Bodies from the Library

by Tony Medawar

  Dr Priestley held up his hand protestingly. ‘My dear inspector, I am not the least concerned with the murderer of this Mr Farquharson. As I have repeatedly told you, my interest in these matters is purely theoretical, and confined to the processes of deduction. You are beginning your story at the wrong end. If you wish me to listen to it you must first tell me the full facts, then explain the course of your investigations, step by step.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied Hanslet, somewhat crestfallen. ‘The first fact I learnt was how Farquharson was killed. It appeared at first sight that he had been struck a terrific blow by some weapon like a pole-axe. There was a wound about two inches across on the right side of his head. But at the post-mortem, this was found to have been caused by a bullet from an ordinary service rifle, which was found embedded in his brain.’

  ‘Ah!’ remarked the professor. ‘A somewhat unusual instrument of murder, surely? What position did the body occupy in the carriage when it was found?’

  ‘Oh, in the right-hand corner, facing the engine, I believe,’ replied Hanslet, impatiently. ‘But that’s of no importance, as you’ll see. The next step, obviously, was to find out something about Farquharson, and why anyone should want to murder him. The discovery of a motive is a very great help in an investigation like this.

  ‘Farquharson lived with his daughter in a biggish house near a place called Stanford-le-Hope, on the line between Tilbury and Southend. On Saturday last he left his office, which is close to Fenchurch-street Station, about one o’clock. He lunched at a restaurant nearby, and caught the 2.15 at Fenchurch-street. As this was the train in which his dead body was found I need hardly detail the inquiries by which I discovered these facts.’

  The professor nodded. ‘I am prepared to take your word for them,’ he said.

  ‘Very well, now let us come to the motive,’ continued Hanslet. ‘Farquharson was in business with his nephew, a rather wild young fellow named Robert Halliday. It seems that this young man’s mother, Farquharson’s sister, had a good deal of money in the business, and was very anxious that her son should carry it on after Farquharson’s death. She died a couple of years ago, leaving rather a curious will, by which all her money was to remain in her brother’s business, and was to revert to her son only at her brother’s death.’

  The professor rubbed his hands. ‘Ah, the indispensable motive begins to appear!’ He exclaimed with a sarcastic smile. ‘I am sure that you feel that no further facts are necessary, inspector. It follows, of course, that young Halliday murdered his uncle to secure the money. You described him as a wild young man, I think? Really, the evidence is most damning!’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to laugh at me, professor,’ replied Hanslet indignantly. ‘I’ll admit that you’ve given me a line on things that I couldn’t find for myself often enough. But in this case there’s no possible shadow of doubt about what happened. What would you say if I told you that Halliday actually travelled in the very train in which his uncle’s body was found?’

  ‘Speaking without a full knowledge of the facts, I should say that this rather tended to establish his innocence,’ said the professor gravely.

  Hanslet winked knowingly. ‘Ah, but that’s by no means all,’ he replied. ‘Halliday is a Territorial, and he left London on Saturday afternoon in uniform, and carrying a rifle. It seems that, although he’s very keen, he’s a shocking bad marksman, and a member of a sort of awkward squad which goes down occasionally to Purfleet ranges to practise. Purfleet is a station between London and Tilbury. Halliday got out there, fired a number of rounds, and returned to London in the evening.’

  ‘Dear, dear, I’m sorry for that young man,’ remarked the professor. ‘First we have a motive, then an opportunity. Of course, he travelled in the same carriage as his uncle, levelled his musket at his head, inflicted a fearful wound, and decamped. Why, there’s hardly a weak link in the whole chain.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite as simple as that,’ replied Hanslet patiently. ‘He certainly didn’t travel in the same carriage as his uncle, since that very morning they had quarrelled violently. Farquharson, who was rather a strict old boy, didn’t approve of his nephew’s ways. Not that I can find out much against him, but he’s a bit of a young blood, and his uncle didn’t like it. He travelled third-class, and swears that he didn’t know his uncle was on the train.’

  ‘Oh, you have interviewed him already, have you?’ said the professor quietly.

  ‘I have,’ replied Hanslet. ‘His story is that he nearly missed the train, jumped into it at the last moment, in fact. Somewhere after Barking he found himself alone, and that’s all he told me. When I asked him what he was doing scrambling along the footboard outside the train between Dagenham and Rainham he became very confused, and explained that, on putting his head out of the window, he had seen another member of the awkward squad a few carriages away, and made up his mind to join him. He gave me the man’s name, and when I saw him he confirmed Halliday’s story.’

  ‘Really, inspector, your methods are masterly,’ said the professor. ‘How did you know that he had been on the footboard?’

  ‘A man working on the line had seen a soldier in uniform, with a rifle slung over his back, in this position,’ replied Hanslet triumphantly.

  ‘And you immediately concluded that this man must be Halliday,’ commented the professor. ‘Well, guesses must hit the truth sometimes, I suppose. What exactly is your theory of the crime?’

  ‘It seems plain enough,’ replied Hanslet. ‘Halliday had watched his uncle enter the train, then jumped into a carriage close to his. At a predetermined spot he clambered along with his loaded rifle, shot him through the window, then, to avert suspicion, joined his friend, whom he had seen enter the train, a little farther on. It’s as plain as a pikestaff to me.’

  ‘So it appears,’ remarked the professor drily. ‘What steps do you propose to take in the matter?’

  ‘I propose to arrest Halliday at the termination of the inquest,’ replied Hanslet complacently.

  The professor made no reply to this for several seconds. ‘I think it would be to everybody’s advantage if you consulted me again before doing so,’ he said at last.

  A cloud passed for an instant over Hanslet’s face. ‘I will, if you think it would do any good,’ he replied. ‘But you must see for yourself that I have enough evidence to secure a conviction from any jury.’

  ‘That is just what disquiets me,’ returned the professor quickly. ‘You cannot expect the average juryman to have an intelligence superior to yours, you know. I have your promise?’

  ‘Certainly, if you wish it,’ replied Hanslet rather huffily. He changed the subject abruptly, and a few minutes later he rose and left the house.

  In the course of our normal routine I forgot the death of Mr Farquharson entirely. It was not until the following afternoon, when Mary, the parlourmaid, entered the study with the announcement that a Miss Farquharson had called and begged that she might see the professor immediately, that the matter recurred to me.

  ‘Miss Farquharson!’ I exclaimed. ‘Why, that must be the daughter of the fellow who was murdered the other day. Hanslet said he had a daughter, you remember.’

  ‘The balance of probability would appear to favour that theory,’ replied the professor acidly. ‘Yes, I’ll see her. Show Miss Farquharson in please, Mary.’

  Miss Farquharson came in, and the professor greeted her with his usual courtesy. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ he inquired.

  Miss Farquharson hesitated a moment or two before she replied. She was tall and fair, dressed in deep mourning, with an elusive prettiness which I, at least, found most attractive. And even before she spoke, I guessed something of the truth from the flush which suffused her