The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks (14 page)

At that moment Merryweather entered. 'Dr. Ingleby has completed his examination, my lord, and would like a word with Mr Wilkins.'

'Show him in, Merryweather. Oh - unless you want to speak to him alone, Wilkins?'

'No, no, my lord, that will be quite all right.'

Dr. Ingleby was tall, in his thirties, with a mass of ginger hair. He had been the Alderley medical attendant for a number of years and was also the assistant police surgeon.

Lord Burford stood up and shook hands with him. 'Sorry to have had to drag you out, Ingleby.'

'All part of the job.'

'What can you tell us, doctor?' Wilkins asked.

'There'll have to be a post-mortem, of course, but cause of death almost certainly suffocation; there are small haemorrhages of the upper eyelids, blue lips and fingertips, slight contusions around the mouth - usual signs. It was very probably done with the pillow from the bed. There are what seem to be marks of her teeth on it.'

'Would it have required considerable strength?'

Ingleby shook his head. 'Not provided she was taken by surprise, asleep or just lying down. The murderer would have been able to throw their whole weight on top of her. She clearly put up quite a struggle and got her head over the side of the bed, but that wouldn't have prevented the assailant keeping the pillow clapped over her mouth.'

'And the time of death, Doctor?'

'Between eleven thirty and twelve thirty, with perhaps ten minutes' leeway either way.'

'It was about half twelve when we found the body,' Lord Burford said.

'Did you touch her?' Ingleby asked.

'Just felt for a pulse.'

'Did you notice if the skin was cold?'

'Hard to say. I just took her wrist between my thumb and forefinger. I'd say it felt fairly cold. But not icy, if you know what I mean.'

'That's not a lot of use in narrowing the time of death further, then.'

'But not before eleven twenty, doctor?' Wilkins said.

'Better say eleven fifteen, to be on the safe side. Look, I must go. I'll let you have my report.'

'Thank you, doctor,' Wilkins said.

'Would you care for a drink, or a coffee, Ingleby?' the Earl asked.

'Not just now, thank you. Good night.' He went out, then put his head back round the door. 'I didn't step on any of the cufflinks,' he said, then went out again.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Earl and Wilkins stared at each other. 'What did he say?' asked the Earl.

'That he didn't step on any of the cufflinks.'

'What on earth did he mean?'

'I was just going to ask you that, my lord. You didn't see any?'

'No, but I only really looked at Clara.'

'Well, I suppose we'd better go up and take a look-see.'

'D'you want me to come along?'

'It might be helpful, my lord.'

They went out and up the stairs. The photographer and the fingerprint man were standing outside the door of Clara's room, talking to Dobson.

'Finished, lads?' Wilkins asked.

The fingerprint man answered. 'Yes, guv. Didn't take long. Hardly any dabs. The butler explained all the bedrooms were dusted and polished before the guests moved in. Three sets altogether, all women's by the look. One set in here and in the other room, nearly all on movable things - ornaments and the like. Obviously the maid's. She must have moved them to dust and polish and then put them back after. Then there are the dead lady's prints in here, and another's in the other room, no doubt the occupant's. Killer probably wore gloves.'

'You'll have to take the maid's and Miss Simmons' prints, just to confirm it, but tomorrow'll be soon enough.'

He stepped into the room and stood silently looking down at the body of Clara. Then he went close to the bed and turned round, to get a better view of her face. 'A sad lady, I should imagine, my lord.'

'I never thought of her like that, Wilkins, but you could just be right.'

Wilkins gave a little shiver. 'I hate murder. Never get used to it.' He picked up the top pillow from the bed and handed it to the fingerprint man. 'Take this with you, when you go. It could be the murder weapon. Doctor said something queer about cufflinks.'

'Oh yes, they're all over the place. You can't really see them from this side of the bed - except that one.' He pointed to a small square of gold touching the leg of the bed near the skirting board. 'But if you go round . . .'

Wilkins did so. 'My, my,' he said, 'how very rum. Come and look, my lord.'

The Earl, who had remained in the doorway, joined him. 'Great Scot,' he muttered. There were cufflinks everywhere. Most of them were on the floor, but there were two on the chair, one on the bedside table, and three on the dressing-table.

