A Grave Case of Murder

by Roger Bax

  “Had he anything in his hands, did you notice?”

  The blacksmith tugged thoughtfully at one ear. “Now that’s whully hard to say—’twore all past so quick. He might ’a’ hed summat small, a parcel mebbe, under his arm, but I couldn’t tell ye for sartin. I dedn’t see nawthin’, an’ that’s a fact.”

  “He wasn’t holding a gun?”

  The blacksmith’s face cleared. “No, he hadn’t got no gun, that I will swear.”

  “Well, it was good of you to call, Mr. Flower—you’ve shown a very proper spirit. The sergeant will just read over what you’ve told us and then if you agree that it’s correct perhaps you’ll sign it?”

  Mr. Flower listened solemnly while Maddox read out the statement, and at the end gave a satisfied nod and appended his signature. “I allus say ye got to help the p’lice,” he said. “Don’t, they ’on’t help you.” He touched his forehead and stumped out.

  There was a glint in the inspector’s eyes. “Things seem to be hotting up, Sergeant. Will you get on to the bus people and find out what time that bus arrived at the church? You might be able to get a line on some of the other passengers, too. I’ll go over and see Gwynn.”

  He left Maddox at the telephone and crossed the square. This time he was shown straight into the junior partner’s office.

  Gwynn seemed surprised to see him. “Hello, Inspector,” he said in no very cordial tone. “What is it this time?” Rather grudgingly, he waved his visitor to the clients’ chair. “I’ve already told you all I know—there’s absolutely nothing I can add.” His features had a taut, wary expression.

  James sank into the soft upholstery with a sigh of pleasure. “Very comfortable,” he said. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Go ahead,” said Gwynn irritably.

  The inspector drew noisily on his pipe and proceeded to fill it with provoking deliberation. With each moment that passed, the tension grew. Gwynn, watching the unhurried ritual, tattooed nervously on the desk with the end of his pencil. Finally he couldn’t control his impatience any longer. “For heaven’s sake, Inspector, if you’ve got anything to say, get it over.”

  James looked at him, one eyebrow slightly raised as he applied a match to his pipe. “You seem very much on edge, young fellow. Is there something on your mind?”

  “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Very well, I’ll come to the point.” The inspector puffed out a cloud of smoke and sat back contentedly. “Last time we talked, Mr. Gwynn—or was it the time before?—you told me that when you were in the church tower on Saturday evening you heard nothing of the conversation between Miss Rutherford and Neville Hutton.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “In spite of the fact that they were having a violent quarrel at the time?”

  Gwynn sat motionless, his face impassive as a statue’s. “Who said they were having a quarrel?”

  “A very reliable witness.”

  Gwynn clearly didn’t know whether to believe the inspector or not. “Well, it’s possible, I suppose. I heard nothing of it.”

  “No? Mr. Gwynn, I’ve made some experiments myself in the church tower. I’m completely satisfied that if your hearing is normal you must have heard a great deal of what was said by Miss Rutherford and Hutton. I assure you that you could never convince any jury of the contrary—not a jury that could climb a church tower.” His tone took on a sharper edge. “Come, haven’t we had enough of this foolishness? I know you’re lying. The maid Gertie testifies to the quarrel, and Miss Rutherford herself admits it. What good do you think you’re doing?”

  There was a long pause. Gwynn stared out of the window, frowning. He had a fine rugged profile. “All right,” he said at last, “have it your own way. I was lying. I did hear them quarreling.”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “Because I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, of course. Because you were suspicious enough already without my help.”

  “Of Miss Rutherford, do you mean?”

  “Naturally. She was the last person with Hutton, wasn’t she? If I’d told you that I’d heard them quarreling you’d have been bound to jump to wrong conclusions.”

  “They might not have been wrong. What did you gather the quarrel was about?”

  “If you’ve talked to Barbara, you must know. It was all about a Mrs. Thornton. Do you want me to go into details?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I just like to tidy up as I go along. Well, now, as they were quarreling—violently—you no doubt went to the window of the belfry and looked out. That would be the natural thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s what I did,” said Gwynn uncomfortably. It was frightening, he thought, how one admission led to another.

