The Hangman

by Gerald Verner

  At the golf course they met an almost equally famous resident in the person of Mr. Cyril Haytor, who had been the last to see Miss Mortimer alive. He was not quite such a big noise as the others, for he had only seen Miss Mortimer before the murder, whereas they had discovered Doctor Wallington after—a small matter on which to base a degree of fame, but large in the eyes of the inhabitants of Hill Green.

  “I understand,” said Mr. Stott, as he prepared to drive from the first tee, “that the detective from Scotland Yard arrived last night.”

  His opponents, Mr. Pifkin, the manager of Hill Green bank, and Mr. Widgerton, the secretary of the Hill Green Estate Company, looked interested.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Pifkin, puffing out his red, round and shining cheeks. “Indeed!”

  “I hope,” remarked Mr. Widgerton, “that he will soon discover the author of these tragedies. This kind of thing isn’t going to do the estate any good, you know.”

  Mr. Stott, after carefully addressing his ball, drove it nearly a hundred yards down the fairway—a really excellent drive.

  “No,” he agreed. “It’s the sort of publicity you don’t want.”

  “For my part,” said Mr. Pifkin, “I think it’s the work of a lunatic, and they are going to find it very difficult to catch him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know; these Scotland Yard fellows are very smart, very smart indeed,” said Mr. Rusk, with an air of authority, as though he were personally acquainted with all of them. “I think it’s a very good thing that the local police have had the sense to ask for help.”

  “It’s a question of experience,” said Mr. Widgerton profoundly. “Our men are quite smart; but they seldom come in contact with major crime, and, therefore, they can’t be expected to deal with it so well.”

  “That’s right,” asserted Mr. Stott. “Well, let’s hope this London man will get busy.”

  The London man was, as a matter of fact, getting very busy indeed.

  He rose early, and after breakfast inquired the way to the nearest telephone. The nearest telephone, it appeared, was the police station; but there was another—a call-box at the junction of Hay Street and Meadow Lane. Shadgold chose the call-box, and fifteen minutes later was speaking to Trevor Lowe.

  “Well, I’m here,” he said, “and so far have learned very little more than what has been published in the newspapers. I’m going to meet Lightfoot—that’s the local man—and have a look at the places where the bodies were found. That’s really a matter of routine; I don’t expect to learn anything much.”

  “What a lot of wasted time routine has to answer for,” said Lowe’s voice, and Shadgold could almost see the dramatist smiling. “However, you never know. You might pick up something. I suppose you haven’t seen the bodies yet?”

  “No,” answered Shadgold.

  “I should have a look at them as soon as possible, if I were you,” recommended Lowe. “I’m inclined to think that you’ll find them of more interest than the places where they were found.”

  “How?” demanded the Scotland Yard man quickly.

  “What’s in your mind?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get down there,” said Lowe. “I’m leaving here in about an hour, so I should be with you about twelve.”

  “Where am I to meet you?” asked Shadgold.

  There was a moment’s silence before Lowe replied.

  “Isn’t there a sort of glorified pub near the station?” he asked. “There usually is in these places?”

  “Yes, there is,” answered the stout inspector. He remembered passing it when he had arrived the previous night. “It’s the something hotel, I don’t know the name.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” said Lowe. “They can probably do something in the way of lunch, so we might as well have it together.”

  Shadgold left the call-box and set off to keep his appointment with Lightfoot, feeling rather relieved. The responsibilities of this difficult case no longer rested entirely on his shoulders.

  He arrived at the police station a few minutes early; but Inspector Lightfoot was already there, and greeted him pleasantly. Apparently his original antipathy to this interloper had become appreciably lessened.

  “I think we had better go to Milton’s Rise first, Inspector,” he said. “Leeman’s barn, where Miss Mortimer was found, lies farther on in the same direction.”

  Shadgold agreed, and they set off. It was a fair step from the police station to the Rise; but the morning was fine, and the Scotland Yard man enjoyed the walk. He chatted to Lightfoot about Hill Green and its residents; sympathized with the local man’s lack of opportunities, and found that when you got to know him the inspector was quite a human and likeable person.

  They came to the Rise at last, and Lightfoot pointed out the fatal lamp-post.

  “That’s where Doctor Wallington was found,” he said.

  Shadgold looked at the post, and then at the roadway. Then he glanced at the rows of neat houses on either side.

  “The murderer must have taken a big risk,” he remarked. “At that hour of the evening there must have been quite a number of people who might have been looking out of any of their windows.”

  Lightfoot agreed.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he nodded. “But curiously enough nobody did see him. I’ve had house to house inquiries made, and nobody can give any information at all.”

  Shadgold’s eyes came back to the lamp-post.

  “It must have taken some time, too,” he murmured thoughtfully. “He had to tie the rope on to that iron bar and then slip the noose over his victim’s head—it was an extraordinary risk to take.”

  “The rope wasn’t tied to the bar,” said Inspector Lightfoot. “It had a loop made in it, and this had been slipped over the end of the bar. It’s my opinion,” he added, “that Doctor Wallington was unconscious before he was hanged.”

