The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

“That’s right. You can see them protruding when the tide recedes. You can pick them up, occasionally. If you cared to burrow into the chalk—which as you know, sir, is quite soft—you could come up with as many flints and nodules as you cared to collect.”

  “The flints they built houses with? That’s where they got them from?”

  “I imagine so, sir. Set in mortar they would make a strong structure.”

  “Sorry, George, I shouldn’t digress. What’s this other book? The toxicology one?”

  Masters opened it. “Again, sir, I won’t bother you with too much technical detail. In fact, I’ll read you just one sentence. It is this. ‘Iron pyrites often contain quantities of arsenic sufficient to liberate fatal amounts of arsine when the ore is moistened’.”

  Masters closed the book and had resumed his seat before Anderson spoke.

  “Let me get it straight, George. There is, for the asking—or collecting—a large supply of iron pyrites nodules within a few hundred yards of Abbot’s Hall? These nodules only have to be dampened to give off fatal amounts of arsine?”

  “Correct, sir, but the nodules would have to be cracked open to expose the ore before damping.

  “Good God!”

  Green said: “Coming up with those tit-bits wasn’t too bad a job, was it, sir?”

  Anderson shook his head. “I don’t know how you lot do it, I really don’t.”

  “Blame George, sir. He’s the cause of all the trouble.”

  “Yes, yes. What next?”

  “As I said, sir,” continued Masters, “the nodules would have to be cracked open and laid out for watering. Quite easy to do, I believe, with any hammer that has a pointed or chisel-edged pane.”

  “Such as a geologist’s hammer?”

  “Just so, sir.”

  “I’m beginning to get your drift, George.”

  “It is almost inevitable that you should, sir. But I’ll press on. What I envisaged was our murderer splitting open the nodules, a great many of them, and laying them out, close-packed on a number of trays or dishes which he could then carry to the bedroom. Because of their drunken stupor, neither Rhoda Carvell nor Woodruff would be in any fit state to interfere as he laid them about the floor and then moistened them from a can or bottle of water. He picked up the empty champagne bottles and their corks—probably because he had handled them when taking them to the house—and the glasses, and then left the room, being careful to close the door behind him.”

  “Devilish,” muttered Anderson.

  “He then went downstairs and cleared away, including washing the glasses and putting them back in the wine cupboard. He was in no hurry, because he had to wait for the arsine to do its work. The vapour diffuses through the pulmonary sac and death is often delayed for up to twelve hours. But this is in a normal person subjected to a comparatively small dose. With drunken people breathing stertorously and subjected to a heavy dose in a closed and confined room, death would come much more quickly. In about half an hour the effects would be serious and then in an hour—or perhaps two at the most—they would be dead.

  “But he was not to know how long his wait would be, and I suspect he dared not remove the pyrites until his victims were dead. So he had a long time to spare. But I would like to go back a bit, sir. I told you I envisaged the broken nodules being laid out on trays. My immediate picture was of baking trays and oven tins, because the picture was of little buns in their papers crowded together for cooking.” Anderson nodded to show he followed Masters’ reasoning.

  “So I examined the oven. There were no trays or dripping tins in it nor anywhere else in the house. I found this odd, but supporting my belief that our murderer had used the trays. When we tried to ascertain whether Mrs Carvell had the customary trays in the oven, we discovered that not only had she the normal complement of her own, but also several others left there by the cookery expert of the View and never returned by Mrs Carvell.

  “But, sir, we have been unable to find the trays and the champagne bottles. The trays were obviously lifted from the bedroom and then disposed of. Where? is the question.” Masters sat back. “And that, sir, in brief is the way in which those two were murdered.”

  “You have to be right,” said Anderson. “It all fits. Now you’re going to tell me that Professor Carvell is the murderer, I suppose?”

  “It would seem he is our man, sir. To begin with, this is a crime requiring a knowledge of geology, and he is an eminent geologist.”

  “Right.”

  “Our murderer had to have a knowledge of the house. To know, for instance, that the oven trays were available and that the rooms were virtually airtight.”

  “Carvell would know those things. Nobody better.”

  “Carvell also knew the effects that champagne had on his wife. He told me it sent her to sleep.”

  “He did that?”

  Masters nodded. “I believe he regretted it later. But I think he delivered the champagne there in person. He went in, I suspect, on the ‘no-hard-feelings’ basis, that Monday evening, bearing the bottles to prove it. His wife and Woodruff were probably delighted by his attitude and happy that he should stay to take a glass with them. He probably fetched the glasses from the cupboard and poured the wine. In any case he had handled the bottles, so the glasses had to be washed and the bottles disposed of.

  “He then had to leave, ostensibly. He probably suggested to the other two that they should take the champagne up to bed with them. Then he waited to give them time to drink themselves stupid.”

  “You can’t prove this, can you?”

  “Not that it was Carvell. But we have witnesses to prove that Carvell left the Hall of Residence at about seven that Monday evening. He claims he was going out to dinner with a woman companion. But he was carrying a despatch bag big enough to hold three bottles of champagne and he used his car. I find it hard to believe that a man like the Professor would take a bag with him when going out to dinner with a woman other than his wife.”

