Case for Three Detectives

by Bruce, Leo

  “To avenge himself? What had Sir Giles done to him, then?” asked Mgr. Smith.

  “He was a very loose-living old fellow. And these visions were a good deal a source of repentance. He seemed to think that the Angel of Death would strike him for his sins. Mind you, I’m only telling you the local story.”

  “I know. I hope it has a happy ending.”

  “At last, it seemed, the Angel of Death struck. The old man had been behaving outrageously, even according to the standards of those days. And he seemed to expect that he would suffer for it. He said that he had seen the black wings beating their way nearer several times. And at last one evening he went up into a tower of his castle alone, and did not reappear for some houfs. The household grew anxious, and presently one of his sons went up to look for him. He found the old man lying in his own blood on the floor of the topmost room, not quite dead, but on the point of expiry.”

  “And what were his last words?” asked Mgr. Smith, who seemed to be enjoying the whole story in a chuckling bort of way.

  “The son raised his father’s head, and the old man nodded to the window, or port-hole, or whatever they had in castles then. ‘Death came on wings!’ he whispered, and then expired.”

  “And how had he died?”

  “That is the interesting part of the story,” said Dr. Tate. “It was never known how he died. There had been a sentry at the foot of the stairs all the time the old man was up in his tower, and a thorough search was made of the whole building without any success. The room in which he was found was thirty feet from the ground, and no weapon was discovered. So the people in the house, being as I said, superstitious

  “Oh, they were all superstitious. You did not tell us that.”

  “Well, what can you expect they were in those dark ages? Anyhow, they believed of course that the vision of the old man had come to pass, and the Angel of Death had struck him at last.”

  “I see. So his murderer was never discovered?”

  “No. What do you think of the story?”

  “I think that like many good stories it is a lie”

  “Oh.”

  “But you are quite right in thinking that I should be interested in the story. Is it well known about here?”

  “Very. It would be difficult for anyone to live in the parish long without hearing it. Why, I believe that our crazy Vicar even used it in one of his sermons the other day. Sort of warning to people who misbehaved themselves. But then he’s an unaccountable chap. Well, I turn in here. Little girl with whooping cough. I hope you clear up this rather more urgent mystery of ours. Terrible business. I’m not an advocate of capital punishment myself, but I think that the man who killed Mary Thurston ought to be hanged. Good night to you both. Good night.”

  Dr. Tate turned into a narrow drive and left us to complete our walk alone. I was thinking quickly. Something in the story had caught my imagination. The idea of death coming on wings. The mystery of Mary Thurston’s death was to me so baffling that nothing seemed too far-fetched. Suppose—of course I knew it was fantastic—but suppose that someone could fly like that? Even if it was only from a first-floor window to a point on the ground far enough away from the walls to leave no sign of landing. Was it, after all, so impossible? I remembered, as a boy, experimenting in jumps from the roof of a shed with an open umbrella in my hand to break the fall. The experiments had not been very successful, but still…

  After all, it was not as though the murderer would have had to fly in at the window. It was only out of it. Surely some contrivance, perhaps in the nature of a parachute, would have been possible. Or wings of some kind. There were such things as gliders. Was I really a fool to wonder about such possibilities?

  I turned to my companion. “Don’t you think that perhaps this story of murder might be relevant to our problem?”

  “Any story of murder might be relevant to our problem,” he replied, “from the story of Cain and Abel onwards”

  “But isn’t it conceivable that something of the sort might have happened here?”

  Mgr. Smith turned to me. “It is hard enough to find what actually did happen without looking for all the things that might have happened. A dragon might have flown in at the window and with his tongue which is a sword have done the deed. A newly-invented balloon might have hung over the house like a cloud and lowered the murderer to the window. A man might have made a miraculous leap to the window-sill, and afterwards have projected himself into the boughs of a neighbouring elm tree. Or I might have been hiding all the evening under the bed, and have changed myself into a rat on your approach. Yet it is not very helpful either for me or for Dr. Tate to invent these sensational hypotheses.”

