The Paddington Mystery

by John Rhode

  Suicide, then. Everything pointed to that. The depression from which Shirley Briston had been suffering. And possibly the whisky to supply Dutch courage. It had started to rain about half past nine that morning, and had never ceased all day. Three or four hours, Briston had said. The butt would have been full by the time she might be expected to have had her lunch. She had taken out the garden chair, climbed on to it, and dived into the butt.

  Verification of Briston’s alibi followed naturally. The ticket collector remembered him perfectly well. ‘I couldn’t say what train he went by in the morning, for I wasn’t on duty then,’ he told Purley. ‘But he came off the 4.45 and gave up the return half of a cheap date to Mawnchester. I told him that was no good, as cheap tickets are only available by trains leaving Mawnchester after six. So he paid me the difference, and I gave him a receipt for it.’

  Purley ran the postman to earth in the bar of the Red Admiral. ‘This morning’s delivery?’ he replied to Purley’s question. ‘Yes, I do recollect seeing Mr Briston while I was on my way to Cadford. He was riding his bike towards the town here, and as he passed he called out and asked me if I had anything for him. I told him that all there was for Holly Bungalow was a parcel for Mrs Briston.’

  ‘You delivered the parcel, I suppose?’ Purley remarked. ‘Did you see anyone at the bungalow?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ the postman replied. ‘I knocked on the door. Mrs Briston opened it. She wasn’t properly dressed, but had a sort of wrap round her.’

  ‘Can you tell me what time this was?’

  ‘It must have been round about half-past eight when I spoke to Mr Briston. And maybe five minutes later when I got to the bungalow.’

  All that remained was a final word with the doctor. There was just one possibility. Briston had arrived at Faythorpe station at 4.45. He should have reached home by 5.15. It had been after six when Purley had first seen the body in the butt. Only the faintest possibility, of course.

  The doctor was at home when Purley called and frowned irritably at his question. ‘How the dickens can I tell to a split second? I’m ready to testify on oath that death was due to drowning. But I’m not prepared to say exactly when it took place. When a body has been in water for any length of time, that’s impossible. My opinion is that the woman died not later than midday or thereabouts.’

  So that settled it. Mrs Briston had been seen alive after her husband left the house. The medical evidence showed that she must have been dead before his return that evening. Clearly, then, suicide.

  Next morning, Pursley went to Holly Bungalow fairly early. The door was opened by a man who bore some resemblance to Henry Briston. ‘Do you want see my brother?’ he asked. ‘I am Edward Briston, from Mawnchester. Henry rang me up last night, and told me what had happened, and I came over at once. He’s had a very bad night, and I told him he’d better stay in bed for a bit.’

  ‘I won’t disturb him,’ Purley replied. ‘I only looked in to see he was all right. You saw your brother in Mawnchester yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, he lunched with me, and we spent the afternoon together in my office, till he left to catch his train.’

  Purley nodded. ‘Have you any personal knowledge of your sister-in-law’s state of mind?’

  Edward Briston glanced over his shoulder, led the way into the dining-room and shut the door. ‘It was to talk about Shirley that Henry came to see me yesterday,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘He told me she was terribly depressed. As it she had something on her mind that she wouldn’t tell him.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something, inspector, that I didn’t tell Henry, and never shall now. One day last week I saw Shirley in Mawnchester. She was with a man I didn’t know, and they seemed to be getting on remarkably well together. I know she saw me, but the couple hurried away together in the opposite direction. It’s my belief the poor woman had got herself into a situation from which she could see only one way of escape.’

  That might be the case, Purley thought. Glancing round the room he caught sight of the barograph. After that flat step, an eighth of an inch wide, the purple line traced by the pen had fallen steadily till about midnight. Then it had become horizontal, and was now beginning to rise. Fine weather might be expected.

  The prosperous appearance of the room prompted Purley’s next question. ‘Your brother is in comfortable circumstances?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Edward Briston replied. ‘Henry hasn’t much of his own, but Shirley had considerable means. She was a widow when he married her, and her first husband had left her quite well off.’

