Murder of a Snob

by Roy Vickers

  “Perhaps we are not talking about the same lady,” he said.

  “So already there are others! The boy is a fool!” exclaimed Tarranio. “And he calls them all ‘Mrs. Fenchurch,’ for insult. The lady, before her unfortunate marriage to him, is called Miss Lofting. ‘Miss Claudia’ they called her, because that is an Italian name also and is easy for the tongue. Fabroli, for instance, would find himself unable to say ‘Lofting.’”

  “I don’t imagine Fenchurch is a faithful sort of man.” Crisp had risen and was offering his hand. Tarranio grasped it and in his agitation kept hold of it.

  “Even the mayor, who was also a friend of Arthur Fenchurch, says to her, before he put on his robe of office, that marriage with such a man is a hazardous matter.”

  “The mayor!” echoed Crisp.

  “Assuredly! In Italy, if one is not of the Holy Church, it is the mayor only who performs the marriage. Myself, I heard him give the warning, which, alas, Miss Claudia did not heed! I am a witness of the ceremony. My neighbour, Fabroli, also. Arthur Fenchurch asked him because he owed Fabroli money and wished to flatter him. But me he did not ask because of what-is-in-sterling only forty-two pounds.”

  Absently, Crisp reclaimed his hand.

  “Was there a legal marriage ceremony?” he asked.

  “Do I not say so, Colonel! On the certificate is the name of the mayor and that of myself and, unavoidably, that of my neighbour Fabroli also. Did I not myself kiss the bride in the English fashion, with sadness, and upon the cheek only. But Fabroli, who cannot speak English—”

  “When did this marriage take place?” asked Crisp.

  “On the second day of May last year. Is it in your mind, Colonel Crisp, that I delude myself?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Tarranio., But I must have that certificate. If I cable the mayor—”

  “He has retired. It would be a pleasure to cable for you to the proper quarter and send you the certificate, because I am angry. If Arthur Fenchurch has treated such a wife with insult, that is again the end of our friendship.”

  Benscombe was delayed for handshaking, then followed his Chief down the stairs.

  “I say, sir! We’ve got something there, haven’t we?”

  “Yes.” Crisp was gloomy. “But I can’t see yet how to make use of it.”

  “Legally married!” enthused Benscombe. “Claudia to marry Ralph, pop him in the asylum, administer the million and share the loot with secret husband Fenchurch!”

  “Fine!” said Crisp. “Except for Watlington’s blotting pad! Why did Fenchurch give him the name of those two witnesses?”

  The silence lasted until they were within a few minutes of headquarters.

  “When you’re sitting in that studio, confine research to his movements on Saturday afternoon.” Presently Crisp added: “That confession flops on us like a wet blanket. The D.P.P. will take no notice until we have followed up the marriage certificate with proof of some act on the spot. Whatever Claudia and Fenchurch were planning to do— unless we can prove that one of ’em was in that library around five thirty, we can’t upset the confession.”

  Three days later, Crisp received a copy of the certificate of marriage between Arthur Fenchurch and Claudia Lofting.

  By the same post came a private letter from the Director of Public Prosecutions, who was a personal friend.

  ‘My dear Crisp,

  By this post you will receive an official intimation that your recommendation that Ralph Cornboise be medically examined will not be implemented.

  In view of your letter to me, in which you revealed anxiety, I will give you the reasons.

  Accepting the (apparently rather provisional) opinion of Sir Wm. Turvey that accused suffers an hallucination, the latter is, on your own showing, a post factum hallucination. It came into existence after the crime had been committed and is therefore irrelevant to the state of mind of the accused at the moment of committing the crime. This disposes of the possibility of a verdict of guilty but insane, should the accused withdraw the plea of guilty.

  The only line upon which the (assumed) hallucination can become relevant is the following, viz: Does the hallucination render the accused incapable of understanding the nature of the charge against him and the nature of his confession? If the answer is ‘yes’ he could be so certified and would then be declared ‘unfit to plead.’