  “ You do know then,” I said with some relief, “what really did happen, and who is guilty?”

  I was waiting breathlessly for his answer when he suddenly caught my arm, and we stopped. There was a slope of the downs above us, and its outline was as smooth and distinct as that of a dome. There was a clump of trees bent by many years of wind, and maintaining their distracted lives in spite of it. I can see their shape and the edge of the hill to this day, for there was one detail in that silhouette which made it memorable to me.

  It was such a detail as my companion liked, and of the kind to which he was accustomed. Black against the oyster-blue sky of dusk were two figures, a tall and a shorter one It was not only their position against the sky which made them look black, their clothes were black, too, and there was something fluttering about the smaller one. I started. What were those limply flapping things at the man’s side, which hung now close against him, now rising flippantly in the breeze? Could they be …

  But in a moment I told myself not to be a fool. There was nothing unnatural about the man’s outline. Its flapping appearance was produced by a black Inverness cape, and having realized that, I knew that it was the Vicar.

  Mgr. Smith blinked in the blank and innocent way which I knew concealed his most intelligent discoveries. He watched the two coming down the hill towards the Thurstons’ house, holding the crook of his umbrella with both his hands. And as he did so, all my confidence in the solutions of Lord Simon and M. Picon evaporated. After all, where had they got me? This morning, I had, in company with Lord Simon, seen three of the suspects, and he had told me that his theory was complete. This afternoon, on my walk with M. Picon, I had observed three more, and he, too, had solved the riddle. And now, in this maddening moment, here was Mgr. Smith, blinking in his unmistakably ominous way at the remaining two. (For the other figure was recognizable by now as that of Stall.) So that really, after motoring eighty miles or so, walking eight, and standing in a chilly breeze staring at the outline of the downs, I was no nearer to the truth than I had been last night.

  I scarcely needed to repeat my question to Mgr. Smith when he at last walked on. “You do know then?” I almost whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know.”

  CHAPTER 25

  ONCE more we were in the library—Williams, Lord Simon, M. Picon, Mgr. Smith, Sergeant Beef and I. Dr. Thurston had offered to come, but the investigators had agreed that since all the details were now to be revealed, it would be too painful for him. Nor was his presence necessary. He would hear of the arrest later.

  I do not exaggerate when I say that my excitement was terrific, and I have no doubt that Williams was just as expectant. It was not merely that the mystery was to be elucidated, but that a human being was to be sent to a certain death—for with three such detectives to find evidence, surely no Counsel in the world would be able to exonerate him. And this may have made our interest a morbid one, but it naturally gave real point and drama to the proceedings. Someone was to be named, arrested, tried and hanged—someone we knew, someone we had conversed with to-day. I looked down at my hand and saw that it was slightly trembling.

  Just as Lord Simon had been the first to interrogate each of the witnesses, he began speaking now. “I may as well outline this unfortunate affair,” he said, “and then
my colleagues can amplify or correct any of the details. How would that do?”

  M. Picon nodded, and Mgr. Smith did not dissent, so Lord Simon began to talk. There was a silence almost uncanny in the room as he drawled out the circumstances.

  “Interestin’ case,” he said, “but not quite as bafflin’ as it looked at first. However, it has kept us guessin’ for a time, so let’s give it its due. Clearin’ up most crimes is as simple as shellin’ bally peas. This certainly wasn’t that.

  “First of all we must go back a little way. Remember that will? Unfortunate sort of document, when you come to think of it. Mrs. Thurston’s first husband had a biggish fortune. And between that fortune and the son who felt a right to it he set only one barrier—a woman’s life. There you have the foundation of the whole story. Conventional enough in essence. Motive, as usual, money.

  “The stepson you remember was abroad when that will was made, and may or may not have heard of his father’s death. We know from Thurston that he was the type of chappie who was always turning up without a bob, to rest on his laurels and the family honour for a spell, so that his coming home may have been just the customary sort of thing. But in the meantime he had changed his name. You know how these things happen? Half a dozen creditors, some little eccentricity in the way in which a cheque was drawn—something a trifle shady. So stepson arrives with a brand-new name, an empty pocket, and a lot of curiosity. Still conventional, you see.