  “What did you see? I want the truth.”

  “The first time I looked—that was just after I first heard them—they were sitting on the ground. I didn’t stay and watch them—I got on with the job, though I could still hear them. When I’d finished I looked again, and they had just come out on to the path …”

  “Wait a moment. Who had the gun?”

  “I—I suppose Hutton had it. I didn’t really notice.”

  James snorted. “Go on.”

  “Well, directly they reached the path Barbara walked away very fast as though she were still angry and I saw her go into the house. Hutton crossed the churchyard, climbed the stile, and began to cross the fields, as I told you. I followed him up a few minutes later and—again, as I told you—I didn’t see anything more of him. And that’s all.”

  “Not quite, Mr. Gwynn.” James’s voice was as smooth as silk. “I wonder if you’d care to tell me why you were standing beside the grave just after half-past six?”

  For a moment the room was so quiet that it was possible to hear the senior partner talking on the other side of the passage. Then Gwynn said, “I didn’t go near the grave.”

  James gave a slow regretful headshake. “You surely don’t think that I’d invent an allegation of that sort? Do you know the blacksmith—Mr. Flower? He happened to be passing the churchyard at that time, on the top of a bus. He saw a man standing by the grave—a man with very fair hair. He’s almost certain that it was you, and you admit that you were in the vicinity at the time. Well, do you still deny that you were the man? Think very carefully, Mr. Gwynn. You are in quite enough trouble as it is.”

  The architect was no longer impassive. “Well, what if I was there?—it doesn’t mean anything. I just thought I’d have a look at the grave on my way out of the churchyard. I—you see, I knew old Mr. Peckitt.”

  “Very touching! So you simply wanted to pay your respects at the last resting place of an old man! By the way, was there anything in the grave?”

  “Nothing,” said Gwynn hoarsely.

  “There wasn’t a body there?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Nothing at the bottom of the grave at all?” James persisted. “A pair of step ladders, for instance, or a spade, or an old jacket—or something that someone might have lost, like a watch or a handbag? Nothing?”

  Gwynn hesitated. He felt a chasm yawning at his feet. “I saw nothing,” he said.

  “Very interesting!” The inspector sat back with a look of the utmost satisfaction. “Oh dear, oh dear, Mr. Gwynn, what deep waters you’re getting yourself into and what a great deal of trouble you’re giving me! As it happens, we know there was a watch lying in the grave at six-thirty on Saturday. You were bending down and looking in. If you didn’t see it I can think of only two possible explanations. Either you had just pushed Hutton into the grave and so didn’t have a chance to see it; or someone else—someone you’re trying to protect—had already shot Hutton, and the body was covering the watch when you got there. In either event, it was his body you were looking at.”

  “That’s absolute rot.”

  “Let us dwell for a moment on the two alternatives,” said James calmly. “Let us suppose first that you are trying to protect Miss Rutherford. There is,
of course, a strong case against her. She had an adequate motive—hatred. She had the opportunity—she was seen with Hutton just before the shooting, and as far as we know she was the only person who was seen with him. An independent witness—evidently a more observant person than you, Mr. Gwynn!—saw her with the gun in her hand at about half-past six. She knew it was loaded, and she knew how to use it. Right. Now you are in love with her—very deeply in love. In your rather clumsy way I think you’re proving that. You heard and saw her quarreling with Hutton. I suggest that you saw them walk down through the churchyard, still quarreling, and that your story of Hutton beginning to cross the fields alone is a fabrication. As they came level with the grave she gave him a push, and before he could struggle out she shot him. She left the scene at once and went up to the house. You rushed down to the grave—naturally—to see what had happened to Hutton, and it was then that you were observed by Mr. Flower. Appalled, you went home to think things over. You decided to lie your way through everything to save her. You would give her an alibi—you had seen her go straight back to the house. You would strengthen it—you had actually seen Hutton starting for home. You wouldn’t mention the quarrel unless you had to. Above all, you would get your evidence in early. When you came to the Farm next day your object wasn’t to see the family at all: it was to see the police and volunteer the information that you were in the church tower at six-thirty in case we should ever discover that that was the time of the murder. That’s why you didn’t bother to go on to the house after you’d met me. Well, Mr. Gwynn, isn’t that about the size of it?”