  Henry Briston’s alibi was complete. There could be no doubt now that his wife had committed suicide, and Edward Briston’s guess might explain why.

  Purley went back to the police station and caught sight of the barograph in the window next door.

  He looked at the instrument more closely. It was very similar to the one at Holly Bungalow, the only difference that Purley could see was the chart on the drum, which ran from Sunday to Saturday. A new chart had been fitted at 10 o’clock the previous Sunday, for that was where the purple graph began. For the greater part of Sunday it ran almost horizontally. Then, late that evening, it began to decline. By the early hours of Monday morning this decline had become a steep slope.

  As with the instrument at Holly Bungalow, this fall had continued till about midnight.

  The queer thing about this graph was that it showed no horizontal step between eight and ten on Monday morning. Briston’s barograph must be out of order. But it couldn’t be, for in every other respect the two purple lines were exactly similar.

  Purley went into the police station. A discrepancy only an eighth of an inch long in the graphs could be of no importance. And then the only possible explanation revealed itself.

  His thoughts began to race. There was no confirmation of Henry Briston having left Faythorpe by the 8.50. He had certainly been seen by the postman riding in the direction of the station about 8.30. But he might have turned back when the postman had passed the bungalow on his way back to Cadford. A later train would have given him plenty of time to meet his brother for lunch.

  Back to the bungalow, to find his wife dressed and having breakfast. Perhaps he had contrived to meet the postman. He could easily have ordered something to be sent her by post. That contusion the doctor had found. The kitchen poker! A blow, not enough to kill her, but to knock her out.

  But it would manifestly have been beyond Briston’s power to lift even an inert body over the edge of the butt. No, it wouldn’t do. By jove, yes, it would! It hadn’t begun to rain till 9.30, and before then the butt had been empty. Briston had tipped the butt over on its side.

  First the broken tile, to explain the contusion that must be found. Then the unconscious woman, dragged through the french window of the dining-room and thrust head first into the butt.

  An effort, and the butt with its contents was upended in place. Perhaps the rain water was already beginning to trickle into it from the spout.

  Then to set the scene, so as to suggest that the victim had been alive at a much later hour. To clear away the breakfast, and to lay the appearance of lunch, with the significant whisky bottle.

  In his preoccupation with the crime, he had forgotten to change the barograph chart. It was by then ten o’clock. He put on a new chart, and set the pen on the eight o’clock line, to suggest the time of his action. Then he turned the drum till the pen rested on the ten o’clock line.

  He was bound to do that, otherwise it might be noticed later that the instrument was two hours slow. That was the only possible explanation of the purple line being horizontal for a vital eighth of an inch.

  The motive might be deduced from Edward Briston’s revelation. The only evidence for Shirley Briston’s depressed state was her husband’s. She hadn’t been depressed, but determined. She had told him she was going to leave him. And if she did that, her money would go with her.

  It was beyond any doubt that the barograph had been set
, not at eight, but at ten. If it could be proved that Henry Briston had set it, his alibi was destroyed. He must have been in a state of great agitation. He had clumsily overfilled the pen, so that the ink had run down the chart. Might he not in his agitation have got some of it on his fingers? That oily purple fluid was not a true ink, but a dye, defying soap and water.

  Purley drove again to Holly Bungalow. This time Henry Briston himself opened the door. ‘Hold out your hands, Mr Briston,’ said the inspector.

  ‘My hands?’ Briston replied. He held them out tremblingly, palms downwards. Purley seized the right hand and turned it over. There on the inner side of forefinger and thumb were two faint purple stains.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Purley sternly. ‘And I must caution you—’

  THE END

  ALSO BY JOHN RHODE

  MYSTERY AT OLYMPIA

  ‘Readers know well what to expect from John Rhode, and in this story they will not be disappointed … The tale is neat and clear and logical, and there are no loose ends.’

  TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

  The new Comet was fully expected to be the sensation of the annual Motor Show at Olympia. Suddenly, in the middle of the dense crowd of eager spectators, an elderly man lurched forward and collapsed in a dead faint. But Nahum Pershore had not fainted. He was dead, and it was his death that was to provide the real sensation of the show.