  “And the very first news that falls on his flappers is that his old man has kicked the bucket, and his step-mother has married again. Well, well, thinks Stepson, and pops off down to his father’s solicitor to ask about the will. Unpleasant set-back. Interest left to the wife for lifetime; and only his measly allowance to go on with. He had never seen Mrs. Thurston, you remember, so that not even knowing her as the good-natured soul she was, he set about cursing roundly at scheming females who nipped in to pinch his birthright. He was a very furious young man.

  “I don’t know whether any of you have been reversionary legatees, and had to twiddle your thumbs while someone lives on the money which will one day be yours. I’m told it’s the most demoralizin’ business. The most virtuous and temperate natures grow potentially murderous. But this fellow was not exactly a born murderer. He wanted money. He meant to get money. But if he thought of murder in the first place he was headed off by the penalty. The fortune involved had surprised him. The details had been given him by the solicitor, and the sum left by his father made his eyes pop. And since he knew there was so much money in question he wasn’t the lad to hang back.

  “So he started, more or less begging—which might have been harmless enough. He found out that Mrs. Thurston was living here, and had a car, so he ran down to a village which was just near enough to make a meeting feasible, yet not too near. And from this village, which was called Sidney Sewell, he wrote to Mrs. Thurston. That first letter, one supposes, was quite a polite and pleasant affair. Regret over his father’s death. Sorry he had never met his stepmother. Usual sort of thing laid on with a trowel, perhaps, but nothing too stirring.

  “However, I feel convinced that it contained one phrase which troubled Mrs. Thurston a good deal—a request that she should say nothing to her husband. What reason he gave one cannot possibly suggest now, but it is pretty certain that he found a good reason. Good enough, anyway, for as we know Mrs. Thurston never mentioned to her husband that her stepson had reappeared. More’s the pity. She might have saved her life.

  “Instead of that she went to see her stepson, and in her usual, easily pleased way she liked the fellow. Now I’m bein’ a bit psychological and all that sort of thing. I’m goin’ on the characters of both of them to get an idea of what happened. But I feel sure that in that meeting Mrs. Thurston was very much herself, the woman you all knew primarily as a hostess. She saw that her stepson would fit very well into her circle here. She had a passion for entertaining. She saw a way of fitting him in- And she planted him on her husband without tellin’ Dr. Thurston who the fellow in reality was.

  “How far he persuaded her into that we shall probably never know. It suited him excellently. And from that moment he began to sponge on Mrs. Thurston with an ease and a greed which seem incredible now. He never tried to blackmail or bully her. That wasn’t necessary. He played the part of the poor son who had been cheated out of his rightful due by her very existence. He had the sense to play the part gently and good-humouredly. He never grumbled, but he pointed out that he never grumbled. He made her feel that it was hard luck on him, and that she must do all she could for him. And he did very nicely, thank you.

  “Now so far I have reconstructed the story as it looks to me, and filled in the gaps in a fanciful sort of way. The bare facts I have confirmed. The stepson did arrive in England soon after Mrs. Thurston’s second marriage, and did go to his father’s solicitor to hear about the will. I’ve spoken on the ‘phone to the solicitor myself. Charming old boy, and remembers the visit distinctly. Moreover, he did go to stay at Sidney Sewell, and Mrs. Thurston, as we know, was in touch with him there. And finally he did come to this house, was in this house at the time of the murder, and is, unless Beef has let him get away, in this house at this minute.”

  Lord Simon paused at this point to re-cross his legs and sip some Napoleon brandy which Butterfield had craftily put into one of Dr. Thurston’s decanters so that his Lordship could enjoy his favourite beverage without ill-breeding. The pause made me so impatient and curious that I could not help saying—“And you know who it is, Lord Simon?”

