“Yes, but I expressed it badly,” said Knollis. “Anyway, as I said, this is only a theory, and I would not dare to propound it to Colonel Mowbray. As a general rule I keep my theories strictly to myself, waiting until the evidence justifies the building of one. To be perfectly honest, we haven’t yet reached that stage.”
“There is a great deal more to be done?” murmured Dr. Clitheroe.
“I hate to think how much!” Knollis replied.
“Every person in that house has an alibi, of sorts. They can’t all be true, and so they will have to be torn to pieces. And then we’ll have to learn how the axe got from the door of the annexe to Temple’s dustbin.”
“You mean that the axe was seen previously?”
“By Sir Giles Tanroy. It disappeared after the murder.”
The doctor shook his head. “It doesn’t look too good for Temple, does it?”
“No—if circumstantial evidence is to be taken as truth. Then we want to know who was the woman heard talking to Manchester in the Green Alley shortly before his death. And I’m very anxious to learn why Smith told a lie, and why Freeman is still weeping her eyes out. All very mysterious points.”
“Think you’ll see your way through them, Inspector?”
Knollis’s eyes disappeared. “A mystery is only a mystery because the causes of the effects you are witnessing are not immediately apparent. My job is to trace causes. And now I’d like you to come to Bowland with us and re-examine Temple.”
CHAPTER VII
THE AXE OF MATTHEW TEMPLE
Matthew Temple was lying in his bed when his visitors entered the room. He was a lean, weather-beaten fellow, with a sharp nose, red-veined cheeks, and large ears. He looked straight at Clitheroe, at the same time shielding his eyes from the light. “I’ve got a hell of a head!” he moaned. “Didn’t think the stuff could do it to me.”
“How much did you drink?” asked Knollis, easing his way round the doctor.
“Four or five pints, sir. No more, I do know, ’cause I hadn’t the money on me for it.” He cast an anxious glance at Dr. Clitheroe. “I’ll be all right, sir?”
“You’ll be all right,” he was assured. “I’ve brought this gentleman to see you. He’s from Scotland Yard, and would like to ask a few questions.”
Temple screwed up his eyes against the light, and looked wonderingly at Knollis. “Scotland Yard? I don’t understand, sir. What have I got to do with Scotland Yard?”
“Has nobody told you?” Knollis said softly.
“Told me what?” Temple demanded querulously.
“About your employer, Mr. Manchester.”
Temple wriggled into a sitting position, and regarded Knollis with wide eyes. “Have they really got him at last—the rotten twister? Well, I always reckoned as he’d meet somebody sharper than himself in due time. He’s robbed hundreds like me, and—”
“One moment, please,” Knollis interrupted. “I don’t think you understand. Mr. Manchester is dead.” Temple jerked forward, and then clasped his head. “Oh, this head! Dead, did you say, sir? Fred Manchester dead? Then he’s got away with it after all. How did it happen? Was it his heart?”
“Why his heart?” Knollis asked with deep interest.
“Them tempers of his,” Temple said shortly. “I always reckoned as he’d go off in one of them. Used to swell up and go red in the face—you know.”
“I’d like you to tell me,” began Knollis, but the doctor interrupted him.
“Excuse me, Inspector, but I want Temple to take these tablets before he does any more talking. They will ease his head. Let me look at your eyes, Temple. Still contracted, eh? Yes, I think you were right, Inspector. I could kick myself for overlooking it.”
“You weren’t expecting it,” Knollis replied.
Temple looked from one to the other. “What’s all this about? What’s been happening to me?”
Knollis sadly shook his head. “We are sadly afraid, Temple, that someone put knock-out drops in your beer. You left the inn at three o’clock, and you were out cold when you were found at midnight last night.”
“But I woke in bed!” Temple protested. “About four this morning, it was. I—I thought the missus had put me to bed when I got home!”
“The police found you, and put you to bed,” said Knollis. He turned to the doctor. “Look, Dr. Clitheroe, if it was chloral hydrate he would be incapable of you-know-what, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, I’ll give him a clear score on that.”