'Did you count them?' Wilkins asked the fingerprint man.

'Only roughly, guv. We spotted about thirty. That's without moving anything, or making a proper search. I didn't dust them - would have taken far too long.'

'Quite right. Any ideas, my lord?'

'Well, they're mine. At least, some of them are. I recognise that one, and that one, and one of those on the dressing-table. Which means they're probably all mine.'

'
All
of them? Really? How remarkable.' Then light seemed to dawn. 'Oh, I see, collect cufflinks, do you, my lord, as well as firearms?'

'No. Well, not purposely. I get given 'em, and never throw any away. Stupid, really. There are a lot of single ones, which have lost their partners.'

'Where would they normally be kept?

'In a little box in my dressing-room - the other side of the corridor, just beyond the stairs.'

'Well, perhaps your lordship would be so kind as to take Smithson here and let him dust the box for prints.'

'Oh yes, of course. Come along, my dear feller.' He went out and Leather took the opportunity to enter the room.

'What d'you make of it, Jack?'

'To me, sir, it looks as if he's deliberately placed them away from the door, so that they can't be seen unless you come right in - except for that one by the leg of the bed.'

'Well, some of them
can
be seen.' Wilkins went back to the doorway. 'Those three on the dressing-table, for instance.'

'Yes, but they're not noticeable. I mean, if you just glanced into the room, you wouldn't remark on them.'

'True. I reckon there's a simpler explanation, though.'

'What's that?'

Wilkins made the movement of an underarm throw.

'Oh, you mean he chucked them in?'

'Yes, from the doorway. Threw them quite hard and most of them cleared the bed. Probably in a hurry.'

'But why do it at all?'

'You tell me.'

Leather's brow furrowed. 'Some sort of symbolic act?'

'Symbolic of what?'

'Let me see. Links. Things linked together. A broken link. Many links, joining two people, now scattered, or thrown away. Or cuffs. Handcuffs. Restraint. Captivity. He's saying to the dead woman: all links between us have been discarded, you hold me in captivity no longer. On the other hand, of course, he's thrown them at her, or surrounded her with them. So perhaps he's saying the links binding us will always be there. You can never get away from me, even in death.'

Wilkins pulled at his ear. 'Bit of a contradiction there, isn't there?'

'Yes, well, either could be true. It's only a theory.'

'Well, let's make another one on the same lines. A cuff can mean a sort of slap on the head. Links are seaside golf courses. So we could surmise that the deceased lady once hit somebody on a golf course, and this was an act of revenge.'

Leather grinned. 'OK, my effort was a bit far-fetched.'

'I've got nothing against far-fetched theories. I've had a few that turned out to be right.'

At that moment the Earl and Smithson returned. 'Box quite empty,' the Earl said.

'No dabs at all, guv,' Smithson added. 'Been wiped clean.'

'That would mean they were definitely taken by the murderer, wouldn't it, sir?' said Leather. 'Because he obviously expected us to be called in. Someone who'd just done it for a prank wouldn't have anticipated the box being dusted for prints.'

'Yes, good point, lad.'

Leather obviously felt that he'd redeemed himself after his theorising, and looked pleased.

Smithson said: 'The only other unusual thing is that postcard, guv, on the bedside table.'

Wilkins moved over and looked down at the white card. On it were written in big block capitals the words
IN MEMORY OF MISS DORA LETHBRIDGE
.

'This been dusted, too?'

'Yes. Nothing.'

Wilkins picked it up and turned it over. The back was blank. 'Would your lordship have ever heard of a Miss Dora Lethbridge?'

'No, not that I can recall.'

'Oh well.' Wilkins put the card in his pocket.

There was silence. Everybody was looking at Wilkins, who suddenly seemed to be far away and was staring moodily at the carpet. Then he came to himself and rubbed his hands together. 'Right, so what shall we do now?' He looked round, hopefully.

It wasn't quite clear to whom the question was addressed. After a few seconds, Lord Burford took it upon himself to answer. 'That's rather up to you, my dear fellow.'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.' He looked depressed. Then he brightened. 'Oh yes, the armour. Better take a look at that, I suppose.'

