Finger of Fate

by Sapper

  “There’s nothing to do, Miss Brabazon – but tell the truth,” said Seymour, gravely. “What I mean is,” he explained, hurriedly, “you’ve got to impress on Bill the vital necessity of being absolutely frank with the police.”

  “I know he didn’t do it, Bob,” she cried, desperately. “I know it.”

  Bob! She’d called him Bob. And such is human nature that for a moment the dead man was forgotten.

  “So do I, Ruth,” he whispered, impulsively. “So do I.”

  “And you’ll prove it?” she cried.

  “I’ll prove it,” he promised her. Which was no rasher than many promises made under similar conditions.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come, Inspector.” Sir Robert had met the police at the door. “A dreadful tragedy.”

  “So I gather, Sir Robert,” answered the other. “One of your guests been murdered?”

  “I didn’t say so on the ’phone,” said Sir Robert. “I said – killed.”

  The inspector grunted, “Where’s the body?”

  “In the smoking-room.” He led the way towards the door.

  “I’ve got the key in my pocket,” said Seymour; and the inspector looked at him quickly.

  “May I ask your name, sir?” he remarked.

  “Seymour – Major Seymour,” returned the other. “I turned out the light and locked the door while Sir Robert was telephoning for you, to ensure that nothing would be moved.

  The inspector grunted again, as Seymour opened the door and struck a light.

  “Over in that window, Inspector–” began Sir Robert, only to stop and gape foolishly across the room.

  “I don’t quite understand, gentlemen,” said Inspector Grayson, testily.

  “No more do I,” muttered Bob Seymour, with a puzzled frown.

  “I left him lying, as we found him, half in and half out of the window,” said Seymour. “His legs were inside, his head and shoulders from the waist upwards were outside.”

  It was the constable who interrupted him. While the others were standing by the door he had crossed to the window and leaned out.

  “Here’s the body, sir,” he cried. “Outside in the flower-bed.”

  PART 2

  1

  The inspector went quickly to the window and peered out; then he turned and confronted Sir Robert and Seymour.

  “He’s dead right enough now,” he said, gravely. “It seems a pity that you gentlemen didn’t take a little more trouble to find out if he was in the first place. You might have saved his life.”

  “Hang it, man!” exploded Seymour, angrily, “do you suppose I don’t know a dead man when I see one?”

  “I don’t know whether you do or don’t,” answered the other, shortly. “But I’ve never yet heard of a dead man getting up and moving to an adjacent flower-bed. And you say yourself that you left him lying over the window-sill.”

  For a moment an angry flush mounted on the soldier’s face, then with an effort, he controlled himself. On the face of it, the inspector was perfectly justified in his remark: dead men do not move. The trouble was that Bob Seymour had felt the dead man’s heart and his pulse; had turned the light of his torch from close range into his eyes. And he knew that he had made no mistake; he knew that the man was dead when he turned out the light and left the room. He knew it; but – dead men do not move. What had happened in the room during the time they were waiting for the police? The key had been in his pocket: who had moved the body? And why? Not Bill Brabazon: that he knew.

  With a puzzled frown he crossed slowly towards the two policemen, who were hauling the limp form through the open window. And once again he paused and sniffed.

  “That smell again, Sir Robert,” he remarked.

  “What smell?” demanded the inspector, as they laid the dead man on the floor.

  “Don’t you notice it? A strange, fetid, rank smell.”

  The inspector sniffed perfunctorily. “I smell the ordinary smell of rain on dead leaves,” he remarked. “What about it?”

  “Nothing, except that there are no dead leaves in June,” returned Seymour, shortly.

  “Well, sir,” snorted the inspector, “whether there are dead leaves or not, we’ve got a dead man on the floor. And I take it he wasn’t killed by a smell, anyway.”

