Crime at Tattenham Corner (2 page)

Having narrowly missed her chance at winning riches by descrying the mysteries of the racing form, Haynes at least was able to receive income from her popular mystery novels, in two of which--
The Crime at Tattenham Corner
(1929) and
The Crystal Beads Murder
(1930)—she drew on her knowledge of the horseracing milieu. In
The Crime at Tattenham Corner
, Haynes's series sleuth, Detective-Inspector William Stoddart, is tasked, along with his steadfast assistant Alfred Harbord, with investigating the shooting death of Sir John Burslem, financial magnate and owner of the racehorse Peep o' Day. Burslem's body was found in a ditch in Hughlin's Wood, near Tattenham Corner, on the very day of the running of the Epsom Derby, in which Burslem's horse Peep o' Day was, until its owner's sudden death, the favorite (on Burslem's death, Peep o' Day is automatically scratched).

Suspicion focuses on Sir Charles Stanyard, the sporting baronet, whose horse Perlyon was Peep o' Day's main rival at the Derby Stakes. Stanyard also is known to have been jilted by Sophie Carlford (youngest daughter of Viscount Carlford), who then became the second—and much younger—wife of Sir John Burslem. Lady Burslem certainly acts as if she has something to hide, as does Sir John's valet, Ellerby, who vanishes soon after the murder. Pamela Burslem, Sir John's daughter from his first marriage, needs no convincing from anyone on the subject, insinuating to all and sundry that Sir Charles, likely with Lady Burslem's connivance, was responsible for her father's death. But just what does Mrs. James Burslem (“Mrs. Jimmy”), wife of Sir John's absent Tibetan explorer brother, know about the affair, and what precisely can be reliably divined from the
séances
performed by Miss Winifred Margetson, Mrs. Jimmy's American spiritualist friend? (This aspect of the novel may be a nod to the author's' prophetic horseracing dream.) Much investigation must be done by Stoddart and Harbord--not to mention a little romancing, strictly in the line of duty, on the inspector's part--before an arrest can be made. “As we follow their disentangling of the mystery,” noted the 
Spectator
in 1929, “we not only encounter thrilling surprises but are introduced to many admirably life-like characters.” Can you solve
The Crime at Tattenham Corner
before Annie Haynes' series sleuths? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets….

Curtis Evans

The big clock outside struck 7.30. Early as it was, Inspector Stoddart was already in his room at Scotland Yard.

He looked up impatiently as his most trusted subordinate, Alfred Harbord, entered after a sharp preliminary tap.

“Yes, sir. You sent for me?”

The inspector nodded. “You are detailed for special duty at once. We are starting in the runabout immediately, so if you want to send a message –” He nodded at the telephone.

Harbord grinned. “My people are pretty well used to my irregular habits, thank you, sir.”

The inspector rose. “The sooner we are off the better, then.” He handed Harbord a typewritten paper. “Wired up,” he said laconically, “from the Downs.”

The corner of the paper had been torn off, evidently on purpose. Harbord read it over.

“Hughlin's Wood,” he repeated. “I seem to know the name. But I can't think where the place is.”

“Not a great many miles from Epsom,” the inspector said, as he locked his desk and dropped the keys into his pocket. “Centuries ago, Hughlin's Wood used to stretch all round and over that part of the Downs, but it has dwindled to a few trees near Hughlin's village. These trees go by the name of Hughlin's Wood still. I can tell you the rest as we go along.”

Harbord followed him in silence to the little two-seater in which the inspector was wont to dash about the country. He was an expert driver, but it needed all his attention to steer his car among the whirl of traffic over Westminster Bridge, passing Waterloo and Lambeth.

The inspector glanced at “The Horns” as they glided by it. “We will lunch there on the way back, Harbord.” 

He put on speed as they got on the Brixton Road and, passing Kennington Church, tore along through Streatham and Sydenham, and across country until they could feel the fresh air of the Downs in their faces. Then the inspector slackened speed and for the first time looked at his companion.