'Lord, I'd forgotten all about that. Come along. I think it was Albert and young Tommy who checked in there during the search.'

He led the way round the corner into the east corridor, the others following, like a retinue of attendants. The art gallery was half way along on the right.

Wilkins said: 'I see there's an open fanlight over the doors. Accounts for the crash being heard so far afield.'

'Yes, we were told years ago that it was a good idea to keep a flow of air through, particularly in the hot weather; helps stop the pictures getting warped or the paint cracking, or something. We keep the windows open a couple of inches, as well. I ought to lock the gallery at nights, really, but we've got so reliant on our alarm system that I don't usually bother. And, of course, the windows are barred.' As he had been speaking, he had torn a length of brown sticky tape from the crack between the doors, thrown them open and turned on the lights. Now he stopped short. 'Good lord.'

He went in and the others followed him. They saw that the component pieces of the armour were strewn across the room for a distance of about ten feet. The wooden frame to which they had been attached was lying near to the small plinth on which the assembled suit had stood, just to the left of the doors that led to the gun collection.

The Earl crossed the gallery, the others behind him, and looked at the wreckage more closely. 'The impact on landing seems to have snapped the cord that was attaching the parts to the frame. Wouldn't have expected that. Could have perished, I suppose. Must admit I haven't had the thing apart in donkey's years.' He scratched his head and looked around. 'None of it makes sense. If he came in here just to hide, he might have crossed to try and get in the gun-room, tried the doors and found them locked. But then why would he go to the left? You can clearly see that the windows are barred, so he couldn't have been looking for a way out.'

'Might he have been thinking of trying to hide behind the sofa?' Leather suggested.

The piece of furniture in question, one of several chairs of various kinds placed around the room, for the benefit of people wanting to sit and study the paintings, was against the wall to the left of the plinth.

'Might conceal him from anyone in the right of the room,' Lord Burford said, 'but he could still be seen from the doorway.'

'I'm not so sure, my lord. Smithy, go and crouch down to the left of it.'

With an inaudible mutter under his breath, Smithson went across and did as Leather instructed. Leather backed to the doorway. 'Can you make yourself smaller?'

Smithson shuffled back and to his left and bent his head. 'That's about it, Sarge.'

'No, I can't see him from here now,' Leather said. 'So it would conceal him from anyone just glancing in. Pretty useless sort of hiding place, though. OK, Smithy.'

Smithson scrambled to his feet and came back to the centre of the room. 'Perhaps he was groping about in the dark, and just cannoned into it,' he suggested.

'But it looks as though it was knocked over with real force,' said the Earl. 'It obviously fell straight forward: there are no pieces to the side, so he didn't cannon into it from the right. And look at the way the pieces are scattered. If it had just toppled over gently, you'd expect them more or less to stay where they fell.'

'Might have slid, my lord,' Leather said. 'The parquet blocks are very smooth and shiny.'

'Mm.' The Earl nodded. 'Maybe you're right, Sergeant. I suppose that is the only logical explanation.'

'Look at this, sarge,' said the photographer. He'd wandered a little to the right and was pointing to the floor a few feet from the inner wall. The others, apart from Wilkins, joined him. Scattered around were a number of small pieces of shattered glass.

Leather crouched down for a closer inspection. 'Looks like a broken wine glass.'

'Shall I take a photo?'

'Might as well.'

'Well, what do you think of it all, Wilkins?' asked the Earl.

The Chief Inspector, who had apparently rapidly lost interest in their conversation and was paying more attention to a painting of some horses by Stubbs than to anything else, seemed to pull himself back with an effort.

'I don't, my lord.'

'Don't what?'

'Think. About this. It's another rum thing, like the cufflinks. There'll probably be a third. But I don't reckon this one's going to help us catch the murderer, so I'm not going to waste my time racking my brains about it for now.'

'Prints, sir?' Leather suggested. Smithson gave a low groan.

'I heard that, Smithy,' Leather said.

Wilkins shook his head. 'It'd take ages, all probably to no avail. After all, any one of the guests might have come in here, quite innocently, and touched the armour, during the afternoon. Quite right to suggest it, though, Jack. But better take a couple of shots,' he added, to the photographer, 'just for the record.'