  A post-mortem revealed no visible wound, no serious organic disorder, no evidence of poison. Doctors and detectives were equally baffled, and the more they investigated, the more insoluble the puzzle became. Even Dr Lancelot Priestley’s un-rivalled powers of deduction were struggling to solve this case.

  ‘Mystery at Olympia is, of course, admirably pieced together. One expects that of Mr Rhode; but it also marks an advance in the psychological treatment of his characters.’

  ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS

  ALSO BY JOHN RHODE

  DEATH AT BREAKFAST

  ‘One always embarks on a John Rhode book with a great feeling of security. One knows that there will be a sound plot, a well-knit process of reasoning and a solidly satisfying solution with no loose ends or careless errors of fact.’

  DOROTHY L. SAYERS in THE SUNDAY TIMES

  Victor Harleston awoke with uncharacteristic optimism. Today he would be rich at last. Half an hour later, he gulped down his breakfast coffee and pitched to the floor, gasping and twitching. When the doctor arrived, he recognised instantly that it was a fatal case of poisoning and called in Scotland Yard.

  Despite an almost complete absence of clues, the circumstances were so suspicious that Inspector Hanslet soon referred the evidence to his friend and mentor, Dr Lancelot Priestley, whose deductions revealed a diabolically ingenious murder that would require equally fiendish ingenuity to solve.

  ‘Death at Breakfast is full of John Rhode’s specialties: a new and excellently ingenious method of murder, a good story, and a strong chain of deduction.’

  DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ALSO BY JOHN RHODE

  INVISIBLE WEAPONS

  ‘John Rhode never lets you down. A carefully worked out plot, precise detection, with no logical flaws or jumping to conclusions, and enough of character and atmosphere to carry the thing along.’

  FRANCIS ILES in the DAILY TELEGRAPH

  The murder of old Mr Fransham while washing his hands in his niece’s cloakroom was one of the most astounding problems that ever confronted Scotland Yard. Not only was there a policeman in the house at the time, but there was an ugly wound in the victim’s forehead and nothing in the locked room that could have inflicted it.

  The combined efforts of Superintendent Hanslet and Inspector Waghorn brought no answer and the case was dropped. It was only after another equally baffling murder had been committed that Dr Lancelot Priestley’s orderly and imaginative deductions began to make the connections that would solve this extraordinary case.

  ‘Any murder planned by Mr Rhode is bound to be ingenious.’

  OBSERVER

  ALSO IN THIS SERIES

  BELOW THE CLOCK

  J. V. TURNER

  ‘One of the very few exponents of the art of the thud-and-blunder thriller who can stand comparison with the late Edgar Wallace.’ MORNING POST

  Many highly dramatic and historic scenes have been enacted below the clock of Big Ben, but none more sensational than on that April afternoon when, before the eyes of a chamber crowded to capacity for the Budget Speech, the Chancellor fell headlong to the floor with a resounding crash. For the first time a murder had been committed in the House of Commons itself – and Amos Petrie faced the toughest case of his career.

  In Below the Clock, John Victor Turner—a journalist who as David Hume had become known as ‘the new Edgar Wallace’ for creating Britain’s first hardboiled detective series—returned to classic Golden Age writing with an ingenious whodunit set at the heart of the establishment, a novel that did the unthinkable by turning Parliament into a crime scene and all its Members into murder suspects.

  ‘He knows his underworld inside out.’

  DOROTHY L. SAYERS in THE SUNDAY TIMES

  ALSO IN THIS SERIES

  THE ROGUES’ SYNDICATE

  FRANK FROËST and GEORGE DILNOT

  Lost in a London fog, young Jimmie Hallett is accosted by a frightened woman who hands him a package and flees. Within hours, he is being questioned about the murder of the girl’s father and a dangerous international conspiracy. Can genial detective Weir Menzies, even with all the resources of Scotland Yard behind him, succeed in outwitting a faceless gang of organised thieves and killers?

