Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  Lowe looked and caught his breath. By the tangle of bushes a man lay face upwards, his eyes staring fixedly at the gently moving branches above him, and he was dead! The sprawling limbs, the unnatural position, the pallor of the face were eloquent testimony.

  “Rather horrible, isn’t it?” breathed Grayling at his elbow. “Gave me quite a turn, coming on him like that…”

  “Who is he—do you know?” asked Lowe, and the question was prompted by something in the colonel’s tone.

  Grayling nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s a fellow called Stanwood—a member of the club. What do you think it was—a groggy heart?”

  “I think we ought to get hold of a doctor as soon as possible,” answered the dramatist gravely.

  “I’ll go back to the clubhouse and phone Faversham,” volunteered Grayling, and was turning away when Lowe stopped him.

  “You’d better notify the police as well,” he said.

  “The police!” The colonel’s voice was startled and he came to a sudden halt. “Why? Good heavens, you aren’t suggesting…”

  “Look at that mark behind his left ear,” broke in the dramatist quietly. “That doesn’t look like a heart attack to me.”

  Grayling came slowly back and bending forward, peered down at the dead man. His head was twisted sideways on his right shoulder, and just behind the lobe of his ear was a contused lump—a purple bruise showed clearly against the white skin. The colonel looked up at Lowe with an expression on his face in which doubt and horror were curiously mixed.

  “I say,” he whispered huskily, “you don’t think—that possibly—that it could have been my ball…”

  He stopped abruptly, but the dramatist knew what he meant.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” he answered. “By the time it reached here most of its force must have been spent. Besides, it would be near the body. You didn’t find it, did you?”

  Grayling shook his head, and there was relief in his eyes.

  “Didn’t have time to look,” he said.

  “We may as well make certain what happened to your ball,” remarked Lowe. “The question almost certainly will be raised.”

  He began to look about him, but it was Grayling who found the ball. It was lying a few inches away from the trunk of a tree nowhere near the body.

  “Don’t touch it,” warned the dramatist. “Leave it where it is. Its position proves that it could have had nothing to do with Stanwood’s death.”

  “Well, that’s something to be thankful for,” grunted the colonel. “For the moment I thought it hit the poor beggar. I’ll get off to the clubhouse.”

  He hurried away and Lowe went back to wait beside the body. Stanwood had been a middle-aged man of medium height and inclined to stoutness. The dark hair on his square-shaped head was liberally flecked with grey, but his face was smooth and unlined. The dramatist guessed his age at forty-five and learned later that he was a year behind in his reckoning. The well cut suit of grey flannel, the thin platinum chain that crossed the waistcoat, suggested he was fairly well off. The question was why had he come by his death? Had he fallen and struck his head against the root of a tree or some similar object or had that mark behind his ear been caused in a more sinister way? In other words, was this accident or murder?

  Trevor Lowe made a search of the ground in the immediate vicinity of the body and particularly of the head. The grass was thick and rank, and there was nothing in the shape of a root or a brick-bat which could have caused the ugly bruise. It looked as though accident could be ruled out. A splash of colour near Stanwood’s feet attracted his attention, and looking closer, he saw a little red object lying half-concealed by the dead man’s trousers. Stooping, he picked it up and looked at it with a puzzled frown. It was a nearly new golf ball which had been painted a vivid pillar-box scarlet. He was turning it over in his fingers, wondering at its unusual colour, when he saw that two initials had been scrawled on it in indelible pencil. J. C.

  His forehead wrinkled. There was only one member of the club that those letters could stand for—Jack Claymore. Lowe knew him quite well—a pleasant, good-looking, young fellow who lived in the neighbourhood. Rather hasty tempered, but popular for all that.

  Was the ball his and if so what was it doing there? Probably it had nothing to do with Stanwood’s death, and yet it was curious. Why red? He put it back exactly where he had found it. Just as well not to move anything until after the police had been.

  He was smoking a thoughtful pipe when Grayling came back accompanied by Milton, the club secretary.