  “No,” said Gwynn. “It’s a farrago of nonsense.”

  James seemed to be weighing him up. “If you had seen Miss Rutherford shoot Hutton,” he said, “would you have told me?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a relief to have even an occasional burst of frankness,” James remarked. “Very well, now let us consider the second alternative. You, Mr. Gwynn, had one of the strongest and oldest of motives—you wanted to marry the girl. You’ve always disliked Hutton, but previously you’d been restrained by the knowledge that Miss Rutherford was devoted to him. On Saturday you heard the two of them quarreling, and you heard enough of what was said to be able to piece together the sordid story of Hutton’s relationship with Mrs. Thornton. You realized that he was an out-and-out scoundrel and you determined to remove any possibility that Miss Rutherford might be persuaded to marry him after all. You watched him leave her, you intercepted him in the churchyard, snatched the gun, pushed him into the grave and shot him. You were seen by the blacksmith at the moment when you were bending over to make sure that Hutton was dead. You told me that you were up in the church tower because you thought that in any case I might find out, and you hoped that your voluntary statement would disarm me. Well?”

  “Did the blacksmith say that I had a gun when he saw me?”

  “No—as a matter of fact he said you hadn’t. You could have dropped it, though.”

  “I didn’t shoot Hutton,” said Gwynn.

  “Then you know who did. You saw it happen.”

  “No.”

  James got up. “The penalty for being an accessory after the fact of murder is heavy.”

  “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  James looked at the young man for a long moment, as though debating what to do. Then he shrugged. “There’s a great deal of wrongheadedness in this case, I’m afraid.” He moved toward the door.

  Gwynn gazed after him in astonishment. “You’re—you’re not going to arrest me?”

  “What do you want—a martyr’s crown?” A grim smile hovered for a moment round the inspector’s mouth. “Patience, Mr. Gwynn, patience! If I arrested everyone who’d lied to me in this case, the whole countryside would be depopulated. Don’t worry—we shall meet again.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Maddox was still busy with his bus inquiries when James returned to the office. On learning that Gwynn had confirmed the blacksmith’s statements, he abandoned operations and listened with close attention to the inspector’s account of the conversation.

  “Well, we seem to be getting somewhere at last,” the sergeant said finally. “There’s a hell of a case against both Gwynn and the girl.”

  “That’s just the trouble,” said James. “How happy could I be with either … !” He leaned back and stuck his feet on the table. The moment seemed to have come for a general review of the suspects. “As you say, there’s a strong case against both of them, but there’s a case for both of them as well. Take Barbara Rutherford. We may have our doubts about some of her statements, but there’s not a shred of positive evidence that she didn’t go straight back to the house as she said. It’s a point against her that she concealed the fact of her quarrel, but she did offer a reasonable explanation of her concealment. We haven’t really cracked her story anywhere. And think of the unlikelihood of her doing it. We know she’s a hasty, quick-tempered girl who might act on impulse, and I don’t doubt she was furiously angry, but as far as we know she had no positive proof at half-past six on Saturday that Hutton was a villain—she was only just beginning to suspect it. Is it really conceivable that in those circumstances, however angry she was, she would have shot her lover twice—that is, with absolute determination to finish him off? She was passionately devoted to him, remember—is it credible that mere suspicion would have caused such a complete revulsion of feeling that she’d have butchered him like that—and without, as far as one can see, a spark of remorse afterward? Even if she’d been angry enough to do it at the time, I should have expected a quick collapse afterward. I just can’t see it, Maddox.”

  “You don’t mean you’re writing her off, Chief?” Maddox sounded anxious.

