“Oh!” said Knollis. He began a piece of pantomime which momentarily startled both the Chief Constable and Sergeant Ellis. He raised his hat above his head with his right hand, and stepped forward, at the same time bringing his arm down across his body from right to left. The Chief Constable flinched.
“What the devil—?” he exclaimed.
Knollis ignored him. He stared thoughtfully at his hat. “It couldn’t have been Dana Vaughan.”
Ellis blinked, while the Chief Constable removed his monocle, and rescrewed it into his eye.
“You see,” Knollis explained slowly, “Dana Vaughan is left-handed. Manchester’s back must have been towards the killer—that much is obvious. A left-handed person could not have wielded the blow. It would entail bringing the arm into the body instead of across it. That lets out Miss Vaughan. I’m willing to wager that the end of the wound nearest to the right ear is deeper than that nearest to the left ear. Obviously so, for the lower point of the blade would meet the flesh first.”
He shook himself, and seemed to return to normality. “The axe proved to be an A.R.P. one, sir?”
“Uh?” grunted the Chief Constable. “Oh yes! Black insulated handle. Spike on one side and blade on the other. According to this report—oh, you’ve got it there! Well, according to the report, it looks as if it has been rinsed, but not thoroughly washed. The paper containing it was sodden.”
“Your water-butt, Ellis,” Knollis remarked.
“There are traces of blood on it, Inspector. It’s in the dabs room if you want to see it.”
“I do, sir,” said Knollis. “Well, that is a little more towards the eventual solution. By the way, sir, what are the terms of Manchester’s will?”
“I’ve contacted the solicitor,” the Chief Constable replied. “He leaves Mrs. Manchester an annuity of a thousand a year, and the interest from his holdings in Manchester Furnishings for the period of her lifetime. The capital? On her death the whole estate goes to two young nephews, aged twelve and fourteen respectively. They are the sons of his only brother. There are minor bequests to his friends, but nothing of importance. Now, how do you think you are going?” he asked anxiously.
“Well enough, considering the time,” Knollis replied. “I’ve got the atmosphere of the house, and that is always important. There are undercurrents which need investigating, sir. Nobody seems to love anybody else—apart from the chauffeur-maid affair. Those two are deeply in love with each other, too deeply for my fancy.”
“I don’t understand you, Inspector,” the Chief Constable protested. “Suppose you enlighten me?”
“One of them,” said Knollis flatly, “is shielding the other.”
“You don’t mean that one of them killed Manchester?”
“Good lord, no! I don’t mean that. I mean that something other than murder has taken place, and I haven’t discovered what it is. And now I’d like to see the axe, sir, so perhaps you will tell Dr. Clitheroe where I am if he arrives?”
“Certainly,” said the Chief Constable, “but what is your programme for to-day?”
Knollis turned at the door, nearly treading on Ellis’s toes. “I’ll be making my way back to Bowland when I’ve seen the body, and the axe, and the doctor. By the· way, I suppose Temple was taken to his home?”
“Er—yes, I suppose so.”
Knollis and Ellis went to the finger-print department, where a sergeant was working on the axe. “Any luck?” Knollis asked as he joined him at the bench.
“Two very imperfect ones, sir. I doubt if I’ll manage to bring them out—to mean anything, that is. I’m sending it along to the pathological section next for the bloodstains. That in order, sir?”
“Oh quite!” replied Knollis. “I suppose you had it photographed before starting work on it?”
“Naturally, sir. They’ll be ready any time now.”
“Good enough. Now if Dr. Clitheroe should come looking for me, will you please tell him that I’m in the mortuary? Thank you.”
They were directed to the mortuary, where they stared silently at the cold slab on which Manchester’s remains lay.
“Well, here goes!” said Knollis, grimacing. He drew back the sheet, to expose the body which had once housed the furniture magnate.
“It’s some bruise, sir,” Ellis commented as they bent over the dead man’s left ear.