“Good enough,” said Knollis. “Now listen, Temple, and listen carefully. I’m going to be perfectly fair with you, and I’ll expect you to help me in return. Manchester was murdered in the Green Alley at twenty to six yesterday evening.”
Temple stared his incredulity. “Mur-murdered? Fred Manchester murdered? But who did it?”
“That,” said Knollis, “is what I want to know, and I think you can help me to solve the puzzle.”
“Me, sir?” Temple gasped. “How?”
“I told you that I’d be fair with you. Well, here it comes. On the face of the evidence at present available, it looks as if the killer had tried to make it look as if you were responsible.”
“But—”began Temple. He sank back among his pillows. “I don’t understand. It’s this head!”
“For years now,” explained Knollis, “you have been threatening Manchester behind his back. That is correct, isn’t it?”
Temple nodded miserably. “I suppose it is, but I never meant it that way. I’d have done him a dirty trick if I’d had half a chance, but to—to kill him! No, sir. I didn’t do it!”
“I believe you,” Knollis said simply. “Nevertheless, you were pulled into the affair. You left the inn at three o’clock yesterday afternoon, and were not seen again until midnight. During that time your employer was murdered. You see the way the evidence points?”
“Yes, I do see,” Temple said dully.
“Now tell me; you were in possession of an axe, an official A.R.P. axe, and you were also in charge of the equipment during the war?”
“That’s right, sir. As for the axe, I’ve used it since the post closed. It came in handy for splitting logs, and hedge-trimming, and other odd jobs.” He peered at Knollis. “You mean, sir, as he was done in with my axe?”
“I’m afraid so.” Knollis nodded. “We found it in your dustbin, wrapped in a newspaper.”
“God Almighty!” gasped Temple. “It does look as if—as if—”
“We can’t always judge by appearances,” said Knollis. “Now, what morning paper do you take?”
“The Daily Courier, sir,” Temple said absently. He was still staring blankly at the window, and the elms beyond. “My axe! God Almighty!”
“Any evening paper, Temple?” Knollis pursued. “Eh? No, sir. No evening paper.”
“Do you take any local paper?”
“Only The Weekly Record, sir.”
“A Trentingham paper,” Dr. Clitheroe explained. “Who is your newsagent, Temple?”
“Keyson, at the top end of the village. So he put it in my dustbin, eh?”
“Who did?” Knollis asked quickly.
A sly look came into Temple’s eyes. “Why, him that killed Manchester, o’course!”
“Who was it?” asked Knollis in a firm tone. Temple’s lips formed into a stubborn line.
“Who was it?” Knollis repeated.
“I—I don’t know,” Temple replied lamely. “I don’t know—but nobody can stop me thinking, can they?”
“Somebody managed it quite well yesterday,” Knollis said dryly.
“Happen they did, but I can think to-day, and I can keep my thinking to myself.”
“I thought you were going to play fair with me,” Knollis said in a disappointed voice. “I wouldn’t get tough if I were you, because you are in a very precarious position, and I would be quite within my rights to charge you with Manchester’s death. All the circumstantial evidence points to you as the culprit.”
“It wouldn’t be fair for me to mention a name when I’ve no proof,” Temple grumbled. “I’m only guessing!”
“Have it your own way,” said Knollis. “I have no need to rely on your help, because I can find what I want in other quarters. Now what about the axe? Where did you keep it?”
“In the woodshed, hanging between two nails just inside the door.”
“The woodshed isn’t locked—ever?”
Temple shook his head. “There’s no reason why it should be, because there’s nothing in there that anybody would want to pinch.”
“When did you last see it?”
“The axe?” Temple asked. It was only too evident that he was stalling for reasons of his own.
“The axe? Of course, the axe!” Knollis snorted. “What the devil else do you think I’m talking about?”
“I thought you might have meant the shed.”
“Now suppose you give me a square answer, Temple, or I’ll have to find other means of encouraging you.”
“Well,” Temple replied cautiously, “I seem to remember seeing it there—in the shed—yesterday morning, but I wouldn’t swear to it.”
