The Second Shot (29 page)

I stared at Sheringham aghast. This was too dreadful.

The colonel too was little less taken aback. He pulled at his moustache and mumbled. ‘Well, upon my word, I knew this was going to be an unconventional business, but – ’ He exchanged a glance with the superintendent that made my blood run cold.

But before the latter could reply Armorel had jumped to her feet. ‘You can’t arrest him!’ she cried wildly. ‘He didn’t do it. I’ll confess.
I
shot Eric. I crept down from – ’

‘Ah!’ said Sheringham, in a tone of horrible triumph. ‘That’s precisely what I was getting at. Now we’ve got the truth. Congratulate me, Colonel. I’ve made the real criminal confess for you, in the presence of all these witnesses. I knew, but I couldn’t prove it. A little ruse like that, which you regulars can’t very well use, will often – ’

But I could stand no more, ‘Sheringham!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you mad? You know perfectly well she had nothing to do with it. But I see your trap, though I can’t avoid it.’ I turned to where the two officials were sitting. ‘Gentlemen, Mr Sheringham forces me to tell you the truth. You were perfectly right in your first suspicions. I did shoot Mr Scott-Davies.’

‘Oh, Cyril,’ came a wailing cry from Ethel, but I hardly heard it.

‘I must ask you, however,’ I went on, with what dignity I could, ‘to accept my word for it that my wife had no foreknowledge either of my intentions or – ’

‘So there are two of them to choose from,’ Sheringham suddenly interrupted me. At the same moment Armorel, who had resumed her seat on the couch on which we had been sitting, caught at my hand and pulled me down beside her. ‘Two perfectly good confessions. The only trouble is that they contradict each other, but does a small thing like that matter?

‘Now let’s consider this guilty pair a little further. Suppose, as the superintendent suggests, that this is all a very clever little plot. Suppose they agreed to shoot Scott-Davies between them, and share the inheritance by marriage, even going so far as to arrange this double confession if suspicion should ever fall on either of them. That would be a cunning piece of work, wouldn’t it? The only trouble with it is that it isn’t the case. I myself am a witness to the fact that no engagement between them, let alone marriage, had ever been even mooted before the night before last; and if I hadn’t taken Mr Pinkerton by his trembling shoulders then and literally kicked him into proposing to the girl with whom he was in love but who he imagined couldn’t possibly be in love with him, and insisted myself on writing a letter to the bishop to marry them out of hand by extra-special licence the very next day before Miss Scott-Davies could think better of it – well, there wouldn’t have been any engagement or marriage yet. And there’s simply no way of getting over that. Isn’t that the case, Pinkerton?’

‘Well,’ I hesitated, in acute discomfort (really, Sheringham was quite impossible); but any further words I might have uttered were completely drowned in a most discomfiting shout of laughter in which everyone, including even Armorel, seemed to join.

‘Is this true?’ she demanded, still laughing.

I tried to assure her that it was not – at least, not wholly so, but the amused glances of the others caused me to falter unconvincingly in my speech. I fear that to this day Armorel quite believes that I was literally kicked into proposing to her.

‘Well, that’s enough of comedy,’ Sheringham grinned unkindly. The reason I introduced it was to show that Mr and Mrs Pinkerton can each be relied on for a prompt confession of murder whenever anyone accuses the other. I suggest that there is only one inference to be drawn from that, and that is that each of them suspects the other, or knows at least that the other’s alibi isn’t cast-iron; in other words, that both of them are innocent. Mrs Pinkerton’s story, no doubt, is only partially true, and – ’

‘I don’t admit that,’ Armorel put in quickly. ‘I say it’s all true.’

‘Of course you do,’ Sheringham said in approving tones. ‘But I say that you altered it slightly to cover the time of the second shot, which was not really the case. No doubt I’m quite wrong, and in any case it doesn’t matter in the least because your other evidence, which there’s no reason to doubt, and which is actually confirmed by Mrs Fitzwilliam, proves I think quite conclusively that the shot which Hillyard fired was the second, and therefore Pinkerton couldn’t have fired it; and proves further that Scott-Davies was killed by the first shot, for which Pinkerton has a perfect alibi. I take it you’re already convinced of that Colonel?’

‘Yes,’ nodded the colonel. ‘That seems quite established now. Eh, Superintendent?’