  But it is so obvious that the answer would be ‘no’ that the Department would have no justification for ordering an examination at the public expense.

  As you are aware, the governor of the prison has the duty to order medical examination if he has reason to suspect the sanity of a prisoner.

  I will pass to the points of evidence which seem to have raised doubt in your own mind as to the guilt of the accused. The mis-statement as to the time at which he says he committed the murder was subsequently corrected by the accused himself and can therefore be ignored. The other points, viz: the absence of accused’s finger prints on the die-stamp and the mis-statement that he struck through the wig seem to me nugatory. Substantially truthful confessions often contain such inaccuracies of detail. Your own point that he could not have left the library by the window about five thirty without being observed by Mrs. Cornboise and that he could not have left by the door—as that was found locked on the inside —is answered by an item in your report which describes how you turned the key with a pair of pliers. The accused could have turned the key in the opposite direction by the same means and has not denied having done so.

  True that in the hands of a brilliant counsel, able to play on the superstitious fears of the jury, these points might conceivably procure an acquittal. But, of course, unless the accused withdraws the confession and pleads not guilty this possibility will not arise.

  As prosecuting counsel is required to ‘act in a semi-judicial capacity’ he may decide to put these two points to the judge. But I must admit that it will be pro forma only. Faced with a plea of guilty, the judge would have no power to take cognisance.

  In general, the only counter to a plea of guilty is the production by the police or other agency of an incontrovertible alibi, which might take the form of a very strong prima facie case against another person not associated with the accused.’

  “That shows us where we get off, Benscombe,” said Crisp. “Note that bit about public expense. It’s very doubtful whether I have the right to give any further orders in the case.”

  “Try calling for volunteers, sir, and see what happens. I’m volunteering to do a spot of work on that lock. Fenchurch blew off a long-winded yarn yesterday, the burden of which is that he has quarrelled with the lock people.” Crisp nodded approval and returned his attention to the letter.

  “I don’t fancy myself on principles of law. But there’s the principle that a jury is entitled to draw inferences from the demeanour of a witness or a prisoner. From Ralph’s demeanour when he was telling me how he struck with the die-stamp and the effect of the blow on the wig, I drew the inference that he was describing something he was seeing in his mind’s eye. Something which did not happen, but which nevertheless he was convinced did happen. And there are other, smaller points. That’s why I’m ready to accept the hallucination theory. The D.P.P., of course, is bound by the rules of evidence. And there we are!”

  He got up.

  “I’m going to the prison with this certificate. I’ll get the governor to let me see Cornboise. If he’s still chivalrously inclined towards Claudia—this may change his mind about pleading guilty.”

  The governor disliked a plea of guilty as much as the police, and was anxious to give every assistance. Ralph was brought to his private office. The escort was instructed to wait in the corridor.

  Ralph’s appearance had undergone perceptible change. The nervous restlessness had vanished. He had gained poise and the outward signs of serenity. His eyes were steady, his lips set in a half smile. His calm, thought Crisp, might be the false calm of the higher hysteric, but he certainly looked amenable.


  “We can relax the formalities, Cornboise,” said the Governor. “The Chief Constable has brought something for you.”

  “This will do my talking for me,” said Crisp. He unfolded the certificate and offered it.

  Ralph took the certificate and read it. The half smile did not falter as he folded it and returned it to Crisp.

  “Thank you, Chief Constable.” Ralph glanced at the Governor as if to suggest that the interview was over.

  “Did you read it?” cried Crisp. “Did you realise that it’s a certificate of marriage between Fenchurch and Miss Lofting?”

  “Of course!” Ralph’s calm was unshaken. “I hope it will not get into the papers. It would involve them in scandal. People would remember that she was engaged to me.”

  “Does it mean nothing to you? Did you know she was married?” demanded Crisp.

  “I think I told you that Miss Lofting had been wholly frank with me about Fenchurch, and so had he,” answered Ralph with the first hint of impatience. “I did not inquire into the material conditions of their association. If they went through a form of marriage, and if it was a legal marriage, I have no doubt that Miss Lofting made the necessary arrangements for the divorce. She would not cheat me—in that way.”