“Have you any reason to use the door into the annexe? Tell me that.”
Temple shook his head. “It isn’t often I do use it. Mrs. Redson complains about the muck that I take in on my boots. There is an iron scraper round at the other door.”
“You did not use that door yesterday morning?”
“I’m sure I didn’t, sir. I’ll swear to that!”
“And you are equally certain that you did not bring the axe from the shed?”
“I’d no use for it yesterday morning, sir,” Temple said fervently. “So help me, I hadn’t. I was mowing the lawns yesterday morning.”
“Manchester bawled you out, I believe?”
“That was over the hedges,” said Temple. “He said I’d neglected them, and it was only a week since I’d spent three days on them! I suppose he just felt like it—probably had a row with the missus.”
Knollis suppressed an exclamation of satisfaction at the leakage of this piece of information, and said: “He had many quarrels with his wife?”
Temple chewed his bottom lip, and gave a significant nod. “I get lit up once a week, but I have less rows in a year with my missus than he had in a month with his’n. Always rowing her, he was.”
“How did she take them, Temple?”
“Dam’ funny to me, sir. One time I heard them rowing in the rose garden. He walked past me cursing and swearing, and she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. I had to pass her with my barrow, and I tried to look away from her, but she smiled at me—and do you know what she said?”
“I haven’t an idea,” Knollis assured him.
“Well,” Temple said firmly, “you can believe it or not, but she said Fred is so strong and masterful!”
“Did she now,” Knollis murmured. “That is most interesting.”
“Unnatural to me,” said Temple.
“Can you suggest any sensible and normal reason why the axe should have been left against the door of the annexe?” Knollis next asked the gardener.
“No,” Temple said slowly. “There’s no reason at all. I used it the day before, but I take all my tools to the shed when I finish for the day, and I know that I put that axe away! I neither left it there, nor took it there.”
“Can you suggest how it got into your dustbin, wrapped in a newspaper?” Knollis continued.
“That,” Temple said firmly, “is your job, sir. I’m a gardener, and it isn’t in my line at all.”
“Your head seems to be clearing,” Knollis remarked. “Dr. Clitheroe’s pills must be potent ones.”
Temple gazed blankly at Knollis for a second or so, and then shook his head. “There’s something at the back of my mind, Inspector, that should help you, but it won’t come out. Perhaps it will when my head’s fully right again. Hm! No, it won’t come.”
“I think my patient should sleep,” interrupted the doctor. “Have you finished with him?”
“Completely, thanks.”
“Then I’ll hand him over to Denstone.”
They returned downstairs after Knollis had warned Temple to say nothing about the questions he had been asked, and the doctor warned him not to leave his bed for another twenty-four hours. As they returned to their cars, the doctor said: “You know, Inspector, I rather like your bedside manner.”
“There are certain similarities between our respective crafts,” Knollis replied slowly. “When all is said and done, we are both seeking the necessary facts on which to base a diagnosis. I have an advantage inasmuch as I have assistants. You have to work alone.”
The doctor laughed. “By the way, where is your assistant?”
“Down at Baxmanhurst, checking over the few odds and ends left over from last night.”
“You are going down to Baxmanhurst now?”
“No-o,” said Knollis. “I want to find the newsagent, Keyson. He may be able to help me. Do you happen to know where his shop lies?”
“I’m going back to town now,” replied Dr. Clitheroe. “If you care to drive behind me I’ll point out the shop as I pass—although you can’t miss it in this little place.”
Keyson was a slim little man with eager eyes. As Knollis talked with him he continually passed a hand through his sparse black hair. “Scotland Yard, eh? Pleased to help you if I can, Inspector. What can I do for you?”
“You deliver copies of the Trentingham Advertiser and Courier round the village?”
“A dozen, all told, Inspector.”
“Would you mind showing me the list?”
Keyson went to a rack and took from it a black-bound book. “Here you are, Inspector.”
Knollis ran a finger down the list. “Only one copy to Baxmanhurst?”
“Only the one,” Keyson replied.
“Matthew Temple does not have a copy?”
