Murder Jigsaw

by E.

  Nigel Moss

  INTRODUCTION

  DOCTOR MANSON

  To those who may not yet know Chief-Inspector Manson, some introduction may seem to be necessary. Let us then make the presentation:

  Harry Manson, Chief Detective-Inspector, and head of the Scotland Yard Crime Research Laboratory, is the Medical Jurisprudist of the national Police Force. Aged in the early—the very early—fifties, he is a Master of Arts of Cambridge University; a Doctor of Science, also of Cambridge; and a Doctor of Laws. He is the author of a number of standard works on Medical Jurisprudence, and other branches of the Pathological side of criminal investigation. These, then, are the officer’s qualifications.

  As for the man himself, he is six feet one inch in height; but he does not look it. The stoop of the shoulders, habitual in a scholar, is even more than usually evident in Manson, a circumstance due undoubtedly to the many years spent peering through the eyepiece of a microscope—a natural bent for his bent, if we may crack a joke! On occasions of moment, however, the stoop vanishes, the man straightens to his full stature—and then his colleagues at the Yard know that something is “corking up” for the individual to whose trail their noses are pointing.

  The inspector’s face is rather on the long side, but is broad in the forehead, which is the only part of any face that matters! The grey eyes are wide-set, though lying deep in their sockets. They have a habit of just passing over a person on introduction; but when that person, after the greeting, chances to turn in the direction of the inspector, he is disconcerted to find that the eyes have returned to his face and are seemingly engaged on long and careful scrutiny. There is left the impression that one’s face is being photographed on the inspector’s mind.

  During most of his appearances in public Doctor Manson’s expression is that described by card players as “poker-face.” But, now and again, wrinkles mark the broad brow in deep furrows, and curious crinkles surround the corners of the eyes. And when they see this his colleagues silently fade away like the Arabs. The Doctor, they will tell you, is in a spot.

  Manson’s hands are, possibly, the first thing that a stranger meeting him notices. The long, delicate fingers are exceedingly restless—twisting and turning on anything which lies handy to them. While he stands, chatting, they are liable to stray to a waistcoat pocket and emerge with a tiny, yet powerful, magnifying glass, or a two-inch micrometer rule, to occupy their energy.

  Most of the days of the year the scientist is working—if not on an investigation, then in compiling microscope slide exhibits which may, at some future time, be useful for the purpose of identifying some object of investigation. But occasionally he will take a few days away from the Laboratory at the top of Scotland Yard, and then he indulges in his only hobby—fishing. With a seven-foot trout rod, a 4x cast, and an assortment of flies, and with a swiftly-running stream in front of him, he finds the acme of relaxation. One last point: he is as much a purist at fishing as he is at investigation; he fishes only dry fly!

  CHAPTER I

  THE COLONEL ALIVE

  At ten minutes to six on a July evening the lounge of the Tremarden Arms showed no indication of the tragedy that was soon to envelop its guests in an evil cloud of mystery and suspicion.

  A babel of bustle and sound came from it. Men sprawled in armchairs, tired feet, a’weary from much walking, resting in slippers as they gathered in groups discussing the day’s “business.”

  With the ticking of every minute the door from the hotel yard swung open to admit other figures to the company; strange figures, perspiring in water-proof trousers reaching up to the armpits, and with water-proof coats; and, at the other end, nail-studded, sodden brogues. They called for “George!” He pulled off brogues and tugged waders from nether limbs as he had done at this hour of the day for more than twenty years. The thirsty newcomers, freed from the trammels, joined the babel in the lounge.

  Winding a way between this restless kaleidoscope, waitresses came and went, tray-loads of glasses, sparkling with the colours of the rainbow, raised perilously above the heads of the crowd. The conversational babel deteriorated for a moment into a single phrase, “Good health,” only to break out again with renewed enthusiasm a minute later. Cocktail time was in full swing in the Tremarden Arms.

  If you know the Tremarden Arms (and if you don’t, then you should do) you will be under no necessity of eavesdropping on the chatter. For the people who stay at the Arms come under three classes only; they are either fishermen, or commercial travellers, or they are London folk, bound for the Cornish coast, breaking their journey for a night.

  And since, at six o’clock, the commercial travellers are busily engaged copying out the orders decoyed from the Tremarden tradespeople—for the post goes out at seven o’clock—and the night sojourners are washing the dirt of the long trek from the metropolis in the hotel bathrooms before dinner, that leaves only the fishermen to fill the lounge. Therefore, the talk is FISH.

  From April until the end of September the lounge of the Tremarden Arms echoes to “fish,” as the anglers gather round the circular table beneath the great palm tree, which reaches up into the glass canopy, twenty feet above. “Walter” ministers at the table. As though by sleight of hand a plate or a dish appears in Walter’s hands at the sight of an entering fisherman. One by one, the trout are taken, almost reverently, from the creel, and laid in speckled lines on the plate to occupy a show-place among the score of other collections on the table. In long, shallow dishes in the centre, salmon glisten like silver in pride of place above the plates. For the display of the fruits of a fly and a cunning hand has been a ritual of the Tremarden Arms for a generation, and each angler adds his devotions, whether he returns with a brace of trout or a score of brace. And the fight is fought over again as the fishermen recognise an old campaigner from the pools, now laid low.

