To Wake the Dead (Dr. Gideon Fell series Book 9)

by John Dickson Carr

  “But is he guilty?” asked Francine quietly. “You don’t think so, do you?”

  The doctor considered this.

  “I merely wish to know more about it, you see. Being afflicted with a real scatter-brain, I am full of a hideous curiosity about very small details, and tend to let the main picture go hang. Hah!” He folded his hands over the head of his stick. “And I’ll tell you the impression I got from that little episode,” he added impressively. “Supposing always that things are what they seem, on every major issue Gay was floored. On every minor issue he floored Hadley. You might be able to make out a case against him as a murderer. But you cannot make out a case against him as a practical joker. You see, I am one of those people who honestly think it is funny to paint a statue red; and I can see the force of it.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well, look here! If that drawer full of photographs had really contained a picture of him with Mrs. Kent, or anything of a betraying nature, why should he have waited until this morning to destroy it? Why wasn’t it destroyed quietly instead of being joyously besprinkled with red ink to call attention to it? Burning would have done it in one minute, with nobody the wiser. Gay made those points himself. And they were so pertinent that Hadley had to dodge them.

  “Then there is the question of the fun-fair photograph. Hadley was quite right: the ink on the back of that picture is at least a week old, and probably a good deal more. Now, psychologically, that rather unpleasant-sounding threat, ‘There is one more to go,’ was inspired by precisely the same motive as a joke. But the whole point of such a trick is its immediate execution and its full, fine flavour while you are in the mood. I will give you an example. Let us suppose that I am a member of the House of Lords. One day, musing dreamily on the back benches, it occurs to me what an excellent thing it would be if I were to inscribe a piece of paper reading, ‘Just call me Snookums,’ or ‘Ready-made, £1 3s. 6d’; to pin this paper to the back of the unsuspecting fellow-peer in front of me; and to study the interesting effect as he stalked out afterwards.

  “Now, either I decide not to do this, or (if I am made of nobler stuff) to do it. There is only one thing I assuredly do not do. I do not write out the sign and put it carefully away in my pocket, saying to myself: ‘I will hang this paper on old Plushbottom’s back exactly a week from next Thursday, the proper time for it, and meanwhile I will keep it always ready at hand, guarded against all ravages.’ Why on earth should I? It takes only a second to scribble: I may have a different mood or a brighter thought: it is an utterly useless sort of thing to carry about, and may cause surprise if it falls out at the dinner-table.

  “Don’t think I am not serious because I use such an example. Exactly the same principle applies here. But it applies much more strongly. If I am caught, all I risk from old Plushbottom is a dirty look or a punch in the nose. The person who wrote this, and kept it about him, risked the hangman. So why should Gay do any such nonsensical thing as write it weeks ago and keep it at hand for a possible opportunity?”

  There was a silence.

  “I’ve wondered,” Francine said demurely, “just where in this affair you would live up to your reputation and really begin to lecture. But, I say, I don’t see that it applies only to Sir Gyles. It applies to anybody else as well, doesn’t it?”

  “Exactly. And therefore I have wondered why Hadley has neglected to ask the only really significant question about the photograph.”

  “What question?”

  “Why, the question of who is in the photograph, of course!” thundered Dr. Fell, and brought his hand down on the head of the stick. “Or, more properly, who isn’t in it. It’s not very complicated, is it? If this means a menace at all, it means a menace to someone in the group. And if it follows the distortedly jesting symbolism which is the only symbolism it can have, the victim indicated is the person who is being pushed down the slide in the picture: the one who seems to be making a protesting gesture about it. But that is the only person in the group whom you can’t see. Mr. Reaper’s back is in the way, and hides the view.” He paused, wheezing, and added mildly: “Well, that’s what I’m here to find out. Do you remember that picture being taken? And, if so, who was being pushed down the slide?”

  He looked at Dan, who nodded.

  “That’s smart,” said Dan thoughtfully. “Yes, naturally I remember it. It was Jenny. She didn’t want to go down the chute; afraid she’d show her thighs or something; but I gave her a push.”

  “But that means—!” cried Francine, with a sort of inspiration.