“Only the Courier. . . .”
Knollis straightened his back. “Wait! The Daily Courier, or the Trentingham Advertiser and Courier?”
“The daily one—the London Courier.”
“Mm!” Knollis mused thoughtfully. “Now I wonder if anyone asked him . . .”
“Yes, Inspector?” the newsagent asked anxiously. Knollis laughed. “Sorry, Mr. Keyson. I was talking to myself again, a most dangerous habit in my profession. Now look; would you mind if I was to copy this list?”
“Not at all, sir. I’ll do it for you. You see, I know all the addresses, and you may need them.”
“Most kind of you. Care for a cigarette while you are doing it?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Keyson.
“By the way,” Knollis said as if it was an afterthought. “You have no competition in Bowland?”
“No, not as yet. I’m lucky—and it does make a difference to my income, I can assure you.”
“I’m sure it does,” Knollis agreed. “Look, Mr. Keyson; surely this is a remarkably low figure for the circulation of the Trentingham Courier in Bowland?”
Keyson smiled at him. “You are forgetting the nature of the paper, Inspector. Most of my customers prefer the picture papers such as the Reflector, and the popular papers like the Fortress. The Courier is a kind of provincial Times.”
“I see,” said Knollis. “Tell me, Mr. Keyson: do you deliver to Baxmanhurst yourself?”
“I do, yes.”
“To the front door?”
“Why, yes. I usually open the door and sling them inside. I’ve done so for years, even during Sir Giles’s days.”
“Deliver them?” asked Knollis.
The newsagent stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. “Oh, I see what you mean! Well, there are weekly periodicals as well—gardening papers, and furniture trade papers, and the women’s mags which Mrs. Manchester has on the order.”
“I understand,” said Knollis.
A few minutes later he left with his list, and coasted down the hill to Baxmanhurst, wher
e Ellis was awaiting him.
“How’s it going, sir?” he greeted him.
“Not at all bad, Ellis. How many of the Trentingham men are here?”
“Four. Three constables and a sergeant.”
“Doing what?”
Ellis laughed. “Trying to look busy and efficient. The sergeant hasn’t an idea to his name.”
“Well, he’s going to get one,” Knollis said grimly. “I’ve a job for his man. Where is he?”
“In the garage, drinking tea. Mrs. Redson says she will have one for you when you arrive, because the Inspector is a fair proper gentleman, and not a bit snotty.”
“That is distinctly an invitation,” said Knollis. “But talking of idle policemen, what have you been doing?”
“Trying to take a cast of a fraction of a foot-print against the water-butt, but it won’t take. Wasted an hour on it. I’ve got the measurements, though. It’s a male print, wide-fitting shoe.”
“Good enough,” said Knollis. “Come round to the garage. We’ll despatch these local men on the job, and then have a tête-à-tête with Mrs. Redson.”
The sergeant saluted when Knollis walked in, and tried to conceal a cup of tea.
“That’s all right, Sergeant. Finish it, and then there is work ahead. Here is a list of all the people in Bowland who take the Trentingham Advertiser and Courier. I want you to beg, borrow, or steal every copy of yesterday’s issue on which you can lay hands, and each one is to be marked with the name and address of the person from whom it is obtained.”
“Very good, sir. We’ll get working on it straight away? What about the house here?”
“I’ll attend to that. You see to the other eleven.” He and Ellis then invited themselves into Mrs. Redson’s kitchen, and were straightway invited to be seated, and wait just half a minute.
“How is Freeman this morning?” asked Knollis.
“Better in health than temper, sir,” the cook replied. “She’s got something on her mind has that girl! I thought that perhaps she and Smithy had been tiffing, but it doesn’t look it by the way they was hugging when I came down this morning.”
“I’m interested in yesterday’s Courier,” said Knollis. “Do you think you can find me a copy?”
Mrs. Redson finished pouring the boiling water into the teapot before she answered. “We’ve only one copy, sir, and that will be in the sitting-room. I’ll get Freeman to fetch it for you. She’ll be in within a minute or so.”
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