  “Yes. I know who it is.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “That was really too easy. I instructed Butterfield to obtain photographs of all the men here who could, so far as age was concerned, have been the stepson. And armed with these I went, as you know, to Sidney Sewell. The public house was disappointing, for it has recently changed hands. But the post-mistress had not only been there a long time, but had an excellent memory. She instantly recognized one of the portraits as that of a young man who had stayed in the village some years ago. There is no point in keepin’ the name from you. It was David Strickland. I have since confirmed it. Strickland’s real name is Burroughs, and Burroughs, as you will remember, was the name of Mrs. Thurston’s first husband. Strickland is in fact the stepson in question.”

  “Well, Sergeant,” I said, rising, “you’d better arrest him.”

  But Sergeant Beef did not move. “I should want to know a great deal more than that before I was to arrest anyone,” he said. “Very likely Mr. Strickland was Mrs. Thurston’s stepson. I’m not saying he wasn’t. ’E was a very generous gentleman, and always stood drinks all round when he came down to the village. So I don’t see that ‘is being ’er stepson makes ‘im a murderer, does it?”

  Lord Simon smiled. “All right, Sergeant,” he said. “You shall hear the whole thing. An in good time, what?”

  I was relieved, I think. Though I felt no personal animosity towards Strickland, I had no particular affection for him, and I was thankful, at least, that this continual suspecting of each person in turn was over, and I could hear the rest of the details undisturbed by doubt. Nor was I greatly surprised. The fact that Strickland’s room was next door to Mary Thurston’s had always seemed to me highly suspicious.

  “There can be little doubt that the murder was a premeditated one. It was very carefully planned. But I think it was what you might call conditional premeditation. Strickland wanted money, as we shall see later. And if he had been given enough of it this week-end he might not have committed this highly unpleasant crime. But he had his plans ready before he came here. He knew the house well, and the people who worked in it, and those who were to be invited for the week-end. He knew, too, that if Mrs. Thurston was murdered, suspicion would certainly fall on him, for he had the strongest motive. As the stepson who had changed his name, and who would inherit a fortune on Mrs. Thurston’s death, he couldn’t escape suspicion. So, knowin’ what he was up
against he had to work things out pretty carefully.

  “And, believe me, he did. I don’t like to think how long it took for the plan to mature in his somewhat turgid brain. Months probably. And it wasn’t a bad plan—as plans go. It had its weak spots, of course, but we must remember that this was our friend’s first effort in this line. He couldn’t be expected to be perfect. And I think on the whole his attempt at bein’ bafflin’ was creditable for an amateur. If he had been just a little bit cleverer he might have deceived me. But then if he had been just a little bit cleverer he wouldn’t have gone in for murder at all. It’s a mug’s game.

  “However, thus we have him, arriving for this week-end, in urgent need of money, and determined to get it from Mary Thurston, by persuasion if possible. And if that failed, he had in his brain a complete plan for murderin’ her in a way which would perplex half a dozen Scotland Yards. But I don’t think we should run away with the idea that, had she handed over what he wanted, it would have saved her life. It might have postponed his crime, but no more. When her first husband made that will he pretty well did for Mrs. Thurston. It should be a lesson to people who make wills on those lines.

  “I have got the facts of Strickland’s financial situation last week. I needn’t bore you with them—tedious things, debts. But you can take it from me that he was desperate. He had to have money—snappily too. And he came here to get it.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “YOU are wonderin’ what this plan of his might be. Devilish cunnin’ bit of intrigue. The first thing he had seen when he had begun to figure out his way of eliminatin’ his stepmother, was that he would need an accomplice. And the first thing I saw, and I suppose the first thing all of us saw about this murder, was that an accomplice had been there. Hang it, short of something supernatural the murderer had to have an accomplice to escape from the room and leave the door locked, and show no sign of himself on his way of escape two minutes later. And for Strickland there was an obvious assistant all handy and willin’—the chauffeur Fellowes. But he wasn’t such a fool as to speak to Fellowes till he had made up his mind that this week-end was the time.