Footsteps in the Dark (20 page)

The doctor spoke over his shoulder. "Hand me my bag, will you, inspector?" He opened it, and took out a pair of forceps. As far as Peter could see, from his place by the door, he was doing something inside the dead man's mouth. Then the doctor shifted his position slightly, and Peter could see only his back. At length he got up, and closely scrutinised something that his forceps had found. He took a test-tube from his case, and carefully dropped the infinitesimal thing the forceps held into it. Then he corked it tightly.

The inspector watched him with the air of an inquisitive terrier. "Got something, doctor?"

"I shall want to do a more thorough examination," the doctor replied. He glanced down at the body. "You can cover it, sergeant. I've finished for the present." He replaced the test tube in his case. "I'm not satisfied that 1 his is a case of suicide," he said. "I found a scrap of cotton wool in the deceased's nostrils, very far back."

The inspector pursed his lips into a soundless whistle. "Nothing in the mouth, doctor?"

"Nothing now," said the doctor significantly.

"Better go over the place for finger-prints," the inspector said. "Now, Mr. Malcolm, if you please, I'd like to hear just how you happened to find the body."

Charles gave him a clear and concise account of all that had passed that evening, up to the time of the discovery of the corpse. He neither omitted any relevant point nor became discursive, and at the end of his statement Sergeant Matthews, who had taken it down, looked up gratefully.

"Thank you, sir," the inspector said. "If more witnesses were as clear as you are the police would have an easier time."

Charles smiled. "I'm not exactly new to this sort of thing," he said.

The inspector cast him a shrewd glance. "I thought I'd spotted you, sir. I saw you at the Norchester Assizes about six months ago, didn't I?"

"Quite possibly," Charles said. "Now there's one other thing I'd like to mention. When my brother-in-law and I reached the Bell Inn, the barman went to rouse Wilkes, the landlord, while I was ringing you up. As soon as I had finished speaking to the station, I turned round to find that Strange had come in with his own latchkey, and had been listening to all I'd said."

The doctor looked up sharply. "Strange?" he repeated.

"Yes, doctor, we've got a note about him," the inspector said. "Go on, sir."

"He asked us what we had found, and upon my refusing to tell him, he seemed distinctly annoyed, and said, as near as I can remember, that he advised us to stop poking our noses where they weren't wanted. I asked whether that was a threat, and he replied that it was a warning which he advised us to take."

"That's very interesting, sir," the inspector said. "You say he came in from the street?"

"Yes, using his own key."

"Then Strange was not in the Inn when this happened," the inspector said. "I think I'll be having a word with him." He nodded to the sergeant. "You'd better run these gentlemen back to, their home, Matthews. I take it they know at the Inn where we are, sir?"

"Wilkes knows, yes."

"Then he'll direct the ambulance on. Now, sir, I don't think there's any need for me to keep you standing about here any longer, but if you could make it convenient to come over to the station to-morrow we may have something more to ask you. And we'd like you to read through your statement, which we'll have put into longhand by then, and sign it. Sergeant Matthews will drive you home now. I hope what you've seen won't keep you awake." He went out with them to the car, and saw them off. The police car backed down the lane to the main road, and in a very short time deposited them at their own front door.

Celia and Margaret were both awake, and no sooner had the two men entered the house than Margaret leaned over the banisters, and asked them to come up at once and tell them what had happened.

Celia was sitting up in bed with a shawl round her shoulders. "Thank goodness you're back!" she sighed. "You've been away such ages we've imagined all sorts of horrors. Did you discover anything?"

Charles and Peter exchanged glances. "They're bound to know when the inquest comes on," Peter said. "Tell them."

"Inquest?" Margaret said sharply. "Who's dead? You haven't - no, of course you haven't."

"It's Duval," Charles explained. "We didn't find him in our grounds, so Peter suggested we should go down to his cottage. And we found him there, dead."

"Murdered?" Celia quavered, gripping her shawl with both hands.

"We don't know," Charles answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Apparently he hanged himself, but we shan't know definitely whether it was suicide or not till the inquest, I imagine."

"But what a ghastly thing!" Margaret said. "Who can - oh, surely it wasn't murder? Why should anyone think so?"