  “Deuced odd,” agreed Anderson. “What time did he get back from this dinner engagement?”

  “That’s the point, sir, he didn’t. Not that night.”

  “Didn’t? Not at all?”

  “Certainly not before six in the morning.”

  “Did he give you an explanation?”

  “He refused us one.”

  “Damned fishy, in fact?”

  “Decidedly so, sir.”

  “Do you attribute any motive to him?”

  “There is the point that his wife died before the divorce hearing. So she was still his wife and so her estate reverts to him under the former will which would have been replaced by a new one once the divorce had been granted. There is Abbot’s Hall and a large amount of valuable furniture, besides her other belongings, whatever they may be—jewellery, a bit of money, and so on.”

  “Quite a sum, you reckon?”

  “An amount not to be sneezed at, sir.”

  Anderson considered this for a moment and then asked: “What’s your problem, George?”

  “There is a lot of circumstantial evidence, sir.”

  “Against Carvell? I agree.”

  “But no direct hard evidence.”

  “He has refused to help you by giving an account of himself. He can have no grouse if you assume the worst.”

  “True, sir.”

  “But you don’t want to charge him?”

  “I am here to ask you if I should do so, sir.”

  Anderson gazed at him for a moment or two. “You wouldn’t come to me if you were sure in your own mind.”

  “I am here to ask you if I should proceed on the basis of circumstantial evidence only.”

  “Knowing you, I will assume you are not satisfied with your own case.”

  “I prefer to have some tangible evidence, sir. Something that will authenticate what we assume to be correct.”

  “Are you saying your investigation has been taken as far as possible?”

  “There may be minor p
oints to clear up, sir, but to all intents and purposes the work has been done.”

  “Answer me this. Can you establish that Carvell knew his wife would be at Abbot’s Hall that night?”

  “No, sir. But I don’t have to.”

  “But you do. He had to deliver champagne.”

  Masters shook his head. “Mrs Carvell made no secret of the fact that she intended going to Abbot’s Hall on the Tuesday night. Carvell could have decided to leave the champagne there on Monday night with a note saying ‘no-regrets’, knowing that substantially the same opportunity for murder would be open to him after it had been drunk on the Tuesday.”

  “He needed the storm for his plan to succeed.”

  “No, sir, he didn’t. At the beginning of the investigation the storm loomed large in my considerations. It helped me a great deal, in fact. But that was before I knew the two victims were completely drunk. I maintain that if the murderer could enter the room with his trays of pyrites, he could have closed the windows had they been open.”

  “Right enough,” said Green. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Then your motive will not hold up,” said Anderson, “because if the murder had been committed on the Tuesday, the divorce would have been granted.”

  “I don’t have to prove motive, sir,” said Masters.

  “Neither do you, but it helps and . . . wait a minute, George. I’m no lawyer, but I reckon that that divorce hearing would only grant a decree nisi, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would the thing be valid before the decree absolute came into effect?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But if what you are suggesting is right, then the motive would have been as good on the Tuesday as on the Monday.”

  “We should clear that point up.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And that other point I raised. Try to find out why the woman changed her mind and went out to Abbot’s Hall on the Monday instead of Tuesday.”

  Masters nodded his agreement.

  “Keep on with the search for the dripping tins or whatever they are.”

  “That is continuing, sir.”

  “Good. Now, leave me with this file. I shall read all the details while you do what we’ve agreed. When I’m properly clued up and hear what you have to say after that, I shall make a decision. Meanwhile, leave Carvell to stew in his own juice.” He got to his feet. “And let me tell you all that whether we get what we want or not, you’ve done a good job with this business. But, like you, George, moral certainty doesn’t appeal to me. If the worst comes to the worst we may have to fall back on it, particularly if the DPP says we should, but I’m pretty sure you four can find something to make the decision easier.”

  *

  “Lunch time, Chief,” said Berger as they left Anderson’s office. “Is there anything you want us to do immediately?”

  “Have you photographed Carvell’s dabs?”

  “They’re done. And those belonging to everybody else in the case. Mrs Carvell, Woodruff, Heddle, the lot. The first two off the corpses of course.”

  “Good. Have your lunch. We’ll meet in my office at two.”

  Masters and Green made their way to the former’s office. “Any ideas, George?” asked Green.

  “None at all. How the hell are we to find out why Rhoda Carvell changed her mind about going to Abbot’s?”

  Green lit a Kensitas from a crumpled packet. “She lived in a flat. I wonder if she had a daily? Somebody she’d let know about her movements?”

  “Could be. We’ll put the sergeants on to it this afternoon.”

  “Not feeling very active yourself?”

  Masters grinned. “I need a drink, Bill. Oh, and thanks for the idea about the housekeeper.”

  “Skip it. Where shall we go? To a pub or the mess?”

  “A pub, I think, if that’s all right by you.”

  “Pleasure.”