  In the full light of the room Denton was an even more unpleasant sight than when he had lain sprawling over the window-sill. The water dripped from his sodden clothing and ran in little pools on the floor; the dark, puffy face was smeared with a layer of wet earth. But it was not at these details that Bob Seymour was staring: it was an angry-looking red weal round the neck just above the collar that riveted his attention. The inspector, taking no further notice of the two spectators, was proceeding methodically with his examination. First he turned out all the pockets, laying the contents neatly on the table; then, with the help of the constable, he turned the body over on its face. A little fainter, but still perfectly discernible, the red weal could be traced continuously round the neck; and after a while the inspector straightened up and turned to Sir Robert.

  “It looks as if he had been strangled, sir,” he remarked, professionally. “I should imagine from the size of the mark that a fairly thin rope was used. Have you any idea whether anyone had a grudge against him? The motive was obviously not robbery.”

  “Strangled!” cried Sir Robert, joining the other three. “But I don’t understand.” He turned perplexedly to Bob Seymour, who was standing near the window absorbed in thought. Then, a little haltingly, he continued: “Unfortunately there was a very severe row between him and another of my guests earlier in the evening.”

  “Where did the row take place?”

  “Er – in this room.”

  “Was anyone else present?”

  “No. No one heard them quarrelling. But Mr Brabazon, the guest in question, made no secret about it – afterwards. He told us in the billiard-room that – that they had come to blows in here.”

  “I would like to see Mr Brabazon, Sir Robert,” said the inspector. “Perhaps you would be good enough to send for him.”

  “I will go and get him myself,” returned the other, leaving the room.

  “A very remarkable affair,” murmured Seymour, as the door closed behind his host. “Don’t you agree with me, inspector?”

  “In what way?” asked the officer, guardedly.

  But the soldier was lighting a cigarette, and made no immediate answer. “May I ask,” he remarked at length, “if you’ve ever tried to strangle a man with a rope? Because,” he continued, when the other merely snorted indignantly, “I have. During the war – in German East Africa. And it took me a long while. You see, if you put a slip-knot round a man’s neck and pull, he comes towards you. You’ve got to get very close to him and kneel on him, or wedge him in some way so that he can’t move, before you can do much good in the strangling line.”

  “Quite an amateur detective, Major Seymour,” said the inspector condescendingly. “If you will forgive my saying so, however, it might have been better had you concentrated on seeing whether the poor fellow was dead.”

  He turned as the door opened, and Bill Brabazon came in, followed by Sir Robert.

  “This is Mr Brabazon, Inspector,” said the latter.

  The officer eyed the youngster keenly for a moment before he spoke. Then he pointed to a chair, so placed that the light of the lamp would fall on the face of anyone sitting in it.

  “Will you tell me everything you know, Mr Brabazon? And I should advise you not to attempt to conceal anything.”

  “I’ve got nothing to conceal,” answered the boy, doggedly. “I found Denton in here about half-past ten, and we started quarrelling. I’d been trying to avoid him the whole evening, but there was no getting away from him this time. After a while we began to fight, and he hit me in the face. Then I saw red, and really went for him. And I laid him out. That’s all I know about it.”

  “And what did you do after you laid him out?”


  “I went out into the garden to cool down. Then when the rain came on, I went to the billiard-room and told Sir Robert. And the first thing I knew about this,” with a shudder he looked at the dead body, “was when Mr Trayne came into the billiard-room and told us.”

  “Mr Trayne? Who is he, Sir Robert?”

  “Another guest stopping in the house. Do you wish to see him?”

  “Please.” The inspector paced thoughtfully up and down the room.

  “The light was on, wasn’t it, Bill, when you left the room?” said Seymour.

  “It was. Why, I saw his shadow on the lawn, as I told you.”

  “Did you?” said the inspector, watching him narrowly. “Would you be surprised to hear, Mr Brabazon, that this unfortunate man was strangled?”

  “Strangled!” Bill Brabazon started up from his chair. “Strangled! Good God! Who by?”

  “That is precisely what we want to find out,” said the inspector.

  “But, good heavens! man,” cried the boy, excitedly, “don’t you see that that exonerates me. I didn’t strangle him: I only hit him on the jaw. And that shadow I saw,” he swung round on Seymour, “must have been the murderer.”

