“Sergeant Robinson?”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant looked even more puzzled.
“My name is Tibbett. Detective Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard. Here are my credentials.”
Henry fished his wallet out of his pants pocket and laid the relevant identity documents on the desk. Robinson took one look at them and struggled to his feet, trying to hide the magazine behind his back.
“Sir. What can we do for you, sir? I had no idea—”
Henry grinned. “Of course you didn’t, Sergeant. I’m here on a purely personal visit. But…you got a phone call from the hospital at about ten o’clock last night, didn’t you?”
“That’s right, sir.” With a great display of efficiency, Sergeant Robinson produced a large ledger in which such items were noted. “Ten-oh-three P.M. Body of a young man, not yet formally identified but thought to be Mr. Peter Turnberry of St. Lawrence, recovered from rocks at foot of cliffs near Smuggler’s Bay, by lifeboat team accompanied by Dr. William Cartwright of London. Pronounced dead by Dr. Cartwright. Thought to have fallen from clifftop. Autopsy being performed at hospital by Dr. Spenceley. Inquest to be arranged Monday. Mr. James Turnberry contacted by telephone to go to hospital for formal identification. Detective Sergeant Hemming will view remains and report tomorrow—that’s today, of course, sir.”
“All quite correct,” said Henry. “As a matter of fact, I was with the lifeboat crew as well as Dr. Cartwright. We are fellow guests at Carnworth Manor.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Robinson sounded wooden, in order to mask his lack of comprehension. An obvious accident, and everything proceeding according to the rules. Why on earth should a chief superintendent from Scotland Yard turn up at five in the morning?
Answering the unspoken question, Henry said, “I want to see where Turnberry fell from, and I want to do it before anybody else gets there. Do you know that clifftop path?”
“Yes, sir. Since I was a boy.”
“What’s the best way to reach it?”
“Well, sir, I usually walk, myself—but it’d take a good hour on foot. If you’re not on horseback, the quickest way is to drive to the nearest point on the road, and then cut across the fields.”
“You have a police car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to borrow it.”
“I’d have to call out one of the drivers, sir—”
“No, I’d prefer to drive myself, if you’ll just give me directions.”
The sergeant looked dubious, as well he might. Then he looked at Henry’s identification again.
Henry said, “If you’re in any doubt, telephone the Yard. They’ll give you a full description of me, and tell you where I’m spending the weekend.”
Sergeant Robinson turned red. “Oh, no, sir, that won’t be necessary.” He took a bunch of keys off a hook on the wall behind his desk. “Here are the car keys, sir. She’s in the yard at the back. How long do you—?”
“I’ll have her back by seven, with any luck,” said Henry. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Following Robinson’s admirably clear instructions, Henry swung the black police car out of the little town and along a steeply rising road that wound its way upward until it flattened out on the clifftop, giving breathtaking views out to sea through the left-hand window, while to the inland side wooded copses and green fields stretched peacefully away toward the island’s hilly center.
Henry began to look out for landmarks. A turn to the right, with a signpost reading GODSHILL 3. A sign indicating a sharp bend in the road.
“About a hundred yards farther on,” Robinson had said. “You can pull the car off the road under some bushy-topped trees. Then walk across the fields towards the sea. You can’t miss the path.”
It was really getting light now. Henry glanced at his watch. Ten to six. The mist was rolling up in the heat of the rising sun, revealing a calm, shining sea. About ten minutes’ walk, and there was the footpath. It ran some fifteen feet from the grassy cliff edge. The path was well worn, with foot and hoofmarks and the tracks of bicycle tires visible on its sandy surface.
Henry had a poor head for heights, and had to steel himself to cross the path and look down over the precipitous edge of the cliff. He found himself gazing down onto a gray jumble of rocks several hundred feet below. To his right he could make out the small sandy crescent of Smuggler’s Bay, where the lifeboat had landed. So, back to the path, a little farther along, and he would be at the right spot.