  “Divorce could not take effect for another couple of years,” snapped Crisp. “She meant to marry you three weeks ago.”

  “It hardly matters now,” answered Ralph. The patient half smile returned—the same expression of saintly resignation which Crisp had seen more than once on the faces, of men serving a life sentence. “You were very forbearing with me, Colonel, before I came to terms with myself. I hope you will add to your kindness now by leaving me alone. I have everything settled in my mind in preparation for what is before me. It is not helpful to be disturbed.” He turned to the Governor. “May I go now, sir?”

  Crestfallen, the Chief Constable returned to H.Q. He had barely recorded the prison interview in his official diary when Benscombe turned up, ushering into the room a man whose appearance suggested an unskilled labourer.

  “This is Albert Jenkins, sir, who has something to tell us. He is employed at the lock, mainly in keeping the sluices clear of obstruction. A few minutes ago he identified—Mr. Tarranio’s English friend—as a person he knows by sight but not by name.”

  Crisp gave Jenkins a chair and a cigarette.

  “I say, Jenkins,” said Benscombe, “ will you tell the Chief Constable your little tale. Don’t bother to put it into posh language. Talk as if you were talking to me.”

  “Righto! It’s like this, sir. This gent here asked me to go along with him and dodge round a pillar-box while the other gent come out of his flat. I reckernised him as a gent I’d had trouble with, because he likes to walk along the platform over the sluices, which isn’t allowed. He never gave no trouble, except that he’d come back again. All he ever did was look at the water. Seemed a bit loopy to me, the way he talked. That’s all, sir.”

  “There’s a bit more, Jenkins,” chirped Benscombe. “When did you last see this gent before you saw him this afternoon?”

  “In the afternoon last Saturday week, day o’ the murder. Saw him standin’ on the landin’ steps jest below the lock. I was up on the sluices, clear in’ up the better part of a sack of straw that had drifted down. When I was taking a breather, I looked round and saw the gent. That’s how it was, sir.”

  “What was he doing on the steps, Jenkins?”

  “Makin’ a sort o’ bonfire, to amuse some kids. He’d light some paper and wave it about until it burnt his fingers and then drop it in the river. Like a kid himself.”

  “Could you see what sort of paper it was that he was burning?” asked Crisp.

  “No, sir. The steps must be close on a hundred yards from where I was muckin’ up that straw.”

  “Had he got a bundle of newspapers under his arm?”

  “No, sir. It was small bits o’ paper—took the bits o’ paper out of his pocket. Lit each bit with a match.”

  “What time in the afternoon was this?”

  “Must’ve been close on six o’clock, which is my knock-in’ off time. After I’d finished my breather, I took my time over packin’ that straw in the basket. When I got back and was dumping it in the bin the lockkeeper says: ‘You must be feelin’ unwell,’ he says. ‘You’ve done nigh on five minutes’ overtime by mistake,’ he says.”

  “Good work, Benscombe!” said Crisp when Jenkins had gone.

  “Thank you, sir! But is it any good?”

  “In the face of that confession, I don’t know that anything is any good unless it turns the whole layout upside down,” grumbled Crisp. “As that confounded artist told me to my face, the judge won’t take any notice of that sort of thing.”

  “If there had not been a confession,” persisted Benscombe, “there’d be more now against Fenchurch than against Cornboise.”

  “Hardly! All we’ve got is that Fenchurch was with Watlington at some time during the afternoon, and that he obtained his letters and destroyed them. Where do we go from there?”

  “Destroyed ’em about six o’clock. It’s some five minutes walk to the river from Watlington Lodge. Add that brown paper—which was wrapped round a parcel in the hall as late as nearly five fifteen—”

  “Huh! You’re roping in a clue as evidence, in spite of my little homily. Besides, I don’t like that brown paper any more than Fenchurch does.”

  Crisp went to a cabinet and produced it.