“What do you make of it?”

“What can I make of it?” Harbord fenced. “Except that you would not be going down unless there was more in the summons than meets the eye.”

Stoddart nodded.

“The body was found face downwards in the stagnant water of a ditch, but the cause of death was a bullet wound in the head. The man had been thrown into the ditch almost immediately after death. In the pocket have been found a card and a couple of envelopes bearing the name of a man high in the financial world. The markings on the linen, etc., correspond. I know this man fairly well by sight. Therefore I am going down to see whether I can identify the remains. See those Downs –”

Harbord looked where he pointed at the vast, billowy expanse around them, then he looked back inquiringly.

“Yes, sir.”

Stoddart waved his hand to the north side. “Over there lie Matt Harker's stables. He has turned out more winners of the classics than any other trainer. His gees get their morning gallops over the Downs.” 

Harbord's expression changed. “And you connect this dead man at Hughlin's Wood with Harker's stables?”

Stoddart looked at him. “I will tell you that in an hour or so.”

As he spoke he turned the car rapidly to the right, and dashing down the road, which was little more than a track, they found themselves at Hughlin's Wood, with Hughlin's village in the immediate foreground.

Harbord thought he had seldom seen a more desolate looking spot, or a more appropriate setting for the crime they had come to investigate. A few stark, upstanding pines, growing in rough, stubbly grass, were all that was left of the once mighty wood; a long, straggly hedge ran between them and the road that led to Hughlin's village. It stood in a cleft in the hill which ran along to the bottom of the Downs. There was a curious cone-like hill just above the Wood. Harbord learned later that it went by the name of Hughlin's Tomb, and was supposed to contain the remains of a giant named Hughlin, from whom the wood derived its name. On the opposite side of the road was some barren pasture-land, and a little back from the track stood a small hut or barn.

By the Wood apparently the whole of the little population of Hughlin's village was gathered. A policeman was keeping every one back from the ditch.

The crowd scattered as the car came in sight. Stoddart slowed down and he and Harbord sprang out. 

Inside the space which was being kept free two men were standing. One was easily recognized by his uniform as a superintendent of police. The other, a tall, clean-shaven man of military appearance, Harbord identified as Major Vincent, the chief constable of the county.

Major Vincent came to meet them. “Glad to see you, Inspector Stoddart. I hardly hoped that you could be here so soon.”

Stoddart jerked his head at his run-about. “She is a tidy sort of little bus, sir. This is a terrible job!”

“It is,” Major Vincent assented. “This is where the body was found – was flung, I should say – just over here.”

The inspector walked forward and glanced down into the rather deep ditch. Long grasses fringed the edges, broken down and trampled upon now; the bottom was full of evil-smelling water.

Stoddart's quick, glancing eyes looked round. “Anything found here?”

The superintendent answered:

“Not so far, but we have made no very vigorous search. We waited till you came.”

Stoddart nodded. “Quite right. The body?”

“Over there.” The superintendent pointed to the barn in the field opposite. “Temporary mortuary,” he explained. “The inquest will be opened tomorrow at the Crown Inn down in the village. In the meantime –” 

“The body is here, I understand,” the inspector finished. “We will have a look at that first, please, sir.”

He made an imperceptible sign to Harbord as he glanced at Major Vincent.

“Any more evidence as to identity?” he questioned, as they walked across the rough grass together.

Major Vincent shook his head. “You will be able to help us about that, I understand, inspector.”

“I may be able to. I ought to be if your suspicions are well founded,” the inspector answered. “You rang up the house, of course.”

“Of course! Answer, ‘Not at home.' Said then we were afraid Sir John had met with an accident. His valet is coming down, should be here any minute now.”

“Good!” the inspector said approvingly.