  “I’ve rung up Faversham and the police,” panted the colonel, breathless from his exertions. “They’re coming at once.”

  “This is a terrible business, Mr. Lowe,” put in the thin-faced secretary agitatedly. “How do you think poor Stanwood came by his death?”

  “I think he was murdered,” said the dramatist quietly and then, before either of his listeners could put into words the questions he saw on their faces: “Tell me, Milton, who is the person who uses red golf balls in this club?”

  “Red golf balls?” Milton’s thin lips repeated the words and he frowned. “Oh, you must mean Claymore. He uses ’em in the winter, after it’s been snowing. Quite a number of people do, they show up better. Why?”

  Lowe explained.

  “Yes, that would belong to Claymore,” said Milton, his frown deepening. “He initials all his balls like that.”

  “But dammit!” grunted Grayling, “it’s not winter yet. Why the devil has he been playing with a red ball in the autumn?”

  “When was he playing last?” asked Lowe.

  “This morning,” answered the secretary. “With—Stanwood.”

  “With Stanwood, eh?” said the dramatist. “Did they come back to the clubhouse together?”

  Milton shook his head and his lean face was troubled.

  “No,” he answered reluctantly. “Claymore came back alone.”

  There was a short silence, broken by Grayling.

  “It’s all nonsense,” he growled. “Why should Claymore…”

  “Nobody said he did,” interrupted Lowe shortly. “I wonder how long it will be before the doctor and the police arrive?”

  They came in about twenty minutes. Dr. Faversham’s round, jovial face was unusually grave as he came up to them. He was accompanied by a thick set man whom Milton introduced as Inspector Bream, and a constable. The inspector took particulars of the discovery of the body from Lowe and Grayling while the doctor made his brief examination.

  “I know Mr. Claymore,” he said when he was told about the red golf ball. “Lives at the White House. I shall have to see him. It looks as if he was the last person to see Stanwood alive.”

  Dr. Faversham’s report was what Lowe had expected. Stanwood had died as the result of a heavy blow behind the left ear and death had been almost instantaneous. In the circumstances an accident sounded impossible. So far as the actual time at which death had taken place, the doctor was vague.

  “I can’t be certain within half an hour or so,” he said. “But I should say he’s been dead for at least two hours. There’ll have to be a post-mortem and an inquest, of course.”

  The inspector agreed and proceeded with his investigations. A search of the dead man’s pockets revealed a wallet containing fifteen pounds in notes, a gold watch, a handful of loose silver, and a bunch of keys. The motive for the murder was evidently not robbery.

  “Had Mr. Stanwood any relatives, sir?” asked Bream, and Milton, to whom the question had been addressed, shook his head.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” he answered. “I know very little about him. He only came to live in the district two months ago…”

  “He took Fernlow cottage,” put in Dr. Faversham. “You know the place—at the corner of Sparrow Lane.”

  The inspector nodded and made a note in his book. He asked several more questions—heard with raised eyebrows that Claymore had been playing with Stanwood that morning, and
closed his book.

  “Well, I think that’s all for the moment, gentlemen,” he said, putting the note-book in his pocket. “I’ve got your names and addresses and you’ll be notified about the inquest. I’ll have a word now with Mr. Claymore, I think. You stay here, Turner, until they come with the stretcher.”

  The constable saluted and the little group made their way to the clubhouse. The course was deserted. The majority of the members were away on holiday, and it was too early in the afternoon for any of the others to have put in an appearance. As they came in sight of the pavilion Lowe saw the slim figure of a girl standing on the veranda, looking towards them.

  She was a very pretty girl, dressed in a smartly cut suit of tweeds.

  “Mr. Milton,” she called, when they were in earshot. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Claymore?”

  “Not since before lunch, Miss Morgan,” answered the secretary.

  She frowned.

  “He was supposed to meet me here at two,” she said. “I’ve been waiting nearly a quarter of an hour.”

  “He said he was going home when I last saw him,” said Milton ascending the steps. “Rather a dreadful thing has happened, Mr. Stanwood has been murdered!”