It was a few minutes later, at a point where the path was about ten feet from the edge and a straggle of windblown trees made a small copse to the right of the path, that Henry saw the saddle. It was lying on its back under the trees, just off the path. Henry went over, squatted down beside it, and took a careful look, making sure not to touch anything.
It was a handsome saddle, made of the finest leather, and the girth looked, as Timmond had said, almost new. Nevertheless, it was undoubtedly broken. Still without touching anything, Henry examined the break. It seemed to be a straight tear in the tough canvas, with the ragged ends of fibers lying limply, wet with morning dew. Henry gave it his full attention, with the aid of a pocket magnifying glass. It would be difficult to prove in a court of law, but it seemed to him that both edges of the girth had been cut to a depth of a few millimeters. Once the edges had been cut, of course, any slightly abnormal strain would cause the girth to rip.
And another thing. If Peter Turnberry had been thrown from his horse in such a way as to roll over the cliffside, why was the saddle on the other side of the path, under the trees? There was an obvious answer. Had the saddle been lying openly on the grass between the path and the precipice, Sir Robert and Barbara—or whoever composed the search party—would certainly have seen it. Either somebody had been up here and moved it, or… Henry reviewed the various possibilities in his mind.
He went back to the grass verge and took another look at the ground and the cliff edge. But the path was too scuffed with comings and goings for any single footprint to be decipherable, and the heavy morning dew had obliterated any traces that might have been left on the grass. Only one thing seemed certain. There was no sign in the tufty grass that overhung the precipice of anybody scrabbling for his life, tearing at fragile and useless supports to stop his fall. Nor, as far as Henry had been able to see in the torchlit darkness the night before, had there been handfuls of grass and soil on the rocks below. Too late to hope for any more clues down there, of course. The tide had been on the rise as the lifeboat came in, and the skipper had explained to Henry that in another few hours the rocks where the body was found would be underwater.
Henry’s next move was to inspect the trees in the little copse with meticulous care. It took him ten minutes to find what he was looking for. A piece of old rope with a frayed and broken end, still attached to a stout tree branch by a bowline knot—the sort of small expertise that you would expect from a sailor or a mountain climber. Henry hesitated for a moment. Then he took out his pocketknife and cut a small incision around the bight of the rope, some two inches from the end and a few millimeters deep. A hard pull, and the rope parted. He did a little artistic fraying to make the rope-end look as naturally worn as before and pocketed the small piece that he had detached. Then he went back to the car and drove down to Ventnor again. By a quarter to seven, he was back at the police station.
Sergeant Robinson was undoubtedly relieved to see him. He had not been at all sure whether or not he had exceeded his authority in allowing someone to drive off in Ventnor’s one available police vehicle—Chief Superintendent or not.
Henry said, “I’ll be going back to London, later today, Sergeant, but I shall probably have to appear at the inquest. And, Sergeant—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t mention to anybody—and I mean anybody—that I came here this morning.” Henry reached for his wallet and brought out two one-pound notes. An expression of horror began to dawn on Sergeant Robinson’s honest
face. Henry grinned. “I’m not trying to bribe you, Sergeant. Just use this to replace the petrol I’ve used, and give what’s left over to the Police Benevolent Fund.”
Sergeant Robinson began to smile, slowly. Then suddenly he said, “That’s no good, sir.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“The odometer, sir. The mileage has to be logged every time the car goes out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve turned it back to where it was.”
Robinson gaped. “You’ve what, sir?”
With a smile, Henry said, “One of the few good things about mixing with criminals is that you learn a lot of their tricks. It’s not very difficult to do. Ask any used-car salesman.”
Leaving Sergeant Robinson gazing after him with a mixture of admiration, incredulity, and shock, Henry walked out of the police station and back down the road toward Carnworth Manor. It was just before ten past seven. As he approached the big gates, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the gravel driveway.