  Dr. Fell nodded. “It was Mrs. Kent. I thought so. And that’s the whole sad, ugly story. Do you begin to see why the message, “There is one more to go,’ was written a fortnight ago? Eh? When Rodney Kent was killed, the murderer scrawled this message on the back of the photograph and intended to leave it on the scene of the crime: just as later he sardonically scrawled, ‘Dead Woman’ when the threat was fulfilled. “There is one more to go’ applied to Mrs. Kent. But the murderer changed his mind about leaving it: this murderer you see, can never seem to make up his mind about anything—that’s what has betrayed him. But he was wise in not leaving it. That would have been incautious. And the photograph-cum-message has been calmly reposing in this house, probably in Gay’s desk, ever since: until it was hauled out for some very curious monkey-tricks this morning. Well, do these heavy cogitations lead you on to deduce anything else?”

  He watched them with grim affability. Getting out his pipe, he unscrewed it and blew through the stem as though he were blowing a particularly seductive whistle. He was still whistling for something, certainly.

  “In Gay’s desk,” muttered Christopher Kent. “The heavy cogitations show that Gay can’t possibly be the murderer.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s pretty plain. If the picture was intended to represent a threat to Jenny, the murderer knew that the person being pushed down the slide was Jenny. But you can’t tell that just by looking at the picture. She’s hidden. You can’t even tell it’s a woman. So the murderer must be somebody who is either in the picture or was there when it was taken; and that rules out Gay.”

  “Won’t do,” objected Dan, shaking his head with decisiveness. “I remember telling Gay who it was, or writing about it, or—here! Seems to me I’ve seen that picture more recently, somewhere—seen it—seen it——”

  “Yes,” chimed in Francine abruptly. “And so have I. We saw it——”

  Their voices stopped: that mutual jump at thought seemed to defeat itself as they came into conflict, like two people trying to open a door from opposite sides. Dr. Fell’s whistle piped enticingly, and piped again. Nothing happened.

  “It’s no good,” said Dan. “I’ve forgotten.”

  “H’mf, ha! Well, never mind. But still is there anything else that strikes you?” prompted the doctor.

  “But still, about Gay’s innocence,” persisted Kent. “I’d like to—er—yes, I’d like to think he’s guilty. All the same, it comes back to what we were arguing about a while ago: the blazing fathead who would keep the thing in his possession for a couple of weeks. You say you think it was probably in Gay’s desk. But, if he were the murderer, wouldn’t he have destroyed it?”

  “Warm,” said Dr. Fell. “Unquestionably warm. Therefore?”

  “The only thing I can think of was that it was planted on him.” Kent started; it was as though his sight went into another focus, and he could see the other face in the moon. “I believe I’ve got it! Listen. Someone planted it in the desk two weeks ago. But Gay hadn’t found it because he hadn’t looked in that drawer in the meantime. When he came back home to-day, he did look in the drawer, and discovered it among the other photographs. Now, listen!——”

  “Chris,” said Francine coldly.

  “He was properly scared out of his Sunday trousers, because he wondered whether it would be found or whether somebody mightn’t have seen it among his things already. It was all the worse
because he really had been tied up with Jenny in the old days; and, for some reason, has persistently denied it. So he pretended to ‘find’ the photograph-and-message somewhere else. To cover up its sudden appearance, and pretend that the murderer had been up to funny business again, he tore up the rest of the pictures and sloshed them with red ink. He invented a story about donkeys’ tails and pinched some silver out of his own drawer. That’s it! It would explain both his guilty and innocent actions; his behaviour to-day and the rotten badness of his acting when——”

  “Warmer and warmer yet, I think,” beamed Dr. Fell. “But not, I am afraid, quite on the mark. It is significant that the only picture left completely intact did not contain a likeness of Mrs. Kent. True enough, I managed to dig one out of the mess, one that had not been effaced by tearing or ink; but——”

  He stopped. There were heavy footsteps outside. Hadley, with a depressed-looking Wrayburn who was not now inclined to bounce, glanced in at the door. He gave the others a perfunctory good morning.