Knollis straightened his back, and put his hands on his hips. “I hope you realise what this means—if the bruise was made at the same time as the death stroke!”
Ellis nodded gravely. “I was weighing that up, sir. It means that his killer stunned him, and then chopped him while he was laying on the ground. That sounds like a fury of a woman, or a very warped personality.”
“Hm! A very warped personality, eh, Ellis? I wonder!” ·
“There’s red mist and mad fury in it,” Ellis added softly.
“Yes, mad fury. . . . Now I wonder . . . ?”
“Yes?” Ellis enquired in a hopeful tone.
Knollis shrugged his shoulders. “Merely a wild surmise. Help me to roll him over. I want to examine the wound.”
“I don’t,” Ellis said frankly, “but I’ll help.”
A few minutes later they replaced the body in its original position and drew up the sheet. Knollis turned his back on it, and rested his weight against the edge of the slab. “A right-handed person did that, as I surmised.”
Ellis brushed his moustache away from his lips in a manner that indicated that he was clearing the decks for action. “But look,” he protested, “a left-handed person could have done it if the body was lying on the ground!”
“Could he?” Knollis asked mildly. “Come, my Watson, use your imagination. Imagine the body lying face down on the ground, and yourself standing beside it ready to take a swipe at the neck. You are right-handed, so which side of the body will you stand on while you chop?”
Ellis performed various manoeuvres which would have convinced a layman that he was not quite in possession of his senses. “Why,” he said at last; “on his right—facing the right side of his body, that is!”
“And if you were left-handed?”
Ellis again manoeuvred into position. “The left! That way I’d have all of the body below the neck on my own right.”
“Exactly,” Knollis said with quiet satisfaction. “Now, as a right-handed man, try to whack him from the left side of the body.”
“No can do,” replied Ellis. “It’s clumsy.”
“And it would be equally clumsy for a left-handed man to whack him from the right side. Ergo, Dana Vaughan is out.”
“You were really suspecting her?” Ellis asked with astonishment paramount in his voice.
“We-ell, yes, along with the others. You know my methods, my dear Watson!”
“Oh,” said Ellis. Then he brightened. “Why the bruise over the left ear. Why not the right?”
Knollis groaned. “You must have slept too heavily, Ellis. You are not on your usual form this morning. Here, take your hat in your right hand. Now I’ll turn my back on you, and you must imagine that you want to lay me out by bashing me over the ear with the flat of the axe.”
A chuckle came from Ellis. “You want me to lay you out so that I can chop your cervical vertebra?”
“Of course, man!” Knollis replied sharply. “How are you going to do it?”
Ellis laughed. “I’m going to bash you over the top of the head. It’s far easier, and I don’t have to wangle into an awkward position.”
Knollis turned him slowly, his mouth open a mere fraction of an inch. “Oh!”
“See what I mean?” asked Ellis.
Knollis nodded. “Yes—-blast it! Bang goes a beautiful theory.”
“Well, what now?” Ellis enquired.
“I’m the one who has slept too heavily,” Knollis replied. “Of course you would hit me over the head. Then that means—”
“That the bruise was caused by his fall?”
“No-o, I don’t think it could be
that. I admit that the murder took place on grass, but I noticed that there was a fair amount of pink gravel among it, such as might have been swept on to it, or carried by boots. In that case he would have broken the bruise, or at least have grazed it, and there was no gravel evident and no graze. Now how the dickens did he get it?”
Ellis grimaced. “I can see one way. . . .”
“Your imagination coming to life, eh? Well, how was it produced, Watson?”
“If you won’t allow a fall, or a swipe with an axe, then there is only one possible way in which it could have been done—if it was caused at the same time as death.”
“Go on then,” Knollis said impatiently.
Ellis stared at the sheeted figure on the slab.
“It’s dirty, but it’s possible. His killer kicked him in the face after he had laid him out.”
Knollis became as brisk as if a spring had been unleashed within him. He swung round and tore back the sheet from the dead man. He walked round the slab and re-examined the bruise. Then he looked up at Ellis with slit-like eyes. “I wonder if you are right! I almost think that you are, man!”
