“Was this a common practice of his?” inquired the coroner.
“’E did things like that from time to time, when ’e thought it advisable. There might be appointments that ’e couldn’t keep at the office.”
The coroner had been scrutinizing the faces of the jury while the witnesses were giving their evidence; and it was plain that he felt they stood in need of some assistance. When Simpson had concluded his statement, the coroner turned to the jurymen.
“I think you will see the bearing of the evidence which has been submitted to you. We are fortunately able to follow the doings of the deceased from the morning of 30th September right up to 11.5 p.m. on that day, with only two gaps in the period. The first gap is between 7.30 p.m. and 8.45 p.m.; but part of this is accounted for, since we know that the deceased must have walked from here to the Bungalow during that period, a distance which would take him perhaps a quarter of an hour to cover. The second gap is between 10.45 p.m., when he left the Bungalow again, and 11.5 p.m., when he rang up his clerk; but this gap obviously represents the time occupied by him in walking from the Bungalow back to Swaythling Court. Since he was last heard of at 11.5 p.m., it follows that his death must have occurred after that hour. We have no further evidence to bring forward until about nine o’clock on the next morning.”
Constable Bolam was the next witness. His evidence was an old story to the Colonel, dealing as it did with the matter of the warrant, the visit to the Court, the finding of the body, the state of the room, and the broken window in the pantry. It was obvious that Bolam had digested his shorthand notes well; and he delivered his evidence in a way which made a very favourable impression on the coroner.
Colonel Sanderstead himself was then called. As Bolam had already covered most of the ground, the Colonel contented himself with identifying the paper-knife as the one which he had found in the ashes. He mentioned also the candle and the belt-fastener which he had discovered on the floor. When he had finished his story, Simon heaved himself out of his seat and proceeded to put a question.
“Witness, do you collect butterflies?”
For a moment, the Colonel was dumbfounded. Then the insinuation behind the question grew clear to him; and he lost his temper.
“Do you mean to suggest that I stole the missing butterfly?” he demanded angrily.
Simon thought he had detected something.
“Witness, I asked a plain question; and instead of answering it, you shuffle and ask another question. That will produce a very serious impression on the minds of the jury. Will you be so good as to tell us—‘yes’ or ‘no’—‘Do you collect butterflies?’”
The Colonel glared at his bête noire; then mastered himself sufficiently to snap out:
“No, I do not collect butterflies; nor have I ever taken the faintest interest in butterflies. And to be quite definite about it, I did not remove the missing butterfly from its case.”
Simon seemed in no way crestfallen. If he had not gained any information, at least he had managed to ruffle the Colonel.
The coroner intervened: and suggested to Simon that only questions connected with the case should be asked. They were engaged in an inquest and not a roving inquiry.
Mickleby was the next witness. It was apparent that he considered this an occasion demanding the greatest impressiveness at his command.
“I was called in to this case at half-past nine on 1st October. On my arrival, I found the body of the deceased in a chair at his desk; the head and arms of the body resting on the table as though the deceased had fallen asleep. The temperature of the body was about 80° Fahrenheit; and assuming that the body had lost four or five degrees of temperature in each of the first two hours, and approximately one degree per hour after that, then death must have occurred about eleven hours previously—say about midnight. Rigor mortis had set in, which points to the same conclusion.”
“The jury will take note of that point,” interjected the coroner.
“On examining the body more minutely, I was struck by a strong effluvium of almonds which emanated from it.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Mickleby,” the coroner interrupted, “would it be too much trouble if we asked you, for the sake of clearness, to use the simplest language? I wish the jury to understand that the body smelt strongly of oil of almonds. Could that smell be accounted for by the fact that the deceased was a dealer in synthetic perfumes?”
Mickleby considered for a few moments.
“My recollection is that not only the clothes but also the body of the deceased had a strong smell of almond oil. How it was produced is hardly in my province. I am not a perfumery agent.”
The coroner took no notice of Mickleby’s insolence; but nodded to him to continue his evidence.
“Further examination of the deceased showed that his eyes were markedly dilated; the pupils were widely expanded, I mean.”
“Do you draw any inference from that?”
“It is a symptom in the case of poisoning with belladonna and some other drugs. I am giving you my observation.”
Something in Mickleby’s manner at this point suggested to the Colonel that the doctor had in reserve some striking fact with which he expected to surprise the jury.
“I now come to the wound in the body of the deceased. This is a punctured wound.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Mickleby,” interrupted the coroner. “Gentlemen, I think I had better explain that by the technical term ‘punctured wound’ we mean a wound of which the depth is much greater than the length of its free opening on the skin.”
Mickleby distributed his contempt between the coroner and the jury; and then continued his evidence:
“Very little trace of bleeding was to be observed around the orifice of this wound. In fact, the quantity of blood exuded was hardly sufficient to stain the outer clothes of the deceased in the neighbourhood of the wound itself. The wound was less than an inch in its longer diameter and considerably narrower in the cross-diameter. It appeared to have been inflicted by some weapon like this paper-knife on the table.”