‘Quite, sir. I don’t know if Mr Pinkerton ever imagined that we were considering a case against him, but I should like to assure him now that it isn’t in our minds at all.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, not very heartily, for I had not forgotten the obvious scepticism with which the superintendent had received my account of events in the first place. But I was exceedingly relieved all the same.

At this point Armorel jogged my elbow. I looked at her, and she handed me an open note. In considerable astonishment I read as follows:

I looked at Armorel with raised eyebrows. She took the note back from me and laid her finger on her lips.

In no little bewilderment I turned my attention back to the proceedings in question.

‘So now we’ve got Pinkerton as well as Mrs Hillyard eliminated beyond all doubt,’ Sheringham had resumed. ‘As to Mrs Pinkerton, I have a piece of evidence which I think may come as a surprise. Did you question a farmhand called Morton, Superintendent?’

‘Certainly I did, sir, considering he was working in the first field beyond the woods all that afternoon,’ replied the superintendent with dignity. ‘But he had nothing of importance to tell me. He didn’t even hear the shots.’

‘Oh, yes, he had, but he didn’t know it was of importance, and you didn’t ask him. He saw Miss Scott-Davies sitting in the Moorland Field, at precisely the time when she ought to have been sitting there. At least, he saw a woman in a blue dress, and I’ve ascertained that Miss Scott-Davies was the only person wearing a blue dress that afternoon.’

‘Yes, sir?’ said the superintendent, in somewhat puzzled tones. ‘Well, what does that prove?’

‘Ah! What does it? I’ll tell you. Nothing! Not even that Miss Scott-Davies is an unreliable witness, because she’s already admitted to me that she did go up to the Moorland Field for a few minutes, before going down again. You see, Morton only glanced up there and saw her once. He didn’t look again. And he hasn’t the faintest idea what time it was. He can’t even check it by the shots, because, as you say, he didn’t hear them. I asked him, was it twenty minutes past three? He said, very like. I asked him, was it twenty minutes to four? He said, very like. In other words, he may agree with the prosecution that it was the former, but he’ll agree equally readily with the defence that it might just as well have been the latter. He can’t say more, because he doesn’t know. But it’s a far bigger point in favour of the defence that she was there at all, than for the prosecution that it might quite possibly have been during an unimportant period.

‘And for the rest, there’s no case against her beyond motive, which is obvious, and opportunity, which she readily admits; and of course you can’t put her husband in the box against her on that. But her story of the two honeysuckle bushes is plausible, and the two bushes are there for witnesses; while her account of her conversation with her cousin before either of the shots would almost certainly convince a jury. No, there’s no case beyond the mildest suspicion; certainly nothing that you could possibly present to a jury. Besides, I know perfectly well she didn’t shoot him.’

‘You speak as if we suspected she had,’ remarked the colonel uncomfortably.

‘Of course. I give you credit for doing your duty unflinchingly, Colonel, however unpleasant; and it was certainly your duty to suspect the present Mrs Pinkerton. Still, with your agreement we’ll eliminate her from now onwards; and select as points for belief in her story the conversation with her cousin and the incident of the wild rose, already more or less confirmed. Can you, without giving away official secrets, say whether you do agree to that?’

The colonel glanced at Superintendent Hancock. ‘I’ll leave that to you, Superintendent. Answer or not, as you think fit. But I see no reason for not doing so, if you so agree.’

‘Very well, sir,’ the superintendent said, almost resignedly. So much candour was evidently against all his instincts. ‘I agree. And I’ll add, if it will relieve anyone’s mind, that we are certainly not contemplating the case against Mrs Pinkerton that you mention. We wouldn’t,’ added the superintendent, candid himself for once, ‘stand a dog’s chance on it.’

It can be imagined with what overwhelming relief I heard these words.

‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ said Sheringham, with great heartiness. ‘Besides, she didn’t do it. But now that we’ve cleared those two, I’ll tell you who did.’

‘You will, sir?’ said the superintendent, sitting up.

‘Certainly I will. I’ve already broken the news to the person in question, so it won’t come as a shock. Just before you came, I thought it my duty to tell Mr de Ravel that I intended to accuse him publicly of murder.’ Sheringham paused and looked fixedly at De Ravel.