  “He must have been,” said Shadgold, “otherwise he would have made some sort of outcry and put up a struggle, and that would undoubtedly have been heard by somebody living in these houses.”

  He looked around him again, and now became aware that they were being watched surreptitiously by the inhabitants of the houses adjacent to the spot.

  There was a slight movement at several of the windows, and he caught sight of dim faces peering through the glass.

  “There’s certainly nothing much to be learned here,” he said after a careful scrutiny of the roadway. “Perhaps we shall have better luck at the barn.”

  “I doubt it,” remarked Lightfoot. “I’ve been all over that barn with a fine-tooth comb, and there’s nothing at all. However, you’d better see the place.”

  They left Milton’s Rise, followed by the curious eyes that had been watching them, and set off for Leeman’s barn.

  It was situated in the corner of a field, and backed by a small wood of thickly-growing trees. Here, thought Shadgold, a dozen murders might have been committed without risk of being overlooked, for there was not a habitation in sight. By the side of the barn was a five-barred gate that opened on to a narrow cart track, one end of which, Lightfoot explained, led to the farm and the other to the main road.

  “You can’t learn anything from that, though,” he concluded. “So many carts pass up and down it that the surface doesn’t hold any marks.”

  They entered the barn. The padlock had not yet been repaired since it had been smashed by the killer of Miss Mortimer, and therefore they had no difficulty. It was a strongly-built place, and contained nothing beyond some heaps of straw and a few old boxes. From one end to the other ran a heavy beam, from which rose baulks of timber supporting the roof. It was from this beam that Miss Mortimer had been found hanging.

  Shadgold made a careful inspection of the place, but at the end had to admit that there was nothing. Nor was there anything outside.

  “Lunatic or otherwise,” he grunted at last. “He’s been deuced clever. There’s not a trace.”

  Lightfoot nodded in gloomy agreement.


  “Two murders and not the ghost of a clue,” he said. “No suspicion of motive, no nothing! Pleasant, ain’t it?”

  Shadgold thought it was anything but pleasant, and said so.

  “Nothing to start on,” said Lightfoot. “Nothing you can, so to speak, get your teeth in.”

  “No, it’s a pretty dead end,” replied the Scotland Yard man, frowning. “By the way, when is the inquest?”

  “Tuesday, at ten,” said Lightfoot. “We shall, of course, ask for an adjournment pending inquiries.”

  They left the barn and began to make their way back to the police station.

  “I should like to have a word with your divisional-surgeon,” said Shadgold, “and also see the bodies.”

  “Do that this afternoon,” answered Lightfoot. “I’ll telephone Doctor Murford to come along to the station at three.”

  It was now getting on for twelve, and, leaving the local inspector at the station, Shadgold found his way to the “glorified pub,” where he had arranged to meet Trevor Lowe.

  He discovered that the place rejoiced in the name of the “Hillside Hotel,” though why it had been called that nobody but the owners knew.

  It was larger and more comfortable than he had expected, and he found that Lowe had already arrived and was waiting for him in the smoking-room. The dramatist had already booked a room and ordered lunch. He settled Shadgold in a comfortable chair, ordered sherries for both of them, and took his seat opposite the Scotland Yard man. There was nobody else in the smoking-room, so their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.

  “Well?” he inquired when the drinks had been brought and the waiter had made himself scarce.

  Shadgold sipped his sherry and shook his head.

  “It’s not well at all, Mr. Lowe,” he replied. “I’ll tell you what I’ve done so far—which isn’t much.”

  He gave a brief account of what had happened since his arrival.

  “Which all amounts to absolutely nothing,” he concluded. “And if you can suggest how I’m going to make a start on this business you’re cleverer than I am.”

  “On the face of it, it certainly looks a bit of a pill,” said the dramatist, frowning. “That suggestion of the chief constable’s is by no means a bad one.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Shadgold. “He’s a nice fellow, too; nothing of the old Army officer.”

  “H’m, you’re going to see Doctor Murford this afternoon, you say?” asked Lowe, and Shadgold nodded. “Well, I suggest,” the dramatist went on, “that you question him as to the possibility of death having been caused by some other means than hanging.”

  “Eh!” Shadgold opened his eyes wide and stared at his friend. “What’s the idea?”

  “Well, it seems pretty obvious to me,” said the dramatist, “that these two unfortunate people—particularly Doctor Wallington—must have been dead before they were hanged. The risk of hanging a live man to that lamp-post is too great for even a madman to take. But if Wallington was already dead with the rope round his neck and brought there in a car, the murderer had only to slip the loop over the iron rod—he could do this by lifting the body up to the required height—and clear off. It would take less than a minute, and would account for him not having been seen.”

  “That’s true,” admitted the inspector.

  “Of course,” continued Lowe, “he may have hanged them elsewhere; but I’m inclined to doubt if he would have done that. I think it’s more likely than not that they were strangled with a scarf or cord, and then taken to the places where they were eventually found.”

  “You may be right,” said the Scotland Yard man. “But, even if you are, I don’t see how it’s going to help us find out the killer.”