Henry stepped behind the protective cover of a large oak tree beside the road, just in time to see the Manor gates opened from inside by Timmond, the groom. Sir Robert then rode through on the same chestnut gelding that he had taken the evening before to look for Turnberry. Timmond led the big bay through the gates and closed them. He mounted expertly, and the two horsemen trotted off down the road away from Henry, the direction that would bring them fastest to the start of the cliff path. It seemed that Sir Robert was fulfilling his promise to return to the scene of the accident early in the morning. Henry felt relieved that he had taken the precaution of getting there earlier, before Sir Robert and Timmond—doubtless with the best intentions—could destroy or move the evidence.
Once inside the Manor grounds, Henry went straight to the stables. They were deserted except for the remaining horses stirring in their stalls, and a small lad whistling through a straw as he piled hay into the mangers. He did not pause in his work as Henry came in.
“Mr. Timmond about?” Henry asked.
The lad took the straw out of his mouth for long enough to say, “No. ’E’s gorn orf wiv the master,” before turning his back on Henry to pitch another forkful of hay into Melisande’s manger.
Near the stable door, several rusty hooks protruded from the ancient black woodwork, and on one of them Henry recognized the piece of rope that Timmond had shown him the evening before. It had been thrown carelessly over the hook, and would never have been noticed in the general clutter of the stable. Henry took the frayed end from the tree out of his pocket. It certainly looked like a piece of the same line—but one piece of old rope is very like another. Again, what sort of evidence would that be, if it came to convincing a jury? Henry put the rope back into his pocket and made his way into the house.
Breakfast was a somber meal. Neither Lady Oppenshaw nor Barbara appeared at all. The other guests talked little, and then only about their various arrangements for getting home.
Professor Coe, who had driven to Carnworth in his own car, offered a ride to Myrtle Waterford, as he had to pass through the small Surrey town where she lived on his way back to London. He warned her that he must catch the car ferry from Fishbourne to Portsmouth at ten-thirty, which would mean leaving Carnworth at half past nine. Myrtle assured him almost inaudibly that she had already packed and would be waiting for him in the hall.
Harold Vandike planned to take the same ferry, and grudgingly accepted a lift as far as Fishbourne. As he breakfasted, Vandike had an open railway timetable beside him, and was working out by what circuitous route he could get from Portsmouth to Oxford without going all the way to London, across town, and out again from a different station. Only the Tibbetts and Dr. Cartwright were making no plans, as they were staying on to hear the result of the autopsy.
At nine o’clock, from his bedroom window, Henry saw Sir Robert and Timmond returning on horseback. Astride the bay gelding, Timmond carried in front of him the saddle that Henry had seen under the trees on the clifftop, with its broken girth dangling. They rode straight to the stables, and Sir Robert did not reappear.
However, Pamela Oppenshaw—as composed as ever, and wearing a black silk dress—was in the hall at half past nine to say good-bye to her departing guests. Hands were shaken sadly, thanks mumbled together with condolences—and then the three members of the Guess Who club went thankfully out through the front door and clambered into Fred Coe’s waiting car—Myrtle sitting beside the driver, and Harry climbing with neat agility into the back seat.
The hospital was prompt and efficient. At precisely ten o’clock, a telephone call came through from Dr. Spenceley in person, asking to speak to either Dr. Cartwright or Chief Superintendent Tibbett, perhaps to both of them at the same time. Dr. Cartwright took the call in the drawing room, while Henry listened in from his bedroom.
First came a spate of medicalese, which Henry could not entirely follow, despite the fact that he had been listening to this sort of thing for years. However, the words “multiple fractures” and “internal hemorrhage” were familiar enough. When the two doctors had concluded their specialized conversation, Dr. Spenceley said, “Are you there, Chief Superintendent?”
Henry said that he was.
“Well,” the doctor went on, “I don’t know how much of that you understood, but what it boils down to is that Turnberry’s injuries are entirely consistent with the accident he appears to have suffered.”
“What about his hands?” Henry asked.
The doctor gave an impatient little sigh. “They prove nothing, one way or the other. I agree, I might have expected to find marks indicating that he had tried to save himself, but it’s perfectly possible that he was stunned by his fall from the horse, and simply rolled over the precipice, unconscious.”