  “You wish to see me, Inspector?” Trayne’s voice from the doorway interrupted him, and he sat back in his chair again. And Seymour, watching the joyful look on Bill’s face, knew that he spoke the truth. His amazement at hearing the cause of death had been too spontaneous not to be genuine. In his own mind Bill Brabazon regarded himself as cleared: the trouble was that other people might not. The majority of murderers have died, still protesting their innocence.

  “I understand that it was you, Mr Trayne, who first discovered the body,” said the inspector.

  “It was. I came in and found the room in darkness. I wished to study an inscription by the window to which Sir Robert had alluded at dinner. I struck a match, and then – I saw the body lying half in half out over the sill. It gave me a dreadful shock – quite dreadful. And I at once went to the billiard-room for assistance.”

  “So whoever did it turned out the light,” said the inspector, musingly. “What time was it, Mr Trayne, when you made the discovery?”

  “About half-past eleven, I should think.”

  “An hour after the quarrel. And in that hour someone entered this room either by the window or the door, and committed the deed. He, further, left either by the window or the door. How did you leave, Mr Brabazon?”

  “By the door,” said the youngster. “The flower-bed outside the window is too wide to jump.”

  “Then if the murderer entered by the window, he will have left footmarks. If he entered by the door and left by it the presumption is that he is a member of the house. No one who was not would risk leaving by the door after committing such an act.”

  “Most ably reasoned,” murmured Seymour, mildly.

  But the inspector was far too engrossed with his theory to notice the slight sarcasm in the other’s tone. With a powerful electric torch he was searching the ground outside the window for any trace of footprints. The mark in the ground where the body had lain was clearly defined; save for that, however, the flower-bed revealed nothing. It was at least fifteen feet wide; to cross it, leaving no trace, appeared a physical impossibility. And after a while the inspector turned back into the room and looked gravely at Sir Robert Deering.

  “I should like to have every member of the house-party and all your servants in here, Sir Robert, one by one,” he remarked.

  “Then you think it was done by someone in the house, Inspector?” Sir Robert was looking worried.

  “I prefer not to say anything definite at present,” answered the official, guardedly. “Perhaps we can start with the house-party.”

  With a shrug of his shoulder, Sir Robert left the room, and the inspector turned to the constable.

  “Lend a hand here, Murphy; we’ll put the body behind the screen before any of the ladies come in.”

  “Great Scott! man,” cried Seymour. “What do you want the ladies for? You don’t suggest that a woman could have strangled him?”

  “You will please allow me to know my own business best,” said the other, coldly. “Shut and bolt the windows, Murphy.”

  The rain had stopped as the policeman crossed the room to carry out his orders. And it was as he stood by the open window, with his hands upraised to the sash, that he suddenly stepped back with a startled exclamation.

  “Something ’it me in the face, sir,” he muttered. Then he spat disgustedly. “Gaw! What a filthy taste!”

  But the inspector was not interested – he was covering the dead man’s face with a pocket handkerchief, and after a moment’s hesitation, the constable again reached up for the sash, and pulled it down. Only the soldier had noticed the little incident, and he was staring like a man bereft of his senses at a point just above the policeman’s head.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, harshly. “Stand still, constable.”

  With a startled look the policeman obeyed, and Seymour stepped over to him. And then he did a peculiar thing. He lit a match and turned to the inspector.

  “Just look at this match, Inspector,” he murmured. “Burning brightly, isn’t it?” He moved it a little, and suddenly the flame turned to a smoky orange colour. For a moment or two it spluttered; then it went out altogether.

  “You can move now, constable,” he said. “I didn’t want any draught for a moment.” He looked at Inspector Grayson with a smile. “Interesting little experiment that – wasn’t it?”

  Grayson snorted. “If you’ve quite finished your conjuring tricks, I’ll get on with the business,” he remarked. “Come along over here, Murphy.”

