard is high. Very well. Mrs Ruddle knocks Noakes on the head, and—wait a minute; this is coming rather pretty. She runs over to the cottage in a terrible stew, crying, “Bert! Bert! I’ve killed Mr Noakes!” Bert says, “Oh, nonsense,” and they come back to the house together, just in time to see Noakes go tumbling down the cellar steps. Bert goes down—’

  ‘Leaving no footprints?’

  ‘He’d taken off his boots for the night and ran over in his slippers—it’s all grass over the field to the cottage. Bert says, “He’s dead this time, all right” Then Mrs Ruddle goes to fetch a ladder, while Bert locks the door and puts the key back in the dead man’s pockets. He goes upstairs, through the trap-door on to the roof, and Mrs Ruddle holds the ladder while he gets down.’

  ‘Do you mean that seriously, Peter?’

  ‘I can’t mean it seriously till I’ve had a look at the roof. But there’s one thing they remember afterwards—Bert has left the cellar-door open—hoping it will look as though Noakes had had an accident. But when we arrive, they are a bit put out. We were not the people who were intended to discover the body. That was to be Miss Twitterton’s job.

  ‘They know
she’s
easily hoodwinked, but they know nothing about us. First of all, Mrs Ruddle isn’t keen to have us here at all—but when we insist on getting the key and coming in, she makes the best of it.
Only
—she calls out to Bert, “Shut the cellar-door. Bert! It’s perishing cold.” Thinking to postpone matters a little, you see, and take stock of us first. And, by the way, we’ve only got Mrs Ruddle’s word for it that Noakes died at that particular time, or that he didn’t go to bed, or anything. It might all have happened much later at night, or, better still, when she came in the morning; because then he’d be ready dressed, and she’d only have to make the bed again.’

  ‘What? In the morning? All that business on the roof? Suppose anybody came by?’

  ‘Bert on a ladder, cleaning out the gutters. No ’arm in cleaning out a gutter.’

  ‘Gutter? ... What does that? ... Gutter—guttered—the candles! Don’t they prove it happened at night?’

  ‘They don’t prove it; they suggest it. We don’t know how long the candles were to start with. Noakes may have sat listening to the wireless till they burnt themselves out in the sockets. Thrift, thrift, Horatio. It was Mrs Ruddle who said the wireless wasn’t going—who put the time at between 9 and 9.30—just after Sellon and Noakes had been quarrelling. It’s not awfully like Mrs Ruddle to have gone away without hearing the end of the row, when you come to think of it. If you look at the thing in a prejudiced way, all her actions seem odd. And she had it in for Sellon, and sprang it on him beautifully.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully. ‘And, you know, she kept on sort of hinting things to me when we were doing the sandwiches for lunch. And she was very artful about refusing to answer Sellon’s questions before the Superintendent came. But, honestly, Peter, do you think she and Bert have brains enough between them to work out that business with the keys? And would they have had the sense and self-restraint to keep their hands off the money?’

  ‘Now you’re asking something. But one thing I do know. Yesterday afternoon, Bert fetched a long ladder from the out-house and went up on the roof with Puffett.’

  ‘Oh, Peter! So he did!’

  ‘Another good clue gone west. We do at least know there was a ladder, but how are we to tell now what marks were made when?’

  ‘The trap-door.’

  Peter laughed ruefully.

  ‘Puffett informed me when I met them fetching the ladder that Bert had just been up to the roof that way, to see if there was a “sut-lid” anywhere in the chimney for cleaning the flue. He went up by the Privy Stair and through your bedroom when Miss Twitterton was being questioned down here. Didn’t you hear him? You brought Miss Twitterton down, and up he nipped, pronto.’

  Harriet lit a fresh cigarette.

  ‘Now let’s hear the case against Crutchley and the vicar.’

  ‘Well—they’re a bit more difficult, because of the alibi. Unless one of them was in league with Mrs Ruddle, we’ve got to explain away the silence of the wireless. Take Crutchley first. If he did it, we can’t very well make up a story about his climbing in at the window, because he couldn’t have got there till after Noakes was in bed. He deposited the vicar at the parsonage at 10.30 and was back in Pagford before eleven. There’d be no time for long parleyings at windows and clever business with keys. I’m assuming, of course, that Crutchley’s times at the garage have been confirmed; if he’s guilty, of course, they will be, because they’re part of the plan. If it was Crutchley, it must have been premeditated, which means that he might somehow have stolen a key or had one cut. Very early in the morning is Crutchley’s time, I fancy—taking out a taxi for a non-existent customer or something of that kind. He leaves the car somewhere, walks up to the house and lets himself in—um! yes, it’s awkward after that. Noakes would be upstairs, undressed and in bed. I can’t see the point of it. If he attacked him, it would be to rob him—and he didn’t rob him.’