  Frank Froëst, the highly decorated Superintendent of Scotland Yard’s C.I.D., began his retirement from the Metropolitan Police by writing The Grell Mystery, acclaimed as the first crime novel to incorporate authentic police procedures. With George Dilnot, co-author of the story collection The Crime Club, Froëst wrote one more novel, the ambitious and thrilling The Rogues’ Syndicate.

  ‘A police “procedural” from 1916. Loved the jargon—kind of a tough 1930’s gangster, British style. Loved the story … Another fun read from a completely different time.’

  GOODREADS

  ALSO IN THIS SERIES

  MR BOWLING BUYS A NEWSPAPER

  DONALD HENDERSON

  ‘I have a book called Mr Bowling Buys a Newspaper which I have read half a dozen times and have bought right and left to give away. I think it is one of the most fascinating books written in the last ten years and I don’t know anybody in my limited circle who doesn’t agree with me.’

  RAYMOND CHANDLER

  Mr Bowling is getting away with murder. On each occasion he buys a newspaper to see whether anyone suspects him. But there is a war on, and the clues he leaves are going unnoticed. Which is a shame, because Mr Bowling is not a conventional serial killer: he wants to get caught so that his torment can end. How many more newspapers must he buy before the police finally catch up with him?

  ‘Henderson pursues a grim little theme with lively perception and ingenuity. His manner is brief, deliberately undertoned, and for the most part curiously effective.’

  TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

  THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB

  E. C. BENTLEY • TRENT’S LAST CASE

  E. C. BENTLEY • TRENT INTERVENES

  E. C. BENTLEY & H. WARNER ALLEN • TRENT’S OWN CASE

  ANTHONY BERKELEY • THE WYCHFORD POISONING CASE

  ANTHONY BERKELEY • THE SILK STOCKING MURDERS

  LYNN BROCK • NIGHTMARE

  BERNARD CAPES • THE MYSTERY OF THE SKELETON KEY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE • THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD

  AGATHA CHRISTIE • THE BIG FOUR

  WILKIE COLLINS • THE MOONSTONE

  HUGH CONWAY • CALLED BACK

  HUGH CONWAY • DARK DAYS

  EDMUND CRISPIN • THE CASE OF THE GILDED FLY

  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE CASK

  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE PONSON CASE

&
nbsp; FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE

  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE GROOTE PARK MURDER

  MAURICE DRAKE • THE MYSTERY OF THE MUD FLATS

  FRANCIS DURBRIDGE • BEWARE OF JOHNNY WASHINGTON

  J. JEFFERSON FARJEON • THE HOUSE OPPOSITE

  RUDOLPH FISHER • THE CONJURE-MAN DIES

  FRANK FROËST • THE GRELL MYSTERY

  FRANK FROËST & GEORGE DILNOT • THE CRIME CLUB

  FRANK FROËST & GEORGE DILNOT • THE ROGUES’ SYNDICATE

  ÉMILE GABORIAU • THE BLACKMAILERS

  ANNA K. GREEN • THE LEAVENWORTH CASE

  DONALD HENDERSON • MR BOWLING BUYS A NEWSPAPER

  FERGUS HUME • THE MILLIONAIRE MYSTERY

  VERNON LODER • THE MYSTERY AT STOWE

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE RASP

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE NOOSE

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE RYNOX MYSTERY

  PHILIP MACDONALD • MURDER GONE MAD

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE MAZE

  NGAIO MARSH • THE NURSING HOME MURDER

  G. ROY McRAE • THE PASSING OF MR QUINN

  R. A. V. MORRIS • THE LYTTLETON CASE

  ARTHUR B. REEVE • THE ADVENTURESS

  FRANK RICHARDSON • THE MAYFAIR MYSTERY

  R. L. STEVENSON • DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE

  J. V. TURNER • BELOW THE CLOCK

  EDGAR WALLACE • THE TERROR

  ISRAEL ZANGWILL • THE PERFECT CRIME

  FURTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION

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