  “What is it, Bob?” Bill Brabazon cried, excitedly.

  “The third point, Bill,” answered the other. “Great Scott! what a fool I’ve been. Though it’s the most extraordinary case I’ve ever come across.”

  “Think you can reconstruct the crime?” sneered the inspector.

  “I don’t think – I know,” returned the other quietly. “But not tonight. There’s the rain again.”

  “And might I ask what clues you possess?”

  “Only one more than you, and that you can get from Sir Robert. I blush to admit it, but until a moment ago I attached no importance to it. It struck me as being merely the foolish jest of a stupid man. Now it does strike me quite in that light. Ask him,” he continued, and his voice was grim, “for the translation of that inscription under the window. And when you’ve got that, concentrate for a moment on the other end of the dead man – his trousers just above the ankles.”

  “They’re covered with dirt,” said the inspector, impressed, in spite of himself, by the other’s tones.

  “Yes – but what sort of dirt? Dry, dusty, cobwebbed dirt – not caked mud on his knees. Immense amount of importance in dirt, Inspector.”

  But Mr Grayson was recovering his dignity. “Any other advice?” he sneered.

  “Yes. Hire a man and practise strangling him. Then buy a really good encyclopaedia and study it. You’ll find a wealth of interesting information in it.” He strolled towards the door. “If you want me I shall be in the billiard-room. And, by the way, with regard to what I say about strangling, don’t forget that the victim cannot come towards you if his feet are off the ground.”

  “Perhaps you’ll have the murderer for me in the billiard-room,” remarked the inspector, sarcastically.

  “I’m afraid not,” answered the other. “The real murderer, unfortunately, is already dead. I’ll look for his accomplice in the morning.”

  With a slight smile he closed the door and strolled into the hall. The house-party were being marshalled by Sir Robert preparatory to their inquisition; the servants stood huddled together in sheepish groups under the stern eye of the butler.

  “Have you found out anything, Major Seymour?” With entreaty in her eyes, Ruth Brabazon came up to him.

  “Yes, Miss Brabazon, I have,” answered the man, reassuringly. “You
can set your mind absolutely at rest.”

  “You know who did it?” she cried, breathlessly.

  “I do,” he answered. “But unfortunately I can’t prove it tonight. And you mustn’t be alarmed at the attitude taken up by the inspector. He’s not in a very good temper, and I’m afraid I’m the cause.”

  “But does he think–?”

  “I should hesitate to say what great thoughts were passing through his brain,” said Seymour. “But I have a shrewd suspicion that he has already made up his mind that Bill did it.”

  “And who did do it, Bob?” She laid her hand beseechingly on his arm as she spoke.

  “I think it’s better to say nothing at the moment,” he answered, gently. “There are one or two points I’ve got to make absolutely certain of first. Until then – won’t you trust me, Ruth?”

  “Trust you! Why, my dear–” She turned away as she spoke, and Bob Seymour barely heard the last two words. But he did just hear them. And once again the dead man was forgotten.

  2

  “May I borrow your car, Sir Robert? I want to go to London and bring back a friend of mine – Sir Gilbert Strangways.” Bob Seymour approached his host after breakfast the following morning. “I’ll have to be back by three, in time for the inquest, and it’s very important.”

  “Strangways – the explorer! Certainly, Seymour; though I’m not keen on adding to the house-party at present.”

  “It’s essential, I’m afraid. They can only bring in one verdict this afternoon – Murder. That ass Grayson was nosing round this morning, and he, at any rate, is convinced of it.”

  “What – that Bill did it?” muttered the other.

  “He’s outside there now, making notes.”

  “You don’t think the boy did it, do you, Seymour?”

  “I know he didn’t, Sir Robert. But to prove it is a different matter. May I order the car?”

  “Yes, yes of course. Anything you like. Why on earth did I ever ask the poor fellow down here?” Sir Robert walked agitatedly up and down the hall. “And anyway, who did do it?” He threw out his hands in despair. “He can’t have done it himself.”