A Grave Case of Murder

by Roger Bax

  The bedrooms were more productive. At the back of Hutton’s well-stocked wardrobe, James found a pair of gray flannel trousers which were unmistakably wet. It was an odd place, he thought, to put wet clothes. He examined them carefully for superficial bloodstains but could find nothing. Perhaps that was why they had been washed—to remove bloodstains. He rolled them up and tucked them into his bag. In the other bedroom he made a further find. At the bottom of the linen basket there was a damp white shirt. At the cuffs there were several reddish-brown marks which might well be bloodstains. This, also, James packed away.

  Intrigued, he returned to the sitting room and sat down to consider the situation. What had struck him most about the place, apart from his several interesting finds, was the extreme cleanness and tidiness of everything. There was no dirty crockery, the cushions were in place, the lamp-glass was polished, the brass ash tray was empty. It was difficult to believe that Hutton had been here on Saturday evening—even a brief occupation would surely have left its signs. It was even more difficult to believe that any act of violence had taken place. On the other hand, if he had been shot here, there would have been such ghastly traces that a major cleaning operation would have been necessary afterward. The murderer might have deliberately left the place in a spotless condition for the very purpose of misleading the police. But what a job it would have been! And why, in that case, leave bloodstained clothing about?

  There remained only the outhouses at the back. In the garden shed James found the usual miscellany—boxes, paint tins, oilcans, brooms, gum boots, an old mackintosh, a groundsheet and a large assortment of garden tools. Nothing of special interest.

  Beyond the vegetable plot lay an impressive wilderness of Fen—a great stretch of reeds and rushes and osiers, cut by dikes and ditches and flanked by drains and pocked everywhere with peat holes. The place was alive with birds—a paradise for the Nature lover or the sportsman. It wasn’t surprising, James thought, that Hutton had carried a gun about with him if there was much of this sort of country in the district. He strolled through the wooden gate at the end of the garden and out into the Fen. Between the water courses were patches of bare peaty earth which had hardened and cracked during the summer drought and were now moist after the rain. Obviously no one had walked here last night—marks would undoubtedly have been left. Looking out over the picturesque wasteland, the inspector marveled again that anyone should have gone to the trouble of lugging a body to the grave when it could so easily have been disposed of here in comparative safety.

  He spread his coat over a lump of outcropping stone and sat down in the sunshine to eat the sandwiches which his wife had provided for him. It wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, of course, this Fen, but he found it very pleasant. Having consumed his frugal lunch, he lit his pipe and turned back toward the cottage. He hadn’t gone more than a few paces when his eyes lit on a patch of ground that looked freshly disturbed. Some sods had recently been turned here, he felt sure. He poked about in the soft earth with mild curiosity, and then gave a shrug, reminding himself that, far from looking for a body, he had already found one. He walked quickly back to the car, picking up the bailer on the way, and directed the chauffeur to drive to the Applebys’ house.

  Chapter Seven

  A quarter of an hour later James was being shown into the library at Monks Farm by a tear-stained, frightened-looking Gertie. As he entered, Thomas Appleby rose from a deep chair and greeted him with unmistakable signs of relief. “Ah, here you are, Inspector. I’m very glad to see you—Superintendent Bell told me you’d be coming along. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you, sir.” James was agreeably surprised by this co-operative reception. Taking in his surroundings at a glance, he noticed a collection of miscellaneous shining new objects piled unceremoniously together on a table. The wedding presents, no doubt!

  “This is a bad business, Mr. Appleby,” he said with formal sympathy.

  “Appalling,” said Thomas. “Absolutely appalling.” He stood with his back to the fireplace, clasping the lapels of his jacket. His manner betrayed no uneasiness—policemen had no terrors for him—but he looked as though there were something he wanted to get off his chest.

  “Inspector,” he began, “before you get started on this investigation there’s something I must tell you. It may, of course, have no bearing on Neville Hutton’s death—though I’m very much of the opinion that it must have had. You know, I expect, that my niece Barbara Rutherford was to have married Hutton next week?”