Mickleby indicated the Colonel’s find.
“On examining the edges of the wound, I could find very little sign of retraction of the skin, such as normally occurs in any wound such as a knife-cut. Usually, the edges of the wound tend to draw back from each other owing to the tension of the skin. I examined the whole surface of the body for bruises; but I discovered nothing of the kind. There was no sign of any struggle having taken place.”
From Mickleby’s expression, the Colonel judged that he was about to spring his surprise soon.
“I carried out a post-mortem examination of the body in order to determine the internal track of the weapon. The wound was between the sixth and seventh ribs at the posterior part of the body; and the weapon had penetrated to a point in line with the lower margin of the seventh rib in front. Any instrument taking this course would penetrate the heart in passing; and my examination showed that the weapon had passed through that organ.”
Simon was on his feet again.
“Witness, from your knowledge, could you say whether this blow was struck by a powerful person?”
Mickleby examined Simon curiously, as though he were some strange animal in a menagerie:
“A wound of this kind might have been inflicted by anyone. An average man, or even a woman, would have had strength enough to inflict it, if they had the luck to strike just at that particular place.”
Simon apparently attempted to think of a supplementary question, but failed to hit upon one on the spur of the moment. Mickleby continued:
“As the jurymen are laymen who cannot appreciate the full bearing of these facts, possibly the coroner will not object to my indicating the clear meaning which they present to the trained medical eye. They establish, beyond any doubt, the fact that this wound was not the cause of death.”
If Mickleby had hoped to surprise his audience, he certainly achieved his object. Everybody except the coroner showed their astonishment at the tu
rn which the case was taking.
“Any wound penetrating the heart during life is certain to bleed copiously: this wound did not bleed. A wound inflicted during life will show marked retraction of the skin at its edge: this wound shows no retraction. Finally, if this wound had been inflicted during life, I should have expected to find some trace of movement, or spasm, in the body before life became extinct; but the position in which I found the body seemed to negative anything of the sort. All the evidence, then, points to the fact that whoever inflicted that wound was only stabbing a body which was already dead.”
For a few moments Mickleby sunned himself in the admiration of the jury and witnesses. He had produced his sensation; and he enjoyed it.
“Since the deceased obviously did not die from the effects of this wound,” he continued, “I sought elsewhere for the cause of death. The skin of the body, I found on examination, was tinged slightly violet—quite different from the normal tint. There was a slight foam or froth at the corners of the mouth. The jaws were firmly closed, as though in a spasm. The hands and toes of the deceased were contracted; and, as I have said already, the pupils of the eyes were widely dilated. In view of these symptoms, I removed some of the internal organs of the deceased, under the directions of the coroner.”
Mickleby stepped back; and the coroner took the proceedings into his own hands again.
“Gentlemen, the evidence of the last witness has established conclusively, I think, that the deceased did not die in consequence of the wound which you have inspected. That wound, therefore, falls out of our consideration; and the cause of his death must be sought elsewhere. Under my directions, the contents of the deceased’s stomach and other organs have been submitted to a chemical expert, as well as the liquids contained in the whisky decanter, the soda-water syphon, and the tumbler which were found on the desk beside the body. The contents of a bottle also found on the desk have likewise been submitted for expert examination. I adjourn this inquiry until we have before us the evidence of the chemical expert to whom the matter has been referred. As soon as he has completed his investigation, you will receive due notice that your attendance is again required.”
He rose, closed his book, and walked out of the room.
Chapter Eight
The Verdict
AS Colonel Sanderstead came down the steps from the door of Swaythling Court, he found himself beside Angermere, who had left the house a little before him. The Colonel had a natural leaning towards hospitality to everyone who thought it worth while to stay for a time in his village; their visits were in some way flattering to the affection he felt for Fernhurst Parva; and he liked, if possible, to make things pleasant even for such birds of passage.
“Mr. Angermere? I see you’ve no car with you. I’d be very glad to give you a lift down to the village in mine, if you care for it.”
Quite unconsciously, the Colonel assumed that anyone who stayed in Fernhurst Parva would recognize him without any introduction. In Angermere’s case, he was not mistaken.
“That’s very kind of you, Colonel. This affair lasted a bit longer than I expected, and I’m rather late for lunch as it is.”
They got into the car. Cyril Norton, coming out of the house, nodded to the Colonel and went off in search of his motor-cycle. The Coroner had already gone; and only a few of the witnesses and members of the jury were scattered about in groups, discussing the evidence.
Short as was the run down to the “Three Bees,” it was long enough for the Colonel to form a favourable impression of Angermere’s personality. Much to his host’s relief the author put on none of the airs of superiority which the Colonel had feared; in fact, he seemed to be rather a likeable personality.
“How long are you staying here?” the Colonel inquired, as the car drew up at the hotel door.