  This, then, was the scene in the Tremarden Arms on the evening of 21st July, just before dinner gave the first inkling (although it was not until next day that it was known to be an inkling) of tragedy.

  The day had been an ideal one for the Prince of Sports. A warm sun had been tempered by a zephyr wind, which gave the water just enough ripple to cover the angler, and disguise the artificial fly from the less plentiful natural insect! Some hundred brace of trout lay on the table; light-speckled from the swift and clear-running waters of the Inney; others, sandy-hued, from the reddish-stained, shallow Lyner; and the dark-backed and larger fish which had lost in game fight in the slower and deeper waters of the Tamar.

  A little group of men stood beside the table, apart from the throng of drinkers. “A nice day’s sport, Major,” commented the tallest of the group.

  Major Smithers nodded. His practised eye surveyed the catch. “And mostly Linney fish, Sir Edward,” he said. “I’m glad to see the old stream is picking up again. We’ve had a pretty thin time in there this last year or two. Eh, Padre?” The major smiled across at the grey-suited figure of a clergyman.

  “Indeed, yes,” was the reply. “I could not catch them myself.” A chuckle greeted the reply, for the padre’s prowess with trout was almost a legend. Where others, who prided themselves as experts, came back with half-a-dozen brace of trout, the padre would table a creel of a couple of dozen brace. The local tackle shops coined a fortune from flies which were sold as “The Reverend Williams pattern.” He had once, years ago, in a turn of elfish humour, condoled with a despondent journalist, who had only a brace of anaemic trout for his day’s labour. The padre brought in a laden creel.

  “How the devil do you catch them, Padre?” the disgruntled journalist had asked.

  “Well, I tie my own flies,” was the guarded reply.

  The journalist subsequently regaled a company with the padre’s “secret.” A day later, the padre missed half-a-dozen of his flies; within a week the fly-drawers of the local retailers were filled with the “Reverend William’s pattern” in Pheasant Tails, Red Spinners, March Browns, and the other varieties of fly bai
t. That they were not any different, but generally not so good, as any other flies did not matter! What the padre did not tell the journalist was that he had been whipping the waters of the Tremarden Arms for thirty years, and knew them as well as he knew his prayer-book. But to return to the group.

  “Well, if you couldn’t catch ’em on the Williams fly they must have been scarce.” Sir Edward Maurice accompanied the compliment with a dig at the old story. “What d’ye think was the reason?”

  The padre frowned. “I think Franky had too much timber cut back,” he said. “You’ve got to have cover for trout, especially in the Linney’s crystal water.”

  Major Smithers nodded.

  “You don’t think it was the bad angling we had?” Sir Edward frowned as he made the suggestion. “Remember the bunch of doggers we endured. And they nearly all fished the Inney. Said there was room to cast there.” Sir Edward snorted. “I saw one fellow ploughing through the water with enough wake to put down every trout for a mile ahead.”

  “No,” the padre replied. “I think it was cutting back the timber. And Franky is doing it down at Three Bridges this year.”

  “The devil he is,” ejaculated Sir Edward. “Where is he?” He turned his head and, catching the eye of Frank Baker, beckoned him across.

  The proprietor of the Tremarden Arms was one of those men who fitted into hotel keeping as a glove fits the hand. Tall, slim and aesthetic looking in countenance, he had run the Arms for just over twenty years. He also ran Tremarden; for not only was he the principal farmer in the district, the chief milk producer, but he was also Mayor, Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce, Chairman of the Conservative Club, and a magistrate.

  He was a bundle of nerves, but managed successfully to live on his nerves, and that kept them from breaking point. No frequenter of the hotel had ever seen from him a display of impatience, much less annoyance. “Franky,” as he was called by these anglers who came year after year to the Arms for the fishing, was as popular a figure as a host as he was a good friend.

  The group of men who now waited for him were his oldest customers. They had not missed spending July and August at the hotel since the days when Franky was in short trousers, and Old Man Baker was building up the hotel on a mile of water, adding a furlong here and there as it prospered.

  “Even’ Major, Even’ Sir Edward, Even’ Reverend,” Franky hailed the company. “Had a good day?”

  “Evening, Franky. What’s this I hear about Three Bridges? Padre says you’re cutting the timber back there.”

  “Only in a few places, Sir Edward.”

  “But, dammit, Franky, look what happened to the Inney when you cut the banks back.”