“I often wonder if I am!” came a deep voice from the doorway.
“Ah, Dr. Clitheroe!” said Knollis. “Just the man we need. Look, this bruise; how was it caused?”
The tall doctor took long strides to Knollis’s side. “The bruise. Yes! Denstone and I tried to fathom that last night. Frankly, we reached no decision. Have you a theory?”
“Sergeant Ellis has,” replied Knollis, “and it isn’t often he goes astray.”
The doctor bent over the bruise, turning the head so the left ear was almost parallel with the table. “Mm! The light is better this morning. I don’t like artificial light for examinations, and it’s worse still for doing a P.M.”
“When are you doing the post-mortem?” Knollis asked. “To-day, I presume?”
“This afternoon. Care to be present?”
“Not me! I’m squeamish.”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m not keen on them myself. Messy businesses. Somehow, too, it doesn’t seem the right way to treat the dead—and that from a doctor, eh? Still, in the interests of science and justice such things have to be done, and somebody has to do it. . . .”
He broke off, and bent lower over the head. “There seems to be a slight indentation, a half-moon-shaped indentation. Does that help your sergeant’s theory?”
Knollis looked over the doctor’s back, and smiled grimly at Ellis. “Well, Dr. Watson? Are you satisfied?”
“Could—could it have been caused by the toe of a boot?” Ellis asked anxiously.
The doctor unbent his long body and planted his hands on the edge of the slab. “It could; a narrow-pointed boot or shoe?”
“I’m suggesting, sir, that the killer kicked him in the face after he was dead.”
The doctor grimaced. “A nice thought that, Sergeant! And yet it is feasible. Ye-es, it is highly probable. I’m inclined to agree with your supposition.”
Knollis gave a quiet chuckle. “I told you that he was good.”
“He seems to be,” commented the doctor. “Have you any further points needing my help, Inspector?”
Knollis went over the angles which he and Ellis had discussed, adding: “As Brailsford says that he heard Manchester talking with a woman, I was naturally interested in the possibility of the one left-handed person in the house being responsible—that person being a woman, of course.”
“I’m with you there, Inspector,” said Dr. Clitheroe. “I don’t think it was committed by a left-handed person, and I am inclined to rule out the possibility of the guilty party being a woman.”
“You are?” Knollis exclaimed. “On what grounds?”
“The degree of violence. I cannot bring myself to believe that any woman in that house has the necessary strength to produce such a deep wound. You do realise, Inspector, that the spine has been completely severed?”
“I have the use of my eyes,” Knollis replied somewhat testily.
Dr. Clitheroe wagged a didactic finger. “If you have read of executions by decapitation—and I take it that you have?”
“I’ve read the memoirs of a famous French family of executioners.”
“Ignore the guillotine,” Dr. Clitheroe lectured on.
“Cast your mind back to the earlier decapitations by the axe. You will realise that a strong man and a long-handled axe were needed to effect a complete severance of the head from the body—a long-handled axe or a long-handled sword.”
“But this murderer was intent on causing death, and not complete decapitation!” Knollis protested.
The doctor gave a gesture of despair. “I’m only trying to help you, Inspector, but I still think, as a medical man, that the only limiting factors between partial and total severance of the head are strength and leverage. Degrees of leverage are dependent only on the shortness or length of the handle of the weapon. You have a short-handled axe in this case, indicating that a powerful person was needed to wield it in such a manner as to cause such a wound. And to that you wish to add the minimum of strength—as provided by a woman. I don’t agree! I can’t agree!”
Knollis flashed a warning glance at Ellis. The doctor must not be further enraged. In a soothing tone he asked: “I wonder what is the length of this axe?”
“I had a look at the sergeant’s notes in the dabs room,” Ellis interposed. “Fifteen inches overall length, and eight and one-eighth inches from the tip of the spike to the edge of the blade.”