  Helen Morgan’s big eyes widened.

  “Murdered—Mr. Stanwood?” she whispered. “How… How awful! Where?”

  “Near the thirteenth hole,” said the secretary, as she paused. “As a matter of fact the inspector here wants to have a word with Mr. Claymore.”

  “With Jack?”

  Lowe was certain that he saw alarm take the place of horrified surprise in her eyes.

  “Why? What can he know about it?”

  “Mr. Claymore was playing with Mr. Stanwood this morning, miss,” said Bream, answering for himself. “And it’s more than likely that he was the last person to see him alive.”

  “Here he comes now,” growled Grayling, jerking his head towards the winding road that connected the clubhouse with the main thoroughfare. “That’s his car.”

  Trevor Lowe watched the little two-seater come swiftly along the track and pull up with a jerk. A hatless, fair-haired man in an open shirt and flannels sprang out, and a moment later joined them on the veranda.

  “Hello, Lowe,” he greeted the dramatist with a grin. “You’re a stranger. Haven’t seen you for ages… Sorry I’m late, Helen. I was just setting off when I found one of the tyres completely flat and three inches of glass bottle through the cover…” he broke off and looked quickly from one to the other. “I say, what are you all looking so jolly serious about?”

  “It’s Mr. Stanwood, Jack…” began the girl, and his face changed. His brows drew together and his mouth set.

  “Has that brute been making trouble?” he demanded angrily. “If he has, I’ll give him the hiding I promised this morning!”

  “Did you quarrel with Mr. Stanwood this morning, sir?” asked the inspector quickly.

  “Yes, I did!” snapped Claymore. “I told him a few home truths and threatened that the next time he interfered in my affairs I’d break his neck!”

  “Jack!” Helen Morgan’s face was white. “You don’t know what you’re saying…”

  “Where did this quarrel take place, sir?” broke in Bream hastily.

  “At the thirteenth hole,” answered the young man. “We hadn’t finished the round, but I left him there. What’s the idea of these questions? Has Stanwood been complaining?”

  The inspector shook his head.

  “No, sir,” he said. “Mr. Stanwood is dead.”

  The quietly spoken words had a startling effect on Claymore. His jaw dropped and he stared at Bream incredulously.

  “How did it happen?” he asked huskily.

  “He was murdered near the thirteenth hole,” answered the inspector.

  “Good God!” muttered Claymore, and Bream took the red golf ball from his pocket.

  “This was found next to the body,” he went on, holding it out. “It’s one of yours, I think?”

  Claymore looked at the ball in amazement.

  “Yes, it’s one of mine,” he admitted. “But, I don’t understand—I only use one of these occasionally, when it has been snowing…”

  “You weren’t using it this morning?” inquired the inspector.

  The other shook his head.

  “No, I was playing with an ordinary ball,” he replied.

  “Then you can’t account for this having been found near the body?”

  “No.”

  The inspector dropped the ball back in his pocket.

  “I should like to hear, sir,” he said, “exactly what did happen this morning between you and Mr. Stanwood?”

  Claymore moistened his lips.

  “There’s not much to tell,” he replied, and neither was there. He had dropped into the clubhouse at ten-thirty and found Stanwood having a drink at the bar. There had been nobody else there, and Stanwood had suggested a game. Claymore, although he didn’t like the man, had agreed. They got on fairly well until the thirteenth hole, when Stanwood had become offensive. There had been, to use Claymore’s own expression, “A hell of a row,” and he had left Stanwood, gone back to the clubhouse to leave his bag, and then gone home. Regarding the actual cause of the trouble he was stubbornly silent.

  “That’s my business,” he said shortly when the inspector tried to press the matter, and Bream did not pursue the subject.

  “You didn’t see what happened to Mr. Stanwood after you’d left him, sir?” he asked.

  “The last I saw of him,” answered Claymore, “he was practising putting on the green.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the inspector. “I’ve no doubt your evidence will be required at the inquest. I’ll just go along and have a look at Mr. Stanwood’s cottage and then make arrangements with the coroner.”