“Since I’ve seen the beginning of this case, I suppose I may as well stay on for a few days more and hear the end of it. I don’t suppose the adjournment will be a long one. The coroner—he’s a friend of mine, by the way—told me that there would not be much delay.”
“I’d rather like to hear what you think of it,” Colonel Sanderstead suggested. “You must be rather an expert in this sort of thing.”
“Because I scribble mystery yarns? That’s a different thing altogether, you know. It’s easy enough to solve a mystery when you’ve constructed it yourself. But this business strikes me as complex in some ways. I’ve really no settled ideas about it at all, just now. Wait till we’ve heard the whole story; and then I might have some notion or other. But, honestly, I’m no more of an expert in the matter than the first man you meet in the street. What do you think about it yourself?”
“It seems complicated enough for me,” admitted the Colonel. “But I’d like to hear what you make of it after you’ve heard all the evidence. Suppose you dine with me on the evening after the inquest closes and give me your impressions while they’re fresh in your mind? I’ll send the car down for you. But of course I’ll see you at the next meeting before then. We can fix it up there.”
As the Colonel drove home to Fernhurst Manor after leaving the novelist at the “Three Bees,” he turned over in his mind the evidence which had been given at the inquest, in the hope of finding some fresh light upon the death of the blackmailer; and the more he reflected upon the matter, the more uneasy he grew. Cyril Norton’s evident perturbation about the part which Jimmy Leigh might have played in the drama returned to his mind. He recalled that Cyril’s clinching argument had been that Jimmy Leigh would never have stabbed a man in the back: but now it appeared that Hubbard had been dead before that wound was inflicted. If so, then the manner of his death did not necessarily exclude the chance that Jimmy had had a hand in it. There was the Lethal Ray machine, that factor in the problem which was known to the Colonel alone, since he had destroyed the evidence by shifting the position of the generator. And there was this sudden departure of Jimmy which had to be accounted for. Much to his discomfort, the Colonel began to feel suspicious.
“Well, if he did do it,” he summed up to himself as he stepped out of his car, “I can’t bring myself to blame him over much. Blackmailers are vermin; and any man who takes the risk of putting them out of the way is a public benefactor of sorts.”
But for the next day or two, Colonel Sanderstead was worried. Try as he might, he could see no solution of the mystery, Its complications defeated him at every turn. As Cyril Norton had said, one could find a theory to fit parts of the affair; but the Colonel could imagine nothing which would account for the whole of the facts. Even if Jimmy Leigh had done the actual killing, there must have been at least one other person on the scene. There was the man in the motor to fit somehow into the puzzle; there was the candle-wax to be explained; there was the broken window and the Yale key on the door-step. Try as he might, Colonel Sanderstead was unable to put together any hypothesis which would bring all these points into a clear relationship.
When the inquest was resumed he went across to Swaythling Court with very mingled expectations. At least he would learn the true cause of Hubbard’s death; and that would be so much to the good: but he feared that instead of clearing things up, the new information might complicate the problem still further.
The first witness called was the expert to whom the examination of the contents of some of the organs had been entrusted.
“My name is Laurence Shuttleboard. I am an analytical chemist. I have examined the various organs which were submitted to me in sealed jars, with the following results. The stomach contents on first inspection had a strong odour of hydrocyanic acid—prussic acid, as it is commonly called. I submitted the material to chemical examination and found that a very large quantity of cyanide was present.”
“Did you succeed in estimating the total quantity in the stomach contents?” inquired the coroner.
“I should put it roughly at a quarter of an ounce at least.”
“Can you give the jury any idea of the fatal dose of a cyanide?”
“So that you found in the stomach contents a quantity of cyanide equal to between twenty and twenty-five times the fatal dose?”
“Yes.”
“Death would supervene with great rapidity in the case of a person swallowing a dose of this amount?”
“Almost instantaneously, I should imagine; but the time varies from case to case when cyanide is concerned.”
“Could the deceased have lived for, say, a couple of hours after swallowing the quantity you found in the stomach?”
“I should have difficulty in believing that.”
“Did you examine the food contained in the stomach and could you draw any inference from its condition as to the time which elapsed between the deceased’s last meal and the time of his death?”
“My examination showed that the deceased suffered from chronic indigestion. His digestive machinery was evidently very sluggish and he probably suffered from dilated stomach. I noticed various partially digested foods in the stomach contents which had obviously been derived from different meals, so that the progress of digestion in his case throws no clear light upon the time which elapsed between his last meal and his death. Death might have followed almost immediately after the meal, or it might have been hours after his dinner, when he died.”
The coroner made a note and then continued his interrogation:
“In addition to the stomach contents, some other materials were submitted to you for examination?”
“A decanter containing whisky, a small quantity of liquid obtained from a tumbler, a bottle with a wide mouth, stoppered, which was said to have been found on the desk beside the body, and a bottle stated to have been discovered among the deceased’s effects.”
Death at Swaythling Court Page 12