The Major opened the door of the barn. “I will stop out here, and have a cigarette, if you don't mind,” he said apologetically. “I have been in two or three times already and it has pretty well done for me. It is a ghastly sight.”

Stoddart's glance spoke his comprehension as he went inside; the doctor and the superintendent followed with Harbord.

Inside was, as Major Vincent had said, “a ghastly sight.” The light was dim, little filtering through, except what came from the open door. The place was evidently used for cattle fodder. The floor was strewn with straw, trodden down and begrimed. The dead man lay on a hastily improvised stretcher of hurdles raised on a couple of others in the middle of the barn.

Stoddart and Harbord instinctively stepped forward softly. The superintendent took off the covering some kindly hand had laid over the distorted face. Then, used though they were to scenes of horror, both Stoddart and Harbord with difficulty repressed an exclamation, so terrible was the sight. A momentary glance was enough to show that the man had been shot through the lower part of the face. The head had lain in the water of the ditch for some time face downwards. It was swollen and livid and grazed, but was not impossible of recognition. Yet, as Stoddart gazed on the figure, still in evening-dress, over the strong-looking hands with their manicured almond nails that had made marks on the palms as they clenched in the death agony, a certain look that Harbord well knew came into the inspector's eyes. He held out his hand. “The card – ‘Sir John Burslem,'” he read aloud. He looked at the dead man's wrist-watch, turned it over and looked at the monogram, glanced at a letter that was peeping out of the pocket – “Sir John Burslem, 15 Porthwick Square.” The postmark was that of the previous morning.

The superintendent watched him in silence for a few minutes. At last he said:

“Well, inspector, what do you say – is it Sir John Burslem?” 

“I believe so,” the inspector said without hesitation. “It is Sir John Burslem, I firmly believe. But I only had a casual acquaintance with him.”

And, hardened though he was, Stoddart turned aside and blew his nose as his mind glanced from the twisted, broken thing before him to the prosperous financial magnate of whom he retained so vivid a recollection. He replaced the covering over the shattered head and looked at his watch.

“The valet should be here directly. It seems to me we must await more positive identification from him. Until he comes, I should like a few words with you, doctor. How long had death taken place when you first saw the body?”

The doctor coughed. “It is difficult to say with precision. I reached here about half-past seven this morning. I should say the man had been dead at least five hours when I saw him, possibly more, certainly not less.”

“The cause of death?”

“Evidently the man had been shot through the lower part of the face. For anything more we must wait for the post-mortem.” He added a few technical details.

Harbord waited outside with Major Vincent and the superintendent.

“Sir John Burslem,” he repeated thoughtfully. “A financier, you say. I seem to remember this name in some other connection.” 

“He was a big gun in what is called high finance,” Major Vincent told him. “It is said that no international deal, no great scheme of Government stock was launched without his advice. For himself, he was head of the great firm of Burslem & Latimer, the iron and jute merchants, Wellmorton Street, and of Burslem & Co., diamond merchants of South Africa, besides being director of Heaven knows how many companies. Sir John Burslem's name spelt success to any undertaking.”

“And will this” – Harbord jerked his head backward – “mean failure?”

The major shrugged his shoulders. “Heaven knows! One's imagination fails to picture the world of speculation without Jack Burslem, as he was generally known. But here's the valet, Ellerby, I expect,” as a car stopped.

An elderly man got out and came towards them. He was looking white and shaken.

“Gentlemen,” he began in a quaking voice as he got near them, “they say that he – that Sir John has had an accident. He – he can't be – dead!”

“That is what we have brought you here to ascertain, Mr. Ellerby,” Major Vincent said, a touch of pity in his tone as he thought of the ordeal that lay before the man. “You will be able to tell us definitely. The clothes at any rate you will be able to recognize. The face has been – in the water for some time and is terribly swollen.”

The man looked at him, his mouth twitching. “I should know Sir John anywhere, sir,” he said, his manner becoming more composed. “I couldn't be deceived about him. It is an impossibility.''