  “May I see you alone for a minute, Fell?” he said.

  When Dr. Fell had lumbered out, Hadley was careful to close the door. There was an uneasy silence, while they all looked at each other. Wrayburn, jamming his hands again into the pockets of his coat, attempted a light note in speech. His face was glossy.

  “It may interest you to know,” he remarked, “that I’ve just dropped one of the world’s heavier bricks. The trouble being that I haven’t got the remotest idea what it is. I made quite a study of psychology once; but I still don’t know. I came back from the pub enlivened with a couple of pints, and charged back to the study, and said something asinine: still, I don’t see how it could have been as asinine as all that. Hadley rather prefers the measles to me. Our host, after a conference with Hadley, is sitting downstairs with his head in his hands, looking like death. Poor old cuss: I felt sorry for him. I knew a fellow once, fellow named——”

  “Shut up,” said Dan briefly.

  “Oh, all right. But fair’s fair, and somebody ought to talk to me. If I’m still in disgrace for making a fool of myself over Jen——”

  “Shut up,” said Dan.

  There was another silence.

  “Yes, but all the same,” argued Wrayburn, “isn’t that what’s making everybody so frosty? I had to get a couple of pints inside me to ask it; but what have I done that others haven’t done? You know, I’ve been wondering about something I never thought of before. Just why did we call her Jenny? Is it natural? The ordinary diminutive for ‘Josephine’ is ‘Jo’ or even, save the mark, ‘Josie.’ But she always referred to herself as Jenny, you know. Would it be Jenny Wren? No, I’ve got a better idea——”

  “What the devil are you burbling about?” asked Dan, out of the thick wool of reflection.

  Both of them broke off when the door opened, and even as Kent remembered Dr. Fell’s remark that his first interest in the case had been in names. It was Dr. Fell who opened the door. He was alone.

  “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that some of us will not be staying to lunch. But—hum—before we go, will you do me one favour? Believe me, it is necessary. Will you all come up to the Blue Room with me for just a short time?”

  There was a noticeable shuffling of feet when they went out. The long hall which bisected the house, of rough plastering and beamed ceiling, had a large but small-paned window at each end. The windows were of slightly crooked glass, and held a reflection of snow. Kent knew which door would be the door to the Blue Room, since the famous leather sofa stood near it. They were all awkward about getting through the doorway.

  The room in which Rodney Kent had died was at the back of the house, its windows looking out over the garden wall and the elms of the churchyard. Like the other rooms it was large but narrow, papered in velvety dark-blue stuff which now merely succeeded in looking dismal. The furniture, old-fashioned without being ancient, was of the fashion of some seventy years ago: a great double bed in oak, its headboard and footboard pointed at the top but sloping down shallowly to a curve by the little posts, showed much scroll-work and aggressively dominated the room. A bureau, and a dressing-table with a very tall mirror, both had marble tops like the round table in the centre. There were two chairs trying to break their backs with straightness, and a wash-hand-stand (marble-topped) bearing blue-and-white china. Face towels hung neatly from a rack beside it. On the dark-flowered carpet near the table there was a broad greyish mark of scrubbing. Tasselled draperies on the windows were not drawn close enough to shut out a view of a headstone or two, or of the church tower, whose clock now made the glass vibrate by striking one. Dr. Fell stopped by the table.

  “Is this room,” said Dr. Fell, “except for one exhibit, now just as it was when Mr. Kent was murdered?”

  It was Dan who answered yes.

  “There were no signs of a struggle?”

  “None.”

  “I have seen it in the police photographs,” rumbled Dr. Fell, “but they did not show what I wanted. Will you get down on the floor as nearly as you can in the position the body was lying?…H’mf, thank you; that’s fairly clear. Right side; head almost touching the left-hand caster of the bed; feet near the table. The bruise on the back of the head was rather high up, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the towel?”

  “Draped over the shoulder.”

  “As in Mrs. Kent’s case?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a heavy finality in question and answer which was like the striking of the clock.

  “All right, there’s that,” growled Dan. “But what does it show, now you’ve seen it?”

