The Twenty-One Clues

by J. J. Connington

  “You won’t shoot any more cats until you get your certificate, of course?” said Sir Clinton. “I’m stretching a point, you know, Mr. Kerrison, in not saying anything about the past. But now the matter has become official, so to speak, I rely on you not to go on with your vermin-killing until everything’s shipshape.”

  “Oh, certainly, if you wish it,” Kerrison agreed.

  “Now there’s another point I want to ask you about. I gather that this bracken-slope down yonder is a favourite resort of couples in the evenings. They don’t come up near your garden and disturb you?”

  Here he evidently touched one of Kerrison’s sore spots.

  “The place is a plague-spot,” he said, vehemently. “Things go on there which are a disgrace to a decent community, let me tell you; and it’s high time that something was done about it by the police. I’ve done what I could, as a private citizen; but I had to give it up in despair. I used to go down and protest to couples that I found there, lying about in the bracken; but all that I got in reply was insolence. Finally, when I spoke my mind to one couple who were embracing there—I used the language of the Bible in rebuking them—the man, a big burly fellow, was very abusive because, he alleged, I’d insulted his fiancée, who was ‘a perfectly decent girl’ and he threatened me with physical violence on account of what I had said. As if any decent girl would come and sit among that bracken in the dusk. The thing’s absurd.”

  “Then you didn’t see any actual impropriety?” asked Sir Clinton.

  “I saw them embracing each other and kissing in what I can only describe as a very passionate manner,” said Kerrison. “One has a very fair idea of what that kind of conduct leads on to.”

  “Marriage, not infrequently,” said Sir Clinton, with a smile.

  “You make a joke of it, sir,” said Kerrison angrily. “But it’s no joking matter. Far from that, indeed. If there’s one thing which ought to be sternly dealt with, it’s this laxity in morals which one sees all about one.”

  “I’ve had some experience,” said Sir Clinton, soothingly, “and I really think you’re exaggerating a little, Mr. Kerrison. Personally, I find young people a very decent lot, take them all in all.”

  “Indeed?” retorted Kerrison, heatedly. “Then I can only congratulate you on your simple mind, sir. Or perhaps it’s wilful blindness on your part. Why, to go no further back than the present week, we’ve seen, down in that very patch of bracken, a man and his paramour come to a well-deserved end. I was very much mistaken, in that matter, and I frankly admit it. I judged too hastily. The man Barratt seemed to me a person of unblemished character; and although I found Mrs. Callis frivolous in many ways, I certainly never suspected that she and he were carrying on a base intrigue, until the truth was unveiled to me. Well,” he added sombrely, “the instrument of the Lord smote them and they perished.”

  “By the instrument of the Lord, do you mean a Colt .38?” asked Sir Clinton irascibly. “I think you might leave the Lord out of it.”

  “I mean the agent who executed those two shameless hypocrites,” declared Kerrison in an uplifted tone. “He did a good deed when he shot them there, in the midst of their sins.”

  “H’m!” commented the Chief Constable. “It’s to be hoped that the Boy Scouts don’t include that kind of good deed in their list. I’ve heard of Murder as a Fine Art; but Murder as a Good Deed is new to me. We’ll have to differ on the point, Mr. Kerrison, I’m afraid. Let’s change the subject. Do you know anything about hypnotism?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Kerrison. “If you want my opinion of it, I think it’s an unholy art.”

  “Have you ever seen it practised?” asked the Chief Constable.

  Kerrison’s dark eyes lighted up with the flame of fanaticism, and his voice was harsh as he answered:

  “I have—once. I allowed an unsanctified curiosity to overbear my better judgment. I forgot the injunction against enchanters in the eighteenth chapter of Deuteronomy and the passage in Exodus: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ I witnessed how this man Barratt exercised his uncanny power over the woman Callis and bent her to his will.”

