Have His Carcase (46 page)

four o’clock. But that proved nothing, and the crucial period between 1.30 and

three o’clock remained as obscure as before.

Puzzled and dissatisfied, Ormond chugged slowly back to Darley, noticing as

he went how little of the beach could actualy be seen from the road. It was, in

fact, only for about a mile on either side of the Flat-Iron that the road ran

actualy close to the edge of the cliffs. Here there was the breadth of a wide

field between them and the height of the cliff hid the sands from view. It would

not realy have been so risky a business as one might suppose to ride in broad

daylight to commit a murder at the Flat-Iron, and it was hardly surprising that

no traveler on the road had seen the bay mare pass. But had she passed?

There was the horseshoe to prove it and there was the ring-bolt on the rock to

suggest it. It was the ring-bolt that was chiefly bothering Constable Ormond, for

if it was not there to hold the horse, what was it for? And Wimsey’s latest

theory had made it necessary for the horse to be released and sent back before

the Flat-Iron was reached.

And that was a very hit-or-miss theory, from the murderer’s point of view.

How could he be sure that the animal would go back and would not hang about

the place attracting attention? In fact, after being galoped violently for four and

a half miles, it was far more likely to take matters easy. If one was to ignore the

ring-bolt, was it not possible that the bay mare had been tethered somewhere,

to be picked up later? There were weighty objections to that. There was no

post or groyne along the shore to which she could have been tied, and if the

murderer had brought her close in under the cliff, then he would have had to

leave two lines of footprints – the mare’s in going and his own in returning. But

he might have argued that this would not greatly matter if it was at some

distance from the Flat-Iron. It might just be worth while to turn back and

examine the shore from that point of view.

He did so, riding right up as far as the Flat-Iron itself, scrambling down by

the same path that Harriet had used, and working his way along at the foot of

the cliff in the direction of Darley. After about half-an-hour’s search, he found

what he was looking for. There was a recess in the cliff where at some time

there had been a fal of rock. Jammed in among the boulders was a large

wooden post, which had apparently formed part of a fence – erected, no

doubt, to keep men or animals from straying upon the dangerous part of the

cliffs. If the bay mare had been brought in there, she might easily have been

tethered to the beam, while, owing to the overhang of the cliff and the

accumulation of falen stones, she would have been practicaly invisible, either

from the sea or from the road above.

This discovery was gratifying, but it would have been more gratifying if

Ormond could have found any positive indication that this had realy happened.

The sand was so loose and dry that no recognisable marks could be expected

above high-water mark, nor, though he examined the wooden post very

carefuly with a lens, could he find any indications of its having been used as a

horse-post. A strand of rope fibre, a horse-hair or two would have been better

than a bank-note to Ormond at that moment, while a bunch of horse-droppings

would have been worth its weight in rubies. But none of these simple, homely

sights rewarded his anxious gaze. There was the piece of timber and there was

the recess in the cliff, and that was al.

Shaking his head, he walked to the edge of the water and set out at a brisk

trot for the Flat-Iron. He found that by pelting along as fast as a heavyish, fuly-

clothed young constable could be expected to pelt on a hot summer’s day, he

could reach the rock in twelve minutes exactly. It was too far. Five minutes’

walk was the most that Weldon could possibly have alowed himself by

Wimsey’s calculation. Ormond again scrambled up the cliff, remounted his

bicycle and began to do sums in his head.

By the time he arrived at the police-station, these sums had taken a definite

form.

‘The way I look at it is this, sir,’ he said to Superintendent Glaisher. ‘We’ve

been going along the line that it was Perkins that was providing the alibi for

Weldon. Suppose it was the other way round. Suppose Weldon is providing

the alibi for Perkins. What do we know about Perkins? Only that he’s a

school-teacher and that nobody seems to have kept tabs on him since last May.

Now, he says he slept at Wilvercombe and didn’t start away that morning til

one o’clock. That’s a bit thick to start with. The only proof he offers of that is

that he bought some stuff at a chemist’s – he doesn’t remember the chemist and

he isn’t clear about the time. Now we know that Weldon was in Wilvercombe

that morning, and
his
time isn’t altogether accounted for, either. Supposing

those two had met and fixed it al up there. Perkins comes along to Darley and

gets the horse.’

‘We’l have to find out whether anyone saw him pass through the vilage.’

‘That’s so, sir. We must check that up, naturaly. But say he realy got there

at about 1.15 or so. Then he’d have plenty of time to get along with the mare,

tie her up where that there post is, and buzz along on foot to the rock and

commit his murder.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said Glaisher. ‘This place is fifteen minutes’ quick walk

from the rock.’

‘More like fifteen minutes’ run, sir.’

‘Yes, but over wet sand; through water, actualy. Shal we cal it just over a

mile? Right. Then that leaves three and a half miles for the mare. At eight miles

an hour, that needs – eight miles in sixty minutes, one mile in sixty over eight’ –

Glaisher always had to work these rule-of-three problems out on the corners of

blotting-pads; it had been the worst stumbling-block he had had to overcome

on his way to promotion – ‘thirty multiplied by seven over eight – oh, dear!

divide by two – multiply – divide –’

Ormond, who had the gift of being able to add three columns of figures at

once in his head, waited respectfuly.

‘I make it about twenty-six minutes,’ said Glaisher.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That means’ – Glaisher gazed at the face of the station-clock with working

lips. ‘Fifteen minutes from two o’clock, 1.45; twenty-six minutes from that

again – that’s 1.19.’

‘Yes, sir; and we can alow him four minutes to tie the mare up; 1.15 I make

it he’d have to start out from Darley.’