  “I’m inclined to think it shows a great deal,” said Dr. Fell. “You see, up until this morning I wondered if I might be wrong. Now I know I must be right. At least we know one thing that was in the dark before. We know how Rodney Kent really died.”

  There was not as much light as there should have been, either in the room or in their minds. They stared at him.

  “This is really a lot of most unnecessary nonsense,” interposed Melitta, who had been sniffing as though she were going to cry. “You are perfectly well aware we know how poor Rodney died.”

  “The murderer was talking to him amicably enough,” said Dr. Fell. “Then the murderer distracted his attention to something, so that he turned his head away. The murderer struck him on the back of the head with a weapon smaller than a poker. When he was unconscious, the murderer first strangled him to death and then beat his face with the poker. Yes. But what I said before is still true: we did not know, before, how he was really killed. It is not a riddle. You see, the murderer was someone who hated Rodney Kent very much. And therefore the murder of Josephine Kent——”

  “Jenny,” said Wrayburn.

  “Will you be quiet?” requested Dan, turning in exasperation.

  “No, I mean it,” said Wrayburn. “We all know how attractive a—a woman Jenny was. Excuse me: I was going to say ‘piece of goods,’ but that doesn’t fit. With all the inane crookedness in the little piece of goods’s heart and soul, it still doesn’t fit. There are women like that. They sort of—hold on.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Dan.

  “Not on two pints. No, I’m myself. I was telling them, doctor (or trying to tell them) that it occurred to me a while ago how she came to be called Jenny. Of course she liked it. But she didn’t coin the name for herself. No. It was some man who did that. God knows who he is or where he is—and if I had an idea, I wouldn’t tell you. But he’s middle-aged, the sort Jenny liked. She was the ideal Old Man’s woman; or has someone said that? And he’s probably not far off now, wondering why he killed her and what life will be like now that he hasn’t got anything to hate.”

  “Oh, brace up,” growled Dan. “We’re all getting soft-headed. Why don’t you begin on verse?”

  “I will,” said Wrayburn. He nodded gravely, his hands jammed into his pockets and his eyes on the window.

  “Je
nny kissed me when we met,

  Jumping from the chair she sat in,

  Time, you thief, who love to get

  Sweets into your list, put that in!

  Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,

  Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,

  Say I’m growing old, but add——”

  17

  The Questions of Dr. Fell

  “MURDER—” BEGAN DR. FELL affably.

  “Hold on,” said Hadley, putting down his tankard and giving the doctor a suspicious look. “There is something in your expression,”—it was, in fact, one of fiendish and expansive pleasure—“which tells me you’re about to begin a lecture. No! We don’t want to listen to any lectures now. We’ve got too much work to do. Furthermore, when Gay gets here——”

  Dr. Fell looked pained. “I beg your pardon,” he rumbled with dignity. “So far from demeaning myself to lecture to you, I was about to submit myself voluntarily to the intolerable process of listening to you lecture. I gather that for once in your life you are inclined to agree partly with me about a case. At least, you are willing to give a sporting chance to a belief. Very well. I have some questions for you.”

  “What questions?”

  It was nearly ten o’clock, and a rush of last-minute customers at the bar penetrated through from the other side of the door. Dr. Fell, Hadley, and Kent sat alone in the comfortable, raftered bar-parlour of the Stag and Glove. There was ample living-accommodation at the pub, and they had taken rooms there for the night. This Kent knew; but it was all he knew. That day had consisted of cross-currents and mysterious conferences about whose import he had been given (and had asked for) no hint. Dr. Fell had disappeared for a long time during the afternoon. When the doctor returned, Hadley disappeared. There was also a conference with the long and saturnine Inspector Tanner. What was to be done about Sir Gyles Gay, or whether anything was to be done, Kent had not heard. He had not seen Sir Gyles after that episode of eavesdropping. To get away from the atmosphere of tension at Four Doors, he and Francine had gone for a long walk in the snow; but the tension was still there, and the silver of a winter sunset looked merely angry. The only memory he carried away from it was of Francine, in a Russian-esque kind of astrakhan cap, sitting on a stile in her fur coat, with the low grey hills beyond.