  “Where was that?” demanded Sir Clinton in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “In his own house,” Kerrison replied. “Some of us had gone there to spend the evening, and the talk fell upon mesmerism and odylic force. Someone—I think it was a man Alvington—pressed Barratt to give us a demonstration, since he had claimed to possess some powers of that kind. I made no protest; I did not believe that there was any truth in these tales about mesmeric influence, and I was quite glad to see the thing tried, since I expected it to fail. Barratt began with the man Alvington, and succeeded in making him do certain things to order. But my impression was that Alvington was merely playing the fool with Barratt and making a jest of the whole matter. Then Barratt tried to mesmerise his wife, but she very properly treated it all with contempt, and his efforts failed in her case. Callis offered himself for the experiment, and Barratt had some success with him; but at the time I imagined that he was following Alvington’s example, and laughing in his sleeve at Barratt. It was only in talking to Callis, later on, that I found some of the effects were genuine. After Callis, Barratt tried Mrs. Callis. He told her that her powder-puff was a rose, and made her sniff its perfume and describe its petals. Then he suddenly told her that it was a toad she had in her hand, and she flung it down with disgust. He ordered her to take off her shoes and then persuaded her that they were two kittens, which she fondled and stroked. And he did other things with her as well. She was obviously completely in his power and amenable to any suggestion he made. After that he tried his powers on a Miss Spencer, with even more striking results. I refused to have anything to do with it.”

  “Just a little parlour magic, with some of the people acting as confederates?” suggested Sir Clinton, sceptically.

  “No,” declared Kerrison morosely, “it was Black Magic, the forbidden knowledge.”

  “Let it go at that, then,” said Sir Clinton with a slight shrug. “I’d like to make a note of the names of these people. May I have a sheet of note-paper, please?”

  Kerrison moved across the room to an escritoire from a drawer of which he took a sheet of note-paper. He handed it to the Chief Constable without a word. Evidently he was deeply vexed by the reception of his story.

  “Let’s see,” said Sir Clinton, as he jotted down the names. “Alvington . . . Which of them was it? Arthur or the other one?”

  “Arthur Alvington,” said Kerrison. “I would not go anywhere if there was a chance of meeting Edward Alvington, that loose liver and hypocrite who has been expelled from our congregation for his sins. And when I think that the man Barratt played a chief part in excluding him, I am amazed at the duplicity of human nature. Satan rebuking sin. But evil-doers reap their reward in due course. They were cut off in their prime, in the midst of their transgressions. Judgment is sure.”

  “Quite so,” agreed the Chief Constable. “At least, we do our best. Alvington, I’ve got. Mrs. Barratt—she was not a good subject, you said? Then Callis, a partial success. Mrs. Callis, very susceptible to the treatment. And a Miss Spencer. . . . What’s her Christian name, and her address?”

  “Julia Spencer, I think,” said Kerrison. “And the address is 35 Basingstoke Crescent.”

  “Thanks. Then that finishes my business for the present, I think. You’ll apply for that certificate in due course? I’ll send you a form. And, by the way, please write your name and address in block letters. We have to make that rule because some people write such an illegible fist.”

  Kerrison accompanied them to the front door, where Sir Clinton paused for a moment.

  “Where did you say you buried these cats?” he asked, as if in idle curiosity.

  “Over there,” explained Kerrison, pointing, “at the foot of that cypress.”

  “Ah, very appropriate,” said Sir Clinton suavely. “Now, I must say thanks and good-bye.”

  As the car passed
out of the garden, Sir Clinton turned to the inspector.

  “Well, well,” he said with a straight face, “I clean forgot to remind him to give me that book he promised me.”

  “You can always turn and go back for it, sir,” Rufford suggested helpfully.

  “I think it will keep,” answered Sir Clinton with an unconcealed smile. “If it’s like his conversation, I’m not sure that I yearn to read it.”

  “Clean off his rocker, I’d say,” said Rufford contemptuously. “Do you think it’s safe, sir, to give a pistol certificate to a man like that? I’m not sure about it myself. That look in his eyes when he gets excited. . . .”

  “Oh, we can spin out the time a little, if necessary. You know what red tape is, when one has a use for it. You needn’t hurry over the business to please me, remember. But send him a form by next post. You can dawdle in the later stages if you choose.”