  The Inquest was held on the Wednesday morning—two days after the discovery of the crime. Colonel Grayling had suggested that Lowe should stay with him until after the proceedings, and the dramatist, who was intensely interested, had accepted the invitation without much persuasion.

  The little school-room was crowded when the coroner opened the inquiry. He was a fussy, bald-headed little man with a dry, nervous cough, and fully aware of the importance of his position.

  Milton was the first witness called, and he gave evidence of identification. Dr. Faversham followed him and stated briefly the cause of death, and then Lowe and Grayling gave an account of their discovery of the body. When they had finished Inspector Bream took the stand. He described the circumstances in which he had been called in and gave an outline of his investigations.

  Stanwood had, apparently, been something of a mystery. Very little was known about him prior to his coming to live in the neighbourhood, and not very much since. No relations could be traced, nor, with the exception of the few acquaintances he had made in the district, did he appear to have any friends. His balance at the local bank was not excessive but adequate. He had opened an account on his arrival with a cash payment of a thousand pounds, and had since paid in, also in cash, a further five hundred. Of this, nearly nine hundred remained. The inspector had made every effort to discover something of his previous history before he had taken up his residence in Fernlow cottage, but so far without result.

  There was a murmur of interest among the audience, sternly suppressed by the coroner, when Bream related his interview with Claymore. The red golf ball was produced, and when the inspector explained where it had been found and to whom it belonged, Lowe saw the jury glance significantly at each other.

  Jack Claymore was called, and repeated what he had already told the inspector on the afternoon of the murder. Once again he refused to give any reason for his quarrel with the dead man. He identified the red golf ball as his property, but said he could not account for its presence near the body. The ball that he had been playing with that morning had been an ordinary white one. He explained that he only used the red balls when it had been snowing. He had three of them whi
ch he kept with the ordinary ones in his locker at the clubhouse. When he had gone with Inspector Bream to examine this locker he admitted that there were only two of the red balls there, but he was unable to account for this.

  He could only affirm that he had not used a red ball for over ten months. To a suggestion that he might have taken a red ball in mistake for a white one, since all the balls were mixed up together, he replied that it was totally impossible. Asked if he had noticed whether there were three red balls in the locker on the morning he had played with the deceased he said he thought there were, but he could not be sure. The locker had a lock, and he kept the key on a bunch with several others. There was no sign that the lock had been tampered with, and so far as he knew the key had not left his possession.

  He agreed with the coroner that it seemed as though he had taken the red ball himself, but was quite sure that he had not. Asked if he was engaged to Miss Helen Morgan he looked surprised, and replied that he was, and after some hesitation admitted that Stanwood had, for several weeks past, pestered the girl with his attention, and that he had naturally resented it. He refused, however, to say this was why he had quarrelled with the dead man on the morning of his death. To the coroner’s final question as to whether there had been anybody else in sight, either while he had been playing with the deceased or after he had left him, he answered that he had seen no one.

  This concluded the evidence, and the coroner prepared to address the jury.

  Trevor Lowe had become more and more uneasy during the examination of Jack Claymore, and the coroner’s speech did nothing to alleviate his anxiety. He was scrupulously fair, but with every word that fell from his lips the case against Claymore grew blacker.

  The dramatist was not surprised when, without leaving the box, the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against Claymore, and Inspector Bream put him formally under arrest.

  Trevor Lowe went back to lunch with Grayling troubled and dissatisfied. In spite of the result of the inquest he was not at all sure that Claymore was guilty. Granting opportunity, and possibly motive—though he thought this was a little weak—no reasonable explanation had been offered for the presence of the red golf ball. It was inconceivable to suppose that Claymore had made a mistake and played with it during his game with Stanwood. And, if he hadn’t, how had it got where it had been found? The more he thought of it the more convinced he became that in the correct answer to that question lay the real solution of how Stanwood had met his death. He was silent and preoccupied during lunch, and every effort on Grayling’s part to make conversation was met with a grunt or monosyllabic reply.