“Thanks, Ellis,” Knollis said gratefully. “You are most helpful. Fifteen inches.”
“And the executioner’s axe—or sword—had a handle at least a yard long!” Dr. Clitheroe remarked dryly.
Knollis grunted, much in the same way that Galileo might have done when he agreed with the Inquisition that the sun went round the earth, and not the earth round the sun.
“How about Temple?” he asked in an endeavour to change the subject.
Dr. Clitheroe smiled frostily. “Temple was in a bright state when they found him last night. They sent for me, of course, and I put him to bed. He had certainly taken a load on board!”
“Would you mind describing his general appearance?” asked Knollis. “You see, I wasn’t about when they found him.”
“Oh, he was just very drunk. Further to the point, the woodshed in which they found him was very damp, and the fellow was distinctly shivery.”
“Any signs of cold sweat?” Knollis asked softly.
“Hm? Cold sweat? Why, yes!”
“Did you happen to notice his eyes?”
Dr. Clitheroe pursed his lips. “Why, yes, they were slightly contracted—what are you getting at, Inspector?”
Knollis smiled. “I was merely pondering on the possibility that chloral hydrate might have been administered in his beer.”
“Knock-out drops!” Ellis exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought of that!”
The doctor looked from one to the other. “I don’t see it. Will you kindly explain?”
“It is no more than an idea in my mind,” said Knollis. “Temple was in the local for two hours, from one o’clock until three. He walked out under his own steam, and no worse, apparently, than he usually leaves the place. Nine hours later he is found in a woodshed, practically unconscious. You know, Dr. Clitheroe, I don’t think that the modern brands of beer could do that to him. He would have drowned before he got drunk.”
The doctor put a thoughtful hand over his mouth. “Mm! Such a possibility had not occurred to me. But with what object would dope have been given to him? Tell me that.”
“I needn’t insult your intelligence by asking if you know your forensic medicine,” said Knollis, “but I will ask you what is the first thing that a murderer tries to do—one of the probables, that is, according to his temperament.”
“Well,” replied the doctor, using his hands as aids to effect, “he will try to make it look like accidental death, suicide, or death from natura
l causes.”
“He did none of those in this case,” said Knollis, “so failing that, Dr. Clitheroe . . . ?”
“Dispose of the body, of course!”
“The body is before your eyes.”
“Well, that leaves one line only! He will try to foist the guilt for the commission on to someone else.”
“That,” said Knollis, “is the answer. Try to foist the guilt on to another person. And that leads us in a straight line—to whom? To someone else who hates him, and that someone must also be someone who is well known as a hater of the one to be killed.”
“Fair reasoning,” the doctor admitted.
“Simply a matter of thinking in a straight line,” Knollis replied. “Now here is the theory, and it is no more than that at the moment. Someone has planned to kill Manchester. He has to provide a scapegoat. Temple is right on hand. He is a man with a grudge against Manchester, and he talks about it when he is not drunk, but just off-sober.
“That morning, Manchester had taken Temple on the carpet and given him a dressing down. Temple goes to the inn breathing fire and revenge against Manchester. Somehow, somebody dopes his beer. Temple leaves the inn. He is missing for nine hours, and is found in what appears to be a drunken stupor. And while he is both stupefied and missing, someone kills Manchester.”
“And then?” the doctor asked briefly.
“The murderer says: Ha-ha! The stupid policeman will think that Temple did it with his axe while fighting drunk, because only a few hours before he was saying that he would do him in.”
Dr. Clitheroe laughed. “You are certainly not a stupid policeman. Your man has underestimated you.”
“I hope so,” said Knollis. “I may be stupid, but I am not ignorant of the ways of killers. That is where the mistake is generally made. The average killer is not a professional, and he knows little or nothing about the police, while the police know a lot about the mentality of killers. There is an example of the law of averages in murder records. So many think this way; so many think that way; and a few think in a manner which is entirely individual and against the book.”
“Big sticks, little sticks, and medium-sized sticks,” suggested the doctor.
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