  “Well, sir, it’s for you to say,” grumbled the inspector. “But for my own part, I’d give him no certificate. He’s not right in his head, with all that stuff about the Inch and all that.”

  “He’s a fanatic, I admit,” said Sir Clinton, in a serious tone. “But he’s not a lunatic. So I judge, at least, from the fact that he confessed that he’d been ‘mistook in his jedgements’—like Disko Troop on a well-known occasion. No lunatic would ever have said that.”

  “That may be so, sir,” admitted the inspector. “But that man’s got a bad mind. He’s just running round looking for nastiness where likely enough there’s nothing going on beyond a little courting, hugging and squeezing, like all engaged young folks do, and some that isn’t engaged. It would have served him right if that young fellow had kicked him all the way home. I wouldn’t have blamed him, if he had.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sir Clinton, thoughtfully. “He seems to have his feelings on a hair-trigger when it comes to sex. And I’d say that he has a mind like a cess-pooh. I liked him no more than you did. By the way, is he the Kerrison who figured in the civil courts twice in the last eighteen months?”

  “That’s the man, sir. Two actions against him for defamation of character; and he had to pay up both times—pretty stiffly in the second case. He’s got a slanderous tongue, and he can’t keep it quiet. I suppose he’ll break out again, though he ought to have learned his lesson by this time, one would think.”

  Sir Clinton stopped the car and then took from his pocket the sheet of note-paper which Kerrison had given to him. He held it up to the sky and then passed it to the inspector.

  “Have a look at the water-mark,” he directed. “AVIAN WOVE and a bird of sorts. Manufactured by A. Vian & Co., Liverpool. You see it? I’ve an idea that we’ll come across it again.”

  He took back the paper, stowed it in his pocket, and set the car in motion again, after a glance at his watch.

  “We’ve another call or two on the list,” he explained. “We may as well hear what that organist can tell us about the meeting between Barratt, the contractor, Callis, and himself, at the church. Not much, I expect. Still, one never knows what may transpire. If we hurry up a little, we’ll catch him between two music lessons. I’ve made an appointment with him.”

  “And who else do you want to see, sir?”

  “Mrs. Barratt,” the Chief Constable explained. “I want to ask her a question or two. Nothing that will worry her. And after that, we’d better drop in on Messrs. E. & A. Alvington, Ltd. I’ve fixed an appointment with them also. I’d like to have a look at the pair of them. And we may pick up a tip or two about the building trade while we’re there. General knowledge is always useful in our line of business, and I know very little about building except that one should always lay one brick on top of two others. What sort of person is Arthur?”

  The inspector rubbed the side of his nose, as though that might help him to collect his impressions of Arthur Alvington.

  “He’s a thin-lipped fellow, sir. Suave way of talking—I mean his tone of voice. When he speaks about anyone, he always starts with a bit of faint praise; but I noticed that he generally ends up by giving a dig at them. Money seems to bulk fairly large in his outlook, sir.”

  “That’s hardly to be wondered at, if his firm’s in deep water,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Finance must be a worry to him in these days, if all I hear about him is true. You haven’t seen the other partner: the hero of this recent divorce case?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “A pleasure in store,” said the Chief Constable. “Happy Families, No. 1, Buggins the Builders. It’s a long time since I played Happy Families. The kind of family I come across professionally doesn’t seem to merit the adjective. We’ll hope for the best.”

  Chapter Twelve

  An Organist and Some Others

  TUDOR QUIXLEY, a depressed-looking little man with a slight cast in one eye, was the organist of the Church of Awakened Israel. He was at first obviously perturbed by the descent of the police upon his home; but he regained composure when he learned the object of their visit.

  “Of course I shall be only too happy to do anything which can forward the cause of justice,” he declared, in a resonant bass voice which contrasted strangely with his feeble physique. “I have nothing to conceal, Sir Clinton, and if anything I can do will serve to throw light upon this mysterious, this most mysterious tragedy, I shall be only too glad to help. You desire some information with regard to a meeting which took place at the church, in connection with alterations in the organ?”