  “No, because there were equally troublesome obstacles when we come to the others. Look at Gwynn, now. A strong case, certainly, but he might have had an innocent reason for going to the grave, he might have overlooked the watch at the bottom—after all, Fred Pepper did—and it is true that he wasn’t holding a gun. There’s another little point that worries me—that statement that Hutton had already set off across the fields. I can understand that Gwynn might have invented a yarn like that to protect Barbara Rutherford, but she confirms it—why? To protect herself, certainly, if she’s a murderess, but she’d hardly want to protect Gwynn if he’d shot her lover. See what I mean? But again, the chief snag is psychological. Gwynn may have been pretty savage when he overheard that quarrel and realized what a swine Hutton was, but is it likely that he’d go and shoot his rival just at the very moment when Barbara Rutherford had had a serious quarrel with the fellow and there was a possibility of a final break between them which would give Gwynn his chance? From his point of view it would have been absolutely crazy. Time was on his side—all he had to do was wait.”

  “You’re pretty good at knocking down your own coconuts,” said Maddox.

  “I haven’t finished yet,” said James. “Take Marion Appleby next. She had a good motive. For years she’s been like a mother to Barbara and she’d naturally want to shield her from a man like Hutton. With the girl bent on marriage, shooting him might have been the only way out she could think of—after all, she didn’t know anything about their quarrel—she thought they were planning their wedding when they were in the elm grove together. At the material time she was supposed to be in the kitchen, but there’s not much evidence on the point. She might have heard Barbara come in and gone straight out after Hutton—maybe even called him back. Since the murder she’s certainly behaved in a very guilty manner. No one will ever persuade me that she wasn’t going to get that gun last night. Of course, Barbara may have told her something—she may have been going to get the gun to save the girl—but it’s equally possible it was her own neck she was thinking of. But now look at the other side of the ledger. As far as we’ve been able to discover, she’s the one person around here who has never fired a shotgun in her life. Women very rarely kill with firearms unless they’re used to them. In an
y case, she’d have had the devil of a job to wrest the gun from Hutton and push him into the grave. Apart from all that, would a woman like Marion Appleby have committed a crime of this sort for the kind of motive we’re thinking of? Is it really conceivable, however much trouble the girl seemed to be getting into, that Marion would go out and deliberately murder her lover on the eve of her wedding? Would any woman do that—out of kindness? Would any woman believe that that was a sensible way of dealing with a complex emotional situation?”

  Maddox had no comment.

  “Well, now let’s consider Thomas Appleby,” James went on. “He also had the opportunity—he could have gone after Hutton directly he’d parked his car, and nobody’s in a position to say he didn’t except perhaps Gwynn, who won’t talk. Thomas had a similar motive to Marion’s, and in his case it was reinforced as a result of his visit to the lawyer. He’s quite a tough egg in his way, in spite of what the old man says about him. He knows how to use a gun, even though he may be a bit out of practice. He might have had the strength and speed to wrest the gun away from Hutton and shove him into the grave. But when you’ve said that, you’ve said everything. There’s no positive evidence against him, and he is the only one of the bunch who has behaved in a thoroughly straightforward manner since the murder. Besides, is Thomas Appleby, with his experience and common sense, the sort of chap to commit a murder in daylight in front of a houseful of people and a public road? Isn’t he a cautious, conventional, law-abiding type who’d always play for safety? Does a man who goes off to take legal advice in the afternoon, plug his victim in the evening? It doesn’t sound likely to me.”

  “You rocked that coconut, sir, but I don’t think you knocked it off.”

  “Perhaps not. Well, then, we come to the old man. It may seem fantastic even to mention him, but this case is pretty odd and we’ve got to be thorough. He had the same motive as the rest of them. He’s a lively old cuss and he still seems to have strong feelings. He dotes on his great-granddaughter, and he obviously detested Hutton. According to him, he was in his room at the material time and he might have been, but he’s spry for his age and nobody seems very certain about his movements. It’s always people like him who get overlooked. He knows how to use a gun, and at his age he might well need two shots to get a bull. There it is, anyway—in theory there’s a sort of case against him. Not much to lose at his time of life, either. But—well, the objections are obvious. He may have a strong will, but physically he’s a pretty feeble old man. It’s absolutely out of the question that he could have wrested the gun from Hutton or given him the sort of shove necessary to get him into the grave.”