‘Just so; I was only verifying your figures. In that case he’d have had to be in

the vilage at 1.10 or thereabouts.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And how and when did he pick the mare up again, Ormond?’

‘He didn’t, sir, not as I make it out.’

‘Then what became of it?’

‘Wel, sir, I look at it like this. Where we’ve been making the mistake is in

thinking as the whole job was done by one person. Supposing now as this

Perkins commits his murder at two o’clock and then hides under the Flat-Iron,

same as we thought. He can’t get away til 2.30; we know that, because Miss

Vane was there til that time. Wel, then, at 2.30 she clears and
he
clears, and

starts to walk back.’

‘Why should he walk back? Why not go on? Oh, of course – he’s got to fix

up his time to fit in with Weldon’s 1.55 alibi.’

‘Yes, sir. Wel, if he was to walk straight back to Polock’s cottage, which is

two miles from the Flat-Iron, doing a steady three miles an hour, he’d be there

at 3.10, but Susie Moggeridge says she didn’t see him til between 3.30 and

four o’clock, and I don’t see that she’s got any cal to lie about it.’

‘She may be in it too; we’ve got our doubts about old Polock.’

‘Yes, sir; but if she was lying she’d lie the other way. She wouldn’t give him

more time than he needed to come from the Flat-iron. No, sir, it’s my belief

Perkins had to stop on the way for something, and I fancy I know what that

was. It’s al right for the doctor to say that the man who cut this chap’s throat

may
not have got blood on himself, but that’s not to say he
didn’t
get it – not

by a long chalk. I think Perkins had to stop al that time to get his togs changed.

He could easily take an extra shirt and pair of shorts in his kit. He may have

given the one he was wearing a bit of a wash, too. Say he did that, and then got

to Polock’s place about 3.45. He comes up by the lane, where Susie

Moggeridge sees him and he goes along another half-mile or so, and he meets

Miss Vane at four o’clock – as he did.’

‘H’m!’ Glaisher revolved this idea in his mind. It had its attractive points, but

it left a great deal open to question.

‘But the mare, Ormond?’

‘Wel, sir, there’s only one person could have brought back the mare that we

know of, and that’s Weldon, and only one time he could have done it, and

that’s between four o’clock, when Polwhistle and Tom said good-bye to him,

and 5.20, when Miss Vane saw him in Darley. Let’s see how that works out,

sir. It’s three and a half miles from Hink’s Lane to the place where the mare

was left; he could start at four, walk there in an hour or a bit less, ride back

quick, and just be back at 5.20 in time to be seen by them two. It al fits in, sir,

doesn’t it?’

‘It fits, as you say, Ormond, but it’s what I’d cal a tight fit. Why do you

suppose Perkins came back with Miss Vane instead of going on to Lesston

Hoe?’

‘It might be to find out what she was going to do, sir, or it might be just to

look innocent-like. He’d be surprised to see her there, I expect – not knowing

about her going up to Brennerton – and it’s not wonderful he should have

seemed a bit put about when she spoke to him. He might think going back with

her was the boldest and best thing to do. Or he may have felt anxious and

wanted to see for himself whether Weldon had got back with the nag al right.

He was very careful not to speak to Weldon when they did meet – went out of

his way to have nothing to do with him, as you might say. And as for his

clearing off the way he did, that’s natural if you come to think of it, supposing

he had those pants and things al soiled with blood in his knapsack.’

‘You’ve got an answer for everything, Ormond. Here’s another for you.

Why in the name of goodness, if al this is true, didn’t Perkins ride the ruddy

horse right up to the rock, while he was about it? He could have taken her back

and tethered her up just the same.’

‘Yes, sir, and I fancy, judging from the ring-bolt, that must have been the first

idea. But I was looking at those cliffs today and I noticed that it’s just about a

mile from the Flat-Iron that the road comes so close to the edge of the cliff as

to give you a proper view down on to the beach. When they came to think it

over they may have said to themselves that a man riding along that open bit of

beach would be conspicuous-like. So Perkins cached the gee where the cover

ended and paddled the rest of the way, thinking it would be less noticable.’

‘Yes; there’s something in that. But al this depends on the time that Perkins

passed through Darley. We’l have to get that looked into. Mind, Ormond, I’m

not saying you haven’t done a good bit of thinking over this, and I like to see

you having initiative and striking out a line for yourself; but we can’t go behind

facts when al’s said and done.’

‘No, sir; certainly not, sir. But of course, sir, even if it wasn’t Perkins, that’s

not to say it wasn’t somebody else.’

‘Who wasn’t somebody else?’

‘The accomplice, sir.’

‘That’s beginning al over again, Ormond.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Wel, cut along and see what you can make of it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Glaisher rubbed his chin thoughtfuly when Ormond was gone. This business

was worrying him. The Chief Constable had been chivvying him that morning

and making things unpleasant. The Chief Constable, a military gentleman of the

old school, thought that Glaisher was making too much fuss. To him it was

obvious that the rather contemptible foreign dancing-felow had cut his own

throat, and he thought that sleeping dogs should be left alone. Glaisher only

wished he could leave the thing alone, but he felt a sincere conviction that there

was more to it than that. He was not comfortable in his mind – never had been.

There were too many odd circumstances. The razor, the gloves, Weldon’s

incomprehensible movements, the taciturnity of Mr Polock, the horse-shoe, the

ring-bolt, Bright’s mistake about the tides and, above al, the cipher letters and

the photograph of the mysterious Feodora – each one of these might,

separately, have some ordinary and trivial explanation, but not al of them –

surely, not al of them. He had put these points to the Chief Constable, and had