Henry pounced on this. “You mean he was hit on the head before he fell?”
“Now don’t put words into my mouth, please, Chief Superintendent. I’m merely suggesting a possible explanation to cover the facts. As you know, his skull was virtually smashed up—to use layman’s language. It’s impossible to tell at what point the various injuries occurred.” A little pause. “Well, I’ll see you at the inquest, no doubt. No, no date fixed yet. Well, good-bye to you both.”
Henry came downstairs to the hall, passing Dr. Cartwright on his way up. The doctor nodded briefly. “Just what we expected, eh? I can tell you’d like to make a mystery out of it. So would I, come to that, might be able to use it in a book. But it was an accident, and that’s what the coroner’s jury will find. I’m off to pack.” He continued on his way upstairs.
As Henry reached the hall, Sir Robert Oppenshaw came out from the door leading to the kitchen quarters. He was still wearing the old jodhpurs and hacking jacket that he had used for his early-morning expedition with Timmond.
“I heard the telephone,” he said. “Was it—?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “The autopsy results. Very much what we expected, of course.” He paused. Then, “I see you found the saddle.”
“How did you—?”
“I noticed you from our bedroom window.” Another pause. “You’ll be handing it over to the police, I suppose?”
“The police?”
“Certainly. It’ll be one of the chief exhibits at the inquest. Proving how the accident happened.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. No news of when the inquest will be, I suppose?”
Henry shook his head. “Not until tomorrow.”
“Well,” said Sir Robert, “it’ll be a simple affair, no doubt about that.”
“I hope so,” said Henry. Then he added, “Did Timmond tell you about the rope-end?”
“Oh, that.” Sir Robert sounded impatient. “Apparently, Timmond found a bit of old frayed rope attached to Melly’s bridle, that’s all. Presumably, Peter tethered her to the gatepost or somewhere when he was visiting his parents, and the rope must have snapped.”
“Timmond seemed to think she might have been tethered to a tree at the clifftop,”
Henry said.
“What a ridiculous idea. Why would Peter have done a thing like that?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry. “It was just a thought. I don’t suppose you found any rope near the scene of the accident?”
“We did not, although Timmond insisted on looking. There was just the saddle, girth broken, as we guessed.” Sir Robert sighed deeply. “Poor little Baba. She’s taking it very hard, I’m afraid.” A pause. “Well…now that the autopsy results are in…” The phrase hung in the air.
Henry said, “Yes, Emmy and I should be getting off. I left her doing our packing. Shouldn’t be long now. I daresay Dr. Cartwright will be leaving too.”
“There’s a car ferry at midday,” said Sir Robert, with what sounded like relief. “Cartwright drove down, so he’ll be able to give you a lift. You should leave by a quarter past eleven. That will give you plenty of time.”
Henry glanced at his watch. “In that case, I’ve nearly an hour. If you’ve no objection, I’ll take a last walk in your beautiful park.”
“Of course, dear fellow. Anything you like.” Sir Robert cleared his throat and then said hesitantly, “Pam and I…we’re…we’re extremely sorry that what started as such a pleasant weekend should have turned out so…so…”
“You mustn’t feel sorry for us,” said Henry quickly. “It’s your family and the Turnberrys who have suffered from this terrible accident.”
“Well.” Oppenshaw seemed to perk up a little. “I hope it won’t leave such depressing memories that you won’t come and see us again. Anytime. And my invitation to stay here over the inquest still stands, should you change your mind.”
Out in the clear, crisp sunshine, Henry walked briskly across the rolling green meadows beyond the formal gardens, until he was sure that he was out of sight of the house. Then he doubled back and made his way to the stables. The boy to whom he had spoken earlier told him that Mr. Timmond was in the kitchen, having a cup of tea with Cook.
Henry knocked on the back door, which was opened by a stout woman in a white apron—the formidable figure who had been chivvying the kitchen maids the day before. She stared at Henry and said, “Yes?” It was clear that she had not noticed Henry’s quick progress through the kitchen the evening before, for she gave no sign of recognition.
A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 9