  James indicated that he knew.

  “Well, last Friday morning something quite extraordinary occurred. A woman called here …”

  For the third time, Thomas recounted the story of Wanda Thornton’s eruption into the Appleby household. James listened in deeply interested silence. It was quite usual for a murder to have a complex emotional background, and for the discovery of a corpse to be followed by what the newspapers called “startling revelations.” All the same, he had hardly expected to encounter quite such explosive material in these unlikely surroundings, and at the very outset of the case.

  “I’m not, of course, making any accusations against Mrs. Thornton,” Thomas concluded hesitantly. “Don’t think that for a moment—I felt extremely sorry for her. I’m simply drawing your attention to a very peculiar situation which obviously needs investigation. The fact is that before Mrs. Thornton came on the scene we were a happy, normal household, and that a few hours after her visit the man she had accused of deceiving and deserting her was found murdered.”

  James made a noncommittal sound. Thomas, of course, wanted to exculpate the family right from the start, that was obvious. Even so, the coincidence was striking. All the more striking, perhaps, in view of that footprint in the churchyard. He studied his notes. “You say it was Mrs. Thornton’s intention to come down again and see Hutton?”

  “That’s what I understood.”

  “You don’t know whether she did or not?”

  “I know nothing about her movements at all. I tried to reach her on the telephone yesterday afternoon and again in the early evening, but there was no reply. I would have rung her again today, but after what has happened I thought I had better leave it to you.”

  “Quite so,” agreed James. “Tell me, Mr. Appleby, how big a woman is Mrs. Thornton?”

  “Oh, not big at all,” said Thomas, in some surprise. “Medium height, I should say, and rather on the slender side.”

  “H’m.” James was thinking, not for the first time, that getting Hutton’s body to the grave would have been no light undertaking. However, it was always possible that the murderer had had assistance. “Well,” he said, “there’s no doubt I must have a talk with Mrs. Thornton right away. Have you her address?”

  “It’s Clinton Mews, S.W. 3. Her telephone number is Flaxman 08775. Or you may get her at the Courier office.”

  “I’ll ask the Yard to make some inquiries,” James said, “if I may use your phone.”

  “Certainly—it’s in the hall.”

  In a few minutes the inspector was back. “Well, Mr. Appleby,” he said, resuming his seat, “this story of Mrs. Thornton’s must have been a great shock to you all. What did you feel about it? How did your niece take it?”

  Thomas frowned. The family’s reaction to the bombshell had nothing to do with the murder, as far as he could see. At the same time, it was too much to expect James not to be interested. Grudgingly he outlined his own attitude and told of the family council on the Saturday afternoon.

  James showed surprise on hearing of Barbara’s intransigence. “She must be an unusually determined young woman,” he said.

  “Headstrong, Inspector, extremely headstrong. Her attitude was absurd, of course. I myself was deeply disturbed at the news. After all, the possibility had to be faced that we had made a very grave mistake, and that Hutton was simply an adventurer who was prepared to commit bigamy for the sake of Barbara’s fortune. I was so seriously concerned that I went at once to see
my solicitor.”

  “I can understand your anxiety, Mr. Appleby. Well, it shouldn’t be long before we get at the truth. We shall obviously have to go very carefully into Hutton’s record.” James let a moment’s silence pay tribute to the shattering possibilities in Thomas’s mind. “Apart from this business of Mrs. Thornton,” he went on, “can you think of any reason why anyone might have wanted to kill Hutton?”

  “If he was the type of man Mrs. Thornton alleged, he must have had many enemies.”

  “That is so, of course. I was thinking rather of this immediate neighborhood. Can I take it there were no local quarrels? You don’t know of anyone around here who might have had a grudge against him?”

  “No, I can’t think of anyone.”

  “No jealous rivals?”

  Thomas gave the inspector a sharp glance. “Not violent ones, I’m sure.”