  There was a scrum in the bar and so there was no further discussing of the case. After they returned to the Yard and the sergeants had been sent about their business, Masters announced his intention of using the afternoon to clear up the paper work that had accumulated on his desk. Then he said to Green: “Take the afternoon off, Bill. I keep forgetting you’re really a nine-to-five character these days. You’ve been working late for the past three or four nights, so we must owe you the time.”

  “You’re sure, George? You don’t have to . . .”

  “I’m sure, Bill.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “So it is. I think we should all have a weekend off.”

  *

  “You’re nice and early, darling.” Wanda kissed him. “Case finished?”

  “I’ve thrown in my hand,” he said with a grin.

  “As bad as that?” She took his hand. “I’m just about to take Michael up to bath him. Come and say hello.”

  “Story, daddy,” demanded Michael.

  Masters took his son on his knee. “Story,” urged Michael. “Farm.”

  The farm story was an on-going saga. Masters made it up as he went along and anything was permissible except the names of the characters. They had to remain the same. Michael knew them and would allow no deviation. The billy-goat was Hercules. The farm boy was Tom. Tonight Hercules found Tom’s hat hanging on a gate post and ate it. The wide-eyed little chap listened avidly. When his mother came to collect him she was given an abridged version as she led him upstairs. Masters got up to pour himself a drink.

  The door bell rang. Masters flicked the outside light on as he went to open the door.

  Mr and Mrs Cartwright.

  They all stood eyeing each other for a moment. Then Masters said: “My wife is not available at the moment.”

  “It’s you we want to see,” said Cyril.

  “Yes, you, not Wanda,” added Edna.

  “What about?”

  “A crime. A serious crime.”

  “Come in.”

  “Now what’s this all about?” he demanded as he led them into the sitting room.

  “We have been robbed, burgled,” gabbled Mrs Cartwright.

  “Somebody has broken into your home and stolen something?”

  “All my jewels and the radio and the electric mixer that Cyril gave me for Christmas and . . .”

  “Not broken in,” said Cyril. “There is no sign of forced entry. Whoever did it used a key.”

  “Have your keys been lost?”

  “They used the spare.”

  “I see. Tell me how they could get hold of your spare key.”

  “We kept it in the shed.”

  “Hanging on a nail?”

  “No,” gabbled Edna. “Under the floor.”

  “There is a loose piece of board,” said her husband. “The key was in a tin, buried under that board. How anyone could know it was there I just cannot imagine.”

  “Thieves these days know all the dodges,” replied Masters. “If they got into your shed—which I take it was very tidy?”

  “Oh, yes, very.”

  “They would wonder why a man who was obviously a careful, tidy chap had not bothered to nail down a loose board. They know their business. They would realize a key would be buried there.”

  “I see.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” demanded Mrs Cartwright.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? But you’re a policeman. A senior officer. No wonder the police force can’t protect our lives and property if Chief Superintendents baldly announce they are not prepared to take notice of serious crime.”

  “Steady, Edna,” warned Cyril.

  “Have you informed your local police station?” asked Masters.

  “We did that straightaway.”

  “What happened?”

  “They sent round a constable,” said Mrs Cartwright scathingly.

  Cyril said: “He told us there was virtually nothing they could do. He made notes of course.”

  “He’s quite right,”
said Masters. “It’s the climate we live in these days. You two, if I may remind you of it, have campaigned for a liberalism that leads criminals of all classes to believe they can get away with it. Noncustodial sentences, early remand, no birching, no hanging. So there is more and more crime. So much of it, in fact, that the police are swamped. There is a robbery such as the one you have just suffered every twenty seconds of every day.”

  “You are blaming us?” asked Edna disbelievingly.

  “I am. And I would add that it is on the cards that your house will be broken into again in the not too-distant future. Possibly within the year. So my advice to you is to contact your insurance people and let them know exactly what has gone.”

  Neither of the Cartwrights said a word to this. After a considerable silence, Masters said: “I see. Your goods and chattels are not insured. Is that it?”

  “Only the fabric of the house,” replied Cyril.

  “Then be thankful they did not break everything in sight, and go out first thing tomorrow and take out a policy.”

  “But we hope to get our things back.”

  “I hope you do, Mr Cartwright, but the possibility is slight.”

  “Won’t you come round and . . .”

  “It is not my job. First because I am already dealing with a murder case and second because your local police have it in hand.”

  “I don’t think your attitude is at all helpful, George,” said Mrs Cartwright.

  “If you think I have behaved in any way incorrectly, Mrs Cartwright, you can complain to my superiors. I will willingly give you the necessary details.”

  “I understand,” said Cyril. “You must forgive my wife. She is upset. We both are.”

  “I am extremely sorry that this should have happened. Strictly unofficially I will ask your local police whether there is anything they can do for you.”

  “Good,” said Edna. “I told them to expect to hear from you. I told them you wouldn’t take this lying down.”

  Masters frowned in annoyance but said nothing. He moved towards the door to indicate the meeting was over. They followed him. He let them out and then flicked off the outside light.

  *

  “I heard most of that,” said Wanda.

  “Listening on the stairs, were you?” said Masters, holding her round the waist and kissing her nose.