  Franky spread his hands apologetically. “I know, Sir Edward. But then, you and the major, and the Reverend here, are experts. We’re getting a lot of amateurs at the game now. Half of them haven’t learned to cast horizontally, they can’t use a backhand, and haven’t heard of a Spey. I’ve got to give them a reasonable chance of catching fish. And I can make open water more easily at Three Bridges than I can anywhere else. I’m keeping the other streams for the experienced people like yourselves.”

  “Well, I suppose if you must, you must, Franky. But I should have thought there was enough open water at Three Bridges, in the fields alongside the quarry and beyond.” He dismissed the subject. “Who’s caught all the fish to-day? Doesn’t seem much from the Tamar. The colonel had another bad day?”

  A smile passed round the company. Mention of Colonel Donoughmore and his fishing generally raised a grin.

  Franky glanced at the table. His eyes picked out the dark-backed lower Tamar trout. “Fred Emmett brought three brace of these in,” he said, “and I think the major grassed the others. The colonel hasn’t come in yet.”

  “Bit late for him, isn’t it? I thought he generally gave up about four o’clock.”

  “He does,” Major Smithers said. “He—” His voice ceased as his eyes caught sight of an article leaning against the hall-stand, amid a welter of bagged rods. “Isn’t that the colonel’s landing net?” he asked.

  The four stared at the six foot long pole at the top of which was fastened a square-ended net.

  “That’s the colonel’s all right,” agreed Sir Edward. “Nobody else would use a ruddy butterfly net—pardon, Padre—to save getting his waders wet.” He walked over to the stand. “That’s funny,” he said. “It’s wet.”

  “I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been in,” said Franky. “His rod isn’t there.” He turned to the porter. “Seen the colonel, Walter?”

  “Noa, Mister Frank. He hasn’t a ben.”

  “Ruddy good job if he never comes back,” said a voice; and Fred Emmett joined the company. “Why all this loving anxiety for the old devil?”

  “He doesn’t seem to have returned, and that’s unusual for him. Did you see anything of him down there, Fred?”

  “Saw him this morning, edging into my beat. Said he’d been chasing a big ’un and hadn’t noticed that he’d passed the mark. I told him if he didn’t get back into his own kennel I’d chuck him in the ruddy river.”

  “What’s all this about throwing people in the river? It is my duty to warn you that anything you may say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”

  “Doctor!”

  The exclamation came in a chorus as the little group swung round on the interrupter. He stood in the doorway, a six-foot figure in tweeds, a raincoat over one arm. The smile on his face lit up his wide-spaced, deep-set eyes and the crinkled, pleasant contour of the broad forehead.

  For a moment the Doctor stood thus. Then, dropping the raincoat on a basket chair, he stepped to the side of the group with outstretched hands.

  “I’m glad you are here, all of you,” he said. “I rather thought you might be.”

  He shook hands warmly with the four men; grips that were returned as warmly, for Doctor Manson, though an infrequent visitor to the Arms, was a popular guest when he did pay a visit, not only because of his skill as a fisherman—an achievement which was usually the first consideration of good fellowship in the house—but because his charm as a conversationalist was allied to a scholarly mind, and any argument in which he took part never failed to entertain as well as instruct his company.

  His Doctorship had little to do with medicine, though it was in many respects allied to it. His degree was in Science; the alliance with medicine lay in the fact that he was the scientist attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard; its investigator into pathological mysteries, and its expert in medical jurisprudence.

  It was two years ago that the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard had called him into the Yard’s Service and given him carte blanche to equip a Laboratory in an attempt to stay the growing list of unsolved crimes. Since that date there had been no single case the solution to which had not been reached by the Yard. This, then, was the man who, having been welcomed, now called for a long, cool, drink, which the host himself brought.

  “But what the deuce are you doing here, Doctor?” from the major. “Don’t tell us the Squire’s daughter has been foully murdered, and you’re after the villain.”

  A roar of laughter greeted the major’s histrionic pose and declamation.

  Manson laughed. “No, nothing so important,” he said. “I’ve just got a few days’ leave, and thought I’d like to spend them on the water. Sorry to come without warning, Franky, but I didn’t know until this morning. If you haven’t a bed I’ll sleep in the hayloft.”

  A smile crinkled the face of Baker. “Sure, us always has a room for yiew, Doctor.” The words came in the soft sing-song of the Cornishman.

  “But you still haven’t told me what this throwing in the river business is about,” said Manson.

  “The sleuth on the track already!” Sir Edward chuckled. “Fact is, Doctor, we’ve got an unpleasant gent here named Donoughmore—Colonel Donoughmore—don’t think you’ve met him. He’s usually back from fishing about five o’clock, but hasn�
��t turned up to-day. Funnily enough, his landing net is in its usual place, and it’s wet. Emmett, here, said the blighter had been poaching on his beat this morning, and threatened to chuck him in the water if he didn’t get out and keep out. What d’ye make of that?”

  Franky laughed. “Yieu’d best ’fess, Emmett,” he said. “Doctor will get you in the end.”