  “But there was a rival?”

  Thomas waved a plump, well-kept hand. “There’s a young fellow named Dennis Gwynn who used to be rather fond of Barbara, but you’ll be wasting your time if you put him on your list of suspects. We know him well—I can assure you there’s no possibility whatever.”

  “I shall bear your testimonial in mind,” said James with proper gravity. “But you do realize, I’m sure, that in a case like this all possibilities must be looked into. Where can I find this young man?”

  “He lives at Gunter’s Lodge, just beyond the village,” said Thomas in a reluctant tone. “You’ll find I’m right, though—he’ll have had nothing to do with this.”

  James was making a note in his little book. “And now, sir, may I see the other members of the family?”

  Thomas looked still more gloomy. “Is that absolutely necessary, Inspector? This has all had a crushing effect on my niece, as you may imagine, and my sister is far from being herself.”

  “I’m afraid it is necessary,” said James. “I’ll be as brief as possible.”

  “Very well.” Thomas stopped at the door. “You won’t want to see my grandfather, I hope? He’s in bed—all this excitement has been too much for him.”

  The inspector smiled. “I don’t think I’ll need to trouble him at this stage.”

  Thomas went off, and James sat fidgeting with his notes. He always felt a premonitory excitement before the first interviews with the bereaved. There was so much to be learned in these initial stages; there were so many subtle ways in which people might give information away, whether their grief was real or assumed.

  Barbara came into the room first. Her face had a ghastly pallor, and in the dark eyes that met the inspector’s for a brief moment there was such an expression of suffering that pity almost overcame his professional instincts. He thought he had never seen such anguish in a face. By comparison, her aunt’s red-rimmed eyes seemed commonplace and without dignity.

  He cleared his throat. “I hope you’ll forgive me for troubling you this morning,” he said gently. “I realize how painful it must be for you to be questioned so soon after the tragedy, and I’ll try not to keep you longer than is absolutely necessary.” He turned to Barbara. “Miss Rutherford, I’m told that you were the last person here to see Mr. Hutton alive. Would you mind telling me exactly when and where that was?”

  “It was about half-past six yesterday evening,” said Barbara in a controlled, toneless voice. “There had been a family discussion about our affairs, and we went to the elm grove to talk about them privately. That was where I last saw him.”

  James went to the window and looked out. He could see the clump of ancient elms between the lawn and the road, and a path that wound among them toward the bus stop.

  “There’s a rustic seat,” Barbara added. “We were sitting on the grass beside it.”

  “I can see it,” James said. “Thank you. I just wanted to get the exact spot clear in my mind. Are you sure about the time?”

  “Yes, because Gertie—that’s the maid—had just gone along the path to catch the half-past six bus into Judiford.”

  James nodded approvingly. “And you understood that Mr. Hutton was going straight to his cottage when he left you?”

  “That’s what he said. He certainly started off in that direction, because I saw him beginning to cross the fields.”

  “He was carrying a gun, I believe?”

  “Yes,” said Barbara in the same toneless voice. “It was one he borrowed from William about a month ago. He liked shooting, and he often had it with him.”

  “Do you happen to know what kind of gun it was?”

  “It was a double-barreled twelve bore,” she said. She mentioned a well-known make.

  “That’s very helpful,” said James. He gave her an encouraging smile. “You evidently know a good deal about guns.”

  She shrugged. “Most people do, who live in the country.”

  “I suppose so. Was the gun loaded, do you know?”

  “I should think it probably was. Neville usually kept it loaded when he was carrying it. He—he wasn’t very careful with guns. I often told him about it.”

  “I see.” James paused a moment as though wondering how to frame the next question. “Miss Rutherford, I’ve heard all about Mrs. Thornton’s visit and the family discussion afterward. I don’t think we need go into any of that now, but there’s just one question I should like to ask you. When you and Mr. Hutton parted, had you reached any decision about what you intended to do?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “We should have been married next week.”

