Hilary left a letter in which he confesses to having killed Brandon Baker. I only found it this week—I’ve been away since it happened and I’ve only just started to go through Hilary’s things. They’d worked together—Hilary and Brandon—for years, Brandon getting more and more successful and Hilary just the opposite. I never realized how dreadfully jealous Hilary was of Brandon’s success—the more so because he’d helped him over and over again at the start of his career, and if it hadn’t been for that help I don’t suppose Brandon would ever have got where he did. Hilary was terribly worried about money matters at the time—he was ill, he had to have an operation, he was in debt, everything seemed to be going wrong. He tried to get a loan from Brandon as a sort of last resource, and Brandon refused. It was lousy of him, for I know Hilary loaned him money over and over again in the old days without ever getting a penny back. I want you to understand I didn’t know anything about this at the time—it’s all in the letter he left, that’s the first I knew of it. I guess his mind must just have cracked up under the strain of it all. He says in this letter, “They’re giving me a revolver in this part to shoot Brandon with…I think that’s overdoing temptation.…”
I’d like you to see this letter. If you’ll send someone for it, or come personally, I’ll hand it over to you. If you can manage to keep my name out of any proceedings that may have to take place, I’d be very grateful. We weren’t really married, and I’ve had all the publicity I want out of this affair.
Yours sincerely,
Millicent Davis.
Mr. Wilson got up slowly and walked across to the window. It was raining. It would be raining.
“But the bullet—all our pet theories about the direction of the bullet?” said Derek.
“You’d better read Herbert’s letter while you’re busy,” said Mr. Wilson. “It’ll save you asking all the questions you’re going to ask. Taken all round, it’s quite the lousiest post I’ve ever opened.”
Letter from Herbert Jenkinson to Inspector Wilson, Esquire, post-marked that morning. Scrawly handwriting, erratic punctuation, and the last half-dozen lines tapering off at an angle of forty-five degrees to the rest of the epistle:
Mr. Wilson, Dear Sir,
I see in the papers this morning as how it says you have arested Mr. Watcyns for killing Mr. Baker and I must say it fair took my breath away when I read it. I see as how it says in the paper that you first got suspiceous when you found that bulet hole in the curtain and then the place in the prosenium where the bulet had landed. Now, Sir, here is something what I have to tell you in connection with this, as it is only right and if I had known you were working on that idea about the bulet I would have let you know right away before this. When we were getting the theatre ready for the opening last night, sir, one of the cleeners came across something beried in the outside bit of the stage-box A. Well, Sir, when we got it out it was a bulet, and not knowing that you were working on this theiry (this last word crossed viciously out and “notion” substituted) not knowing you were working on this notion I thought it must be the bulet what killed Mr. Baker. I kept it, Sir, and have it here in the theatre at your convenience. If it had been fired from where Mr. Foster was standing up on the mountains that night it must have missed the stage altogether and beried itself in the front of the box where we found it.
Now, Sir, with regard to the hole in the curtain what you found and also the bulet in the prosenium four feet up, in the show before “Blue Music” there was a scene where a shot had to be fired from the wings right across the front of the stage. It had to knock a glass cleen out of the hand of one of the actors and was a tricky thing to do, Sir, but as the man what did the shooting was a crack shot everything went over all right except for one performence. There was a big screen put up in the oposite wings for to stop the bulet each night and this night the bloke what did the shooting was a bit tight and we were all a bit scared. Well, Sir, he hit the glass all right only the bulet wasn’t fired straight with him lerching in the wings and it went into the prosenium wall just where it say you found it in the newspapers. Mr. Douglas can tell you this is all right for he was wild about it at the time and had the scene changed after that. I don’t know if this has anything to do with what has happened, Sir, but thought it only right for to let you know about same. If you want any more information you can get me any time at the theatre.
Yrs. faithfully, Sir,
Herbert Jenkinson.
“Well, I’m damned!” said Derek.
“The best-laid schemes of mice and men…” said Mr. Wilson, lighting his pipe. “Moral—never be clever in the police business. The constable with a head of solid mahogany has far more chance of getting his man than your brilliant detective who’s throbbing with theories and cluttered up with clues. Depressing, but true.”
“What’s the other letter in the bunch?” asked Derek. “Say it’s a bill—even a bill would be welcomed in the present circumstances.”
“It’s not a bill,” said Mr. Wilson. “In some ways, it’s the unkindest cut of all. It’s a report from Anstruther about those chocolates that Watcyns had with him last night at the theatre. He’s spent the whole morning diagnosing the filling of the one Watcyns had a bite of before I interrupted him and he fainted.”
“Fainted?”
“Fainted. Unfortunately, yes. Inconsiderate of him, I know, leading us on like that—but you really can’t blame the fellow. I mean, if someone came up to you and arrested you for the murder of two human beings bang in the middle of an enjoyable musical comedy, it would be a bit of a shock to the system, wouldn’t it?”
“What does Anstruther say, then?”
“The sweets in the box were all perfectly normal. Well-known make, very expensive variety. Anstruther spent the whole morning trying to find out what was inside the one Watcyns nibbled. Then he realized that it was ordinary almond filling…extra strong flavour. You can read his note…he’s quite sarcastic about it.”
“There’s one thing to be thankful for, anyway,” said Derek.
“I fail to see it,” said Mr. Wilson.
“The filling wasn’t raspberry. That would have been much more appropriate, but I don’t think I could have stood it. What are we doing this evening, by the way?”
“I suggest a cruise round the world,” said Mr. Wilson gravely. “Two or three times round, in fact. Unless you’ve got anything better to suggest?”
“There is a first night at the Adelphi…” said Derek.
Mr. Wilson, senr., threw a cushion.
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