  “And what the devil was in the parcel? You’d think that anybody who had sent Watlington a registered parcel would be personally, interested enough to read the Press stuff about the murder. All the papers emphasised that we wanted to get in touch with the sender.” He turned the paper over and contemplated the typewritten address. “Not even handwriting to help us!”

  He added: “All the same, I’m glad you dragged it up again. If the worst comes to the worst, I’m going to spring that brown paper on Querk and see what happens. There may be something in your idea that he is anxious that the confession should not be upset.”

  “I’ve sheered off that idea, sir,” confessed Benscombe. “Querk is going to lose a packet—according to those two diaries of Ralph’s. Checking the diaries on the correspondence and bills and random notes, I reckon he owes Querk about fifteen thousand pounds, possibly a bit more.”

  “So Querk gains nothing by Ralph’s conviction— definitely loses. Claudia and Fenchurch gain nothing. Art for art’s sake, eh?”

  “Cutting their loss and getting clear, sir.”

  The worst came, at leisurely gait during the next ten days, to the worst. The investigation continued, as it were, of its own weight. The test with the Reindert yielded the negative result that it would have been possible for a man sitting on the near side running board to escape observation by the boys standing in the roadway outside the gates.

  The prison governor, acting on informal pressure from Crisp, ordered a medical examination by Sir William Turvey and another eminent alienist, who reported that Ralph Cornboise was not insane.

  On the last day of the month, which was a Wednesday, Ralph would be brought before the judge for sentence.

  On the Monday, Querk returned to Watlington Lodge, after spending a week in the provinces in discharge of his mayoral duties.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was nearly nine and pleasantly cool when Crisp turned into the drive of Watlington Lodge. Querk had dined and was awaiting coffee on the terrace. At sight of Crisp he exhibited delight.

  “On such a perfect evening, it would be positively ungrateful to stay indoors,” he gushed. “Bessie has seen you and will bring us coffee. Do sit down.”

  “That would be very pleasant!” Crisp was resolutely genial. “When I heard you had returned, I thought it would be only civil to see you informally and tell you about the next move.”

  Querk would know that this sort of thing was mere sparring for position. But the last words had caused a flicker of his eyeli
ds. He was not expecting a ‘move.’

  “I cannot tell you why I have come back to this house of tears,” gushed Querk. “There is nothing I can do for the poor boy. I am steeling myself to the fact that, in little more than thirty-six hours, he will come before the judge. I felt I must be near at hand in case he should express some wish.”

  “You were something of an uncle to him.” Crisp caught sight of Bessie with a tray. “I may be able to tell you that you are making yourself needlessly unhappy.”

  That would play up his nerves while Bessie was footling with the coffee, thought Crisp. He delayed the girl with polite enquiries, while he watched Querk. The watery eyes were fixed on the distance.

  With a start, Querk realised that Bessie had left them.

  “I am so sorry, Colonel! Do please help yourself. I fear I am a sadly inattentive host. It is hard to tear one’s thoughts away from Wednesday morning.”

  “Speaking off the record, Mr. Querk—there is a chance that, on Wednesday, nothing at all will happen of any importance.”

  Querk helped himself to coffee.

  “I dare not allow myself to entertain the faintest hope unless it is your kindly intention to give me specific grounds.” He was talking to steady his own nerve. “Surely the proceedings could only be stayed by a writ of nolle prosequi—legally a very complicated matter.”

  “No writ will be ready by Wednesday,” admitted Crisp. “But you know, doubtless better than I do, the circumstances in which the D.P.P. can delay proceedings.”

  “If a somewhat rusty memory serves—” Querk stirred his coffee with concentration—“it is essential that there should be a strong prima facie case against a person not associated with the accused.”

  Querk, Crisp noted, had thoroughly primed himself on the law of Ralph’s position—it was as if he had quoted the D. P.P.’s letter.

  “Quite so!” Crisp waited until Querk raised the coffee cup to his lips. “Did you know that Fenchurch and Miss Lofting were married last year by the Mayor of Casa Flavia?”