  James caught Thomas’s eye and passed on quickly. “Now there are one or two quite small points that you can possibly help me with. Do you remember how Mr. Hutton was dressed yesterday evening?”

  “He was wearing a brown tweed suit.”

  “Oh.” James turned that over in his mind. The corpse had been dressed in a brown tweed suit, too, so Hutton had evidently not done any changing between leaving the cottage and his death. “Do you know anything about a pair of soaking wet flannel trousers that are hanging in his wardrobe?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” She looked surprised. “Does it matter?”

  “Perhaps not. I only ask you these things because—well, they’re domestic details that you might have known about. There was also a wet shirt with his soiled linen, and there seemed to be bloodstains on the sleeves. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I’m sorry—I don’t.”

  “Ah, well, we’ll leave it for the time being. Do you happen to know when the handrail over the bridge at the cottage was broken?”

  “Is it broken? It wasn’t when I saw it the day before yesterday.”

  “I see. Well, I think that’s about all, then. Oh, except for one other thing. What were the cleaning arrangements at the cottage, do you know?”

  “The sexton’s wife—Mrs. Pepper—cleaned it twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday mornings.”

  James nodded. “And now,” he said, looking at the others, “there are one or two questions that I should like to put to all of you, and then I’ve finished. Whoever was responsible for this horrible crime presumably brought the body to the churchyard after dark last night. It was a stormy, windy night, I know, but I wondered if any of you heard any unusual or suspicious sounds last night—anything at all?” He looked from Thomas to Marion, from Marion to Barbara. One after the other, they shook their heads.

  “Nothing? Right. Now, if you please, I should like to know your various movements last night—just a formality, of course. What about you, Miss Rutherford?”

  “I didn’t do anything much,” she said. “I went to bed early. It had been a horrible day and I felt absolutely exhausted. When I came in, after Neville had gone, I had a hot bath and went to bed with a book. Later on I took some aspirins. I must have been asleep by about nine. I suppose that’s why I heard nothing.”

  “And you, Miss Appleby?”

  “I didn’t go out, either. I had a lot to do as it was Gertie’s evening off, and I went to bed myself at about ten.”

&
nbsp; “What about you, sir?”

  Thomas was looking annoyed. He saw no necessity for this inquisition. “I have already told you, Inspector,” he said with dignity, “that I had occasion to go into Judiford in the late afternoon. I got back at about half-past six, changed, and returned to Judiford to attend a dinner at the Conservative Club. I came home at about eleven and went straight to bed.”

  “Thank you,” said James. “Then I think I needn’t keep you any longer.” He stood up politely as the two women left the room, his trained eyes taking them in—Barbara, slender and undeniably attractive, in well-cut clothes, and her aunt in what she would no doubt have called sensible tweeds, with sturdy brogue shoes.

  “Well, Inspector,” said Thomas in a more friendly tone, as though wishing to make up for his moment of bad temper, “I trust you’ll keep in touch with us.”

  James gave him a quick glance. “I think I can promise to do that, sir,” he said dryly.

  Thomas missed the inflection. “In a sense, of course,” he said, “Hutton’s death may not have been an unmixed evil, but whatever he may have done, people can’t be allowed their private revenges. I can assure you we shan’t rest until we know who is responsible.”

  “I hope,” said James gravely, “that you’ll be able to rest when you do.”

  Chapter Eight

  He decided, on leaving the house, to take a look at the grove of trees where Barbara Rutherford and her fiancé had had their last conversation. He had just stopped opposite the rustic seat, which was set back a few yards from the path and was partly concealed from it by rhododendron bushes, when he noticed someone approaching from the road. The visitor was a solidly built young man with a striking head of fair hair. He was walking moodily with his eyes on the ground and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and it was not until he drew abreast that he became aware of James’s presence. Then he stopped. He had a square, resolute face, pleasantly tanned. Acting on intuition, James gave him a friendly nod and said, “Excuse me, but are you by any chance Dennis Gwynn?”