Paul de Ravel had gone very pale. He uttered an obviously forced laugh and fingered his little moustache. ‘I suppose we must listen to this nonsense?’ he said, but I noticed that he brought the words out only with difficulty. I suppose that, knowing the circumstances, I ought to have been very sorry for the man; I can only say that I was not. In my opinion De Ravel deserved anything that came to him. In any case, I followed Sheringham’s wishes and did not interrupt.

‘I see,’ said the chief constable quietly. ‘I suppose you’re prepared to substantiate that statement, Sheringham?’

‘Most certainly I am. I’ll do so now. You remember that Mr and Mrs de Ravel have a mutual alibi. According to their statement, instead of being in separate places, as according to the little play they should have been, they were together; Mrs de Ravel, in fact, bored with the proceedings, joined her husband on the banks of the bathing pool. Well, I know for a fact that this statement is false.’

‘You do, really?’ sneered De Ravel. ‘And may I ask, how?’

‘On definite evidence,’ Sheringham returned sharply. ‘I don’t make that kind of assertion without evidence. Perhaps you aren’t aware that just beyond the bathing pool is a public footpath to the next village. From a certain point on it one can see the whole of the bathing pool. There’s a gap in the fringe of trees surrounding it.’

John nodded. ‘One was blown down in the gale last winter. I knew the gap allowed a view of the pool.’

‘Yes. And apparently it’s quite an amusement for the local yokels to pause on the path and watch any bathing in progress. I thought it as well to confirm Mr de Ravel’s alibi this morning, so I made inquiries. By a piece of luck I found a girl who had a hopeful look that afternoon. So far as I could make out, she was there for about ten minutes, between 3:30 and 3:40. There was no one either in the pool or anywhere near it.

Perhaps Mr de Ravel will account for that?’

‘I’ll account for nothing,’ De Ravel replied angrily.

‘But you do at least admit it?’

‘Certainly not. I admit nothing, either.’

‘Very well, I’ll account for it. You never went near the pool at all. You hung about, waiting your chance, with the rifle that Scott-Davies had left below and which you had found. You knew he was waiting for somebody – Miss Verity coming along from Bluebell Wood, in all probability. You followed him into the thicket and shot him. Your wife was afraid of something of the sort. Either she taxed you with it immediately afterwards and you admitted it, or else she had followed you and seen the whole thing. Between you, you then concocted the story of the mutual alibi at the bathing pool, and the presence of Pinkerton, whom you saw from your hiding place but who didn’t see you, was a further safeguard for you. Isn’t that what happened?’

‘Damn you, no; it isn’t.’

‘No,’ Sheringham at once assented. ‘I thought it might not be. What really happened is that Mrs de Ravel was your accomplice before the fact, not merely after it. You planned the murder together. Then she – ’

‘Damn you, keep my wife’s name out of this,’ De Ravel shouted passionately. ‘She had nothing to do with it. That’s one fact for you at any rate.’

‘But you did, eh?’ Sheringham pressed the wretched man.

De Ravel hesitated, glaring at his tormentor, and licked his lips. Then he seemed to make up his mind. ‘Yes, I did. You can do what you like. I don’t care. What’s the use? I shot him. My wife had nothing to do with it. She never even knew. I simply told her it would be better if we said we were together at the pool, to save bother. So now you’ve got it.’

I had been listening to all this with the utmost amazement, but it was nothing to the amazement with which I heard Mrs de Ravel speak next. She drawled, with the utmost nonchalance: ‘Now, Paul, that really was terribly sweet of you. But I couldn’t possibly go to those lengths, you know. My dear policeman, or whatever you call yourself,’ she went on, turning to Sheringham, ‘you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It wasn’t Paul who shot the man at all. It was I. Otherwise your what-d’yecall-it? – reconstruction was quite correct.’

‘Thank you, Mrs de Ravel,’ Sheringham smiled. ‘But I hadn’t got hold of the wrong end of the stick at all. I knew it was you. That’s why I first of all accused Pinkerton (because I was sure that Mrs Pinkerton would oblige as she did), and afterwards your husband. With the example of wifely devotion before you, I felt I could rely on your rising to a similarly dramatic occasion. So you admit to shooting Scott-Davies, Mrs de Ravel?’