  “It at least gives you another line of investigation,” explained the dramatist. “For instance, there may be something on the bodies that will give you a clue to the place where they were actually killed, and if you can find that you’re a good step further on.”

  Shadgold looked a little dubious.

  “A very small step,” he grunted.

  “That,” disagreed Lowe, “you can’t possibly say. For all you know the place might be a house in the district. If you can prove that it was, then a very strong suspicion would rest on the person, or persons, to whom the house belonged, or who lived in it.”

  “H’m,” said the other. “It sounds all right, but it’s only a theory that these crimes were committed elsewhere. We have no proof.”

  Trevor Lowe shrugged his shoulders.

  “We’ve no proof of anything,” he said. “Except that two people have been killed by somebody unknown. What we’ve got to do is to turn that ‘somebody unknown’ into somebody known, and unless another murder is committed, and the killer gives himself away, we can only do it by following up every possible thread, however thin.”

  Shadgold nodded in reluctant agreement.

  Although he did not know it then, he already held in his hands one end of a thread that was eventually to lead him to the truth.

  Chapter Eight – two who feared

  There was a portion of Hill Green called the Square. It was a considerably older portion than the rest of the Garden City, and was not under the jurisdiction of the Hill Green Estate Company, although they had tried their best to acquire it.

  The houses of the Square, though by no means ancient, were antiques compared with the stucco and brick of Hill Green proper. They were grouped picturesquely about a central garden, in which the inhabitants could play tennis all the year round, if they were so disposed, on the four hard courts that had been built for that purpose. The garden was beautifully kept, and enclosed by iron railings, in which were set two gates, and only the fortunate people who lived in the Square had a key or were permitted to enter.

  These superior beings rather looked down on the rest of Hill Green, They regarded themselves much in the light of feudal lords, and considered the rest of the community little better than peasants. None of them was ever seen upon the golf course; those that played that energetic game were members of the Royal Langham Club, three miles away. The much used—and much abused—8.20 never carried any of them on its daily journey to London. If they had occasion to travel, they travelled discreetly in their own cars.

  The Hill Green residents said nasty things about them, sneered at their airs and graces, and secretly envied them.

  Joyce Elliot was not quite so bad as her neighbours but constant association with them had made her inclined to wear a rather haughty air which her enemies described as supercilious, but which was really nothing of the sort. She had lived in the Square all her life—at least, as much of her life as she could remember; had torn round the beautifully kept gravel paths of the garden on a scooter, all legs and hair; had outgrown short frocks and plaited tresses and suddenly developed into a very pretty girl. There were people who would have disagreed in this latter description, but they were all of her own sex, and their criticism was prompted by envy. At twenty-two, Joyce Elliot was tall and slim, with a complexion that owed nothing to artifice but was purely a product of Nature. Her brown hair, which in the sunlight gleamed with splashes of gold, matched the eyes, large and widely set. She was not beautiful, her features were too irregular, but looking at her you felt completely satisfied, which is probably a greater tribute to her charm.

  She was an orphan, and lived with her dead mother’s brother in the low, half-timbered house that was the only home she could remember.

  Mr. Nethcott—whom she always referred to as “Pops”—had been both father and mother to the parentless child, and until the arrival of his brother she had been completely happy and carefree. But with Harold Nethcott’s inclusion in the establishment a shadow had slowly deepened until it had reached appalling aspects. The change had first been apparent in Mr. Nethcott. He had grown more and more careworn and worried, and sometimes, when she had been reading, and he thought that nobody was watching him, she had seen an expression come into his eyes that could only be describe
d as haunted. He had made evasive replies to all her efforts to find out what the trouble was, and now the climax had been reached. For the last three days he had been a broken man, a mere ghost of his former robust and laughing self.

  Standing by the window of the long drawing-room and looking out into the peace of that Sunday afternoon, Joyce wondered that he did not look worse than he did, for on the previous night she had learnt for the first time the reason for that shadow which had come to the house.

  A sleepless night had done nothing to dissipate the first horrible shock of her discovery. Even now it scarcely seemed that the dreadful thing Pops had told her could be true. It was nightmarish—terrible.

  She turned away from the window as the door opened and Francis Nethcott came in. He was a dapper little man with grey hair that was rapidly thinning on the top. His pleasant face was drawn and haggard, and the skin hung loosely about his mouth and on his neck.

  “Where is Uncle Harold?” she asked in a low voice.

  He came towards her, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets with a curious little nervous gesture.

  “Sleeping,” he said briefly. “He’s quite normal.”

  He walked over to the mantelpiece and touched an ornament, setting it straight with elaborate care.

  “We must keep the papers away from him,” he continued. “We mustn’t risk another—shock.”

  Joyce looked at him, and her eyes were full of sympathy.

  “Isn’t it—dreadful?” she murmured.

  He turned and faced her.

  “It may not be so bad as we think,” he answered. “That account of the—the—murders may have only—touched some chord in his memory. It may not be any worse than that.”

  “He was out late on Saturday night,” she said, steadily. “I heard him come in.”