"Well, perhaps it isn't," Charles said consolingly. "Peter and I have got to go over to the police-station to-morrow, and we may hear something fresh then. At present we only know that the doctor wasn't satisfied, and is going to conduct a post mortem."

"Please tell us just what happened!" Margaret begged.

Charles made the story as short as possible, and he did not mention the doctor's discovery. At the end of his tale Celia said: "If anyone killed him it was the Monk, and now we know for certain he's not a ghost. Well, I always said I wasn't scared of flesh and blood, but do you think it's safe for us here?"

"Yes, I think so," her brother replied. "If the Monk did murder Duval it's fairly certain he did it because Duval had discovered his identity. Or even because he knew Duval had been talking to us. He isn't likely to try to do any of us in. Too risky, for one thing, and for another, no motive."

"How could he have known that Duval had talked to us?" Margaret asked. "Do you think he followed him here this evening?"

"Duval undoubtedly thought that possible. It would be easy for him to find out that we'd had dealings with Duval without that, though. I never made any secret of the fact that I visited him, and all sorts of people have seen me talking to him at various times," Charles said. "Wilkes, Ackerley, the Rootes - they all knew, not to mention various locals who've seen Duval and me together at the Bell."

"And, from what you told us to-day, Mr. Strange as well," Margaret said, meeting her brother's eye.

"Yes, Strange, too." Charles glanced at his watch. "Well, I don't know how the rest of you feel, but I'm all for bed."

Margaret got up rather reluctantly. "Yes, I suppose we'd better try and get some sleep," she agreed. "But I do wish we weren't so much in the dark still. Well, good night, you two. Coming, Peter?"

Brother and sister went out together, and soon quiet descended on the house.

The two men drove over to Manfield on the following morning. It was a Sunday, and the market-town had a forlorn appearance. Even the police-station seemed rather deserted, and the constable in charge ushered them immediately into the inspector's office. Here in a short time the inspector joined them.

He bade them good morning, thanked them for coming over in such good time, and sat down behind his desk.

"Discovered anything fresh?" Charles asked, drawing up his chair.

The inspector shook his head. "Looks like a nasty case against someone, sir," he said. "The inquest will be held on Tuesday, and I'm afraid both you gentlemen will have to give evidence."

"Of course," Charles said. "We were quite prepared for that. Can you tell us anything more?"

"Well, sir, strictly speaking I ought not to, but seeing how much you know already, I don't. mind telling you that the Divisional Surgeon has just finished his post mortem, and there doesn't seem to be much doubt that it's murder. I needn't ask you not to repeat this, sir, I know."

"Of course not. What did he discover?"

"It's that piece of cotton wool, sir. Looks as though Duval was chloroformed, and then strung up. Dr Puttock found traces of chloroform still lingering. And during his examination he found various abrasions on the deceased's body as though there had been a bit of a struggle, and in it Duval had knocked against things - the table, maybe, or something like that. Then, sir, the doctor found a bit of skin in one of his finger-nails, as though he might have clawed at someone's face, or hand, or whatever it may have been."

"Any finger-prints?" Charles asked.

"No, Sir. Only the deceased's on that plate you saw, and the glass, and such-like. Whoever did this job took care to wear gloves." He unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took out an envelope. From this he shook a black bone button. "After you'd gone, I had a good look round and I found this lying under the coal-box. Must have rolled there."

Charles and Peter inspected it. It was about the size of a farthing, a cheap-looking button with a pattern stamped on it. "Looks like an ordinary glove-button," Peter said.

Just so, sir. Made in France, too, but that doesn't tell us much. But I went through all the deceased's belongings, and there wasn't a single pair of gloves in the house, let alone one lacking a button. It doesn't prove anything, but it's something to go on." He put it back into the envelope.

"You're not producing that at the inquest, are you?" Charles asked.

"Oh no, sir," the inspector replied, smiling. "The police aren't as thick-headed as that, you know. Our course is to ask for an adjournment. You've never seen anyone wearing gloves with this type of button, I suppose?" They shook their heads. "No, well, I didn't expect you would have, but there was just a chance of it." He locked it away again. "You won't mention that to anyone, if you please, sir."