  “Exactly,” said the Chief Constable, wishing that Quixley would copy his own brevity.

  “Then I had better begin by telling you who were present,” Quixley went on. “There was Mr. Rastell from London, representing the firm of organ builders which has been chosen to carry out the work. Shall I give you his address?”

  “Do, please,” said Sir Clinton; and Rufford jotted down the address as Quixley gave it.

  “Then there was an employee whom he brought with him—a practical man—of the name of Vowler. And there was Mr. Callis, representing the finance committee of the church, of which he is treasurer. There was the Rev. Mr. Barratt, our late minister, the grounds for whose presence are obvious, I think. And, last but not least, there was myself, as the expert on the church side.”

  “What time did this meeting begin?” asked Sir Clinton.

  “At ten o’clock, Sir Clinton. The contractors had sent us a detailed estimate some days earlier, and I had gone over it item by item, in readiness for this meeting. I had also consulted the Rev. Mr. Barratt and found him in agreement with myself as to what should be done.”

  “What sort of man was Mr. Barratt?” demanded Sir Clinton. “Easy to get on with?”

  Quixley hesitated for a moment before answering.

  “Not altogether,” he said, reluctantly. “In some ways, he was rather inclined to be overbearing. He held very definite opinions on most subjects: and once he had taken up a position, it was hard—if not impossible—to get him to change his mind. That was why I consulted with him beforehand,” he added, artlessly.

  “A wise precaution,” commented the Chief Constable, with a faint smile. “What happened at the meeting?”

  “We discussed the estimate, item by item,” Quixley explained. “Mr. Callis being—as one might say—the watch dog of the church finances, was inclined to question the necessity for one or two of them. I was, I admit, rather put out by this. Mr. Callis has no knowledge of organs and could, naturally enough, not understand the necessity of sundry items in the estimate. He and I had a slight argument which I regretted at the time but which was unavoidable, since his objections, if upheld, would have necessitated a complete recasting of some other sections of the estimate.”

  Obviously poor little Quixley had been fighting hard for his ideas about the organ repairs against Callis’s determination to cut expenses down to a minimum. It was a case of a weak expert against a business man resolved to show a satisfactory balance-sheet. But it seemed that Quixley had not been left to struggle alone
.

  “The Rev. Mr. Barratt listened to us both,” Quixley went on. “I could see that he was displeased by this argument going on in the presence of these outsiders from the organ firm. Finally, he intervened and took my side of the matter. He spoke very decidedly in favour of my point of view. Mr. Callis continued to argue in favour of economy. I tried to show him that his suggested cuts were really false economy and likely to cost us more in the long run. Finally, the Rev. Mr. Barratt said that the matter must be settled as I wanted. He spoke very plainly—not exactly rudely, you understand, but with a sort of finality in his tone that showed he had made up his mind. We all knew that tone in his voice. Mr. Callis was rather huffed, I think, at having his contentions brushed aside. He said something like: ‘I wash my hands of the business.’ These were not his exact words, of course. They were more polite, really, if I could remember them; but that was the sense of what he said. He was quite evidently piqued by the Rev. Mr. Barratt’s manner, and he left our group and wandered about the church for a few minutes, taking no further part in our discussions for the moment. I was very sorry to have seemed to go against him, as you can understand, Sir Clinton. I like to be on good terms with everyone: and in this case my position was, I felt, a very awkward one. I was quite relieved when Mr. Callis rejoined us, having apparently got over his little display of hot temper. I think that on reflection he had found that I was really quite reasonable in my contentions. At the termination of our proceedings, he quite frankly admitted that, as a layman, he had perhaps failed on the spur of the moment to see the force of my arguments. He said he would think over it further and let Mr. Barratt know his final decision in the course of the afternoon, because, if possible, he thought we should be unanimous. Of course I bore no malice; and Mr. Barratt clapped him on the shoulder in that friendly way he had. I was relieved, I confess. I was afraid there might be ill-feeling; and once that starts, one never knows where it may end.”