"Certainly not." Charles looked round as the door opened. A man came in with a typewritten document, which he laid before the inspector.

"That's right, Jenkins," the inspector said. "That'll be all. Now, sir, would you please read through what you said last night, and see that we've got it down right? And if you'd just tell me your part of the story, Mr. Fortescue, I'll take it down, and we shall have everything shipshape."

Peter briefly recounted his share in the night's happenings. When he had done Charles put down the typewritten sheets. "Yes, that's right," he said. "Want me to sign it?" He drew out his fountain pen, and scrawled his name at the bottom of the statement. As he screwed the cap on again, he said: "I don't think, inspector, that when we came to see you the other day you set much store by our tale, but has it occurred to you just where all this points?"

"Yes, sir, it has," the inspector replied at once. "And you'll pardon me, but I did set considerable store by what you told me. If I hadn't I wouldn't have been quite so open with you this morning. But you see, what you told me wasn't the first thing I'd heard about the Priory Monk. I've been remarkably interested in him for some time."

"No good asking you what your previous information was, I suppose?" Charles asked.

"No, Sir, I'm afraid it's not. But you can be quite sure I'm not taking the matter lightly. I know what you think. You think that it was the Monk who murdered Duval. Well, it's not for me to give my opinion, lacking any proof, but I would like you, if you will, sir, to try and remember just what Duval said to you about the Monk."

As well as he could Charles gave the gist of Duval's remarks, but as he warned the inspector, Duval had made so many vague references to that mysterious figure that he found it hard to recollect them all. But on one point his memory was perfectly clear: Duval believed that the only man who had ever seen the Monk's face had been murdered, and he knew that in trying to discover the Monk's identity he was running a great risk. "So much so," Charles said, "that he had taken to carrying a businesslike looking knife about with him."

"Yes, and that raises a question," Peter put in. "If he was murdered last night, there must have been a bit of a struggle. The fragment of skin proves that. And you can't chloroform a man without overpowering him first. If the Monk did it, why didn't Duval draw his knife? He must have had time, because as soon as he set eyes on the Monk he'd have been on his guard. The Monk can't have taken him unawares in his own house. Was the knife on him?"

"Yes, sir, it was. But you can look at it in another way. We know from what Duval said to Mr. Malcolm here the very night he died that he hadn't seen the Monk's face then. He'd discovered something, but it seems fairly plain it wasn't the Monk. If you think it over, he had precious little time to discover who the Monk was in between the time when Mr. Malcolm says he left the Priory, and you found him hanging in his cottage. From the fact of his evidently having been taken by surprise, since he never got the chance to draw his knife, doesn't it look as though whoever it was who went to his cottage didn't go in his disguise of a Monk? Looked at in that light, my reading of the thing is that the person who visited Duval didn't rouse any suspicion in him. He didn't know who the Monk was; some man whom he didn't suspect at all came to his house, possibly with a plausible excuse. He let him in, and before he knew where he was this person had clapped the pad over his face. We'll say there was a struggle: it looks as though the murderer was a pretty strong man. Duval was a bit of a weed, besides being weakened by the dope he took, but you try holding a handkerchief over a man's face when that man's struggling. It's not easy, and a struggle there must have been. But you can understand Duval trying too hard to wrench his assailant's hand away from his mouth to have time to try and get at his knife. For what it's worth, I found a broken plate in the kitchen, but the place was such a pig-sty there's no saying it was put there by the murderer. Still, it might have been, and we know he set the room to rights when he'd finished Duval. One of the cold-blooded ones, he is: you do find 'em sometimes. He staged the whole thing to look like a suicide, and it's the doctor's opinion he was cute enough to remove any of the pad that may have got into Duval's mouth. But that scrap you saw the doctor extract from Duval's right nostril he missed. The doctor only found it with his forceps. If it hadn't been for that it would have looked like a clear case of suicide, especially with a man of Duval's temperament. But a man don't chloroform himself when he sets out to commit suicide by hanging, and even if he did, that's ruled out by the fact that there was no trace of the bottle, nor the pad either. No, it's murder right enough, and if you ask me, murder by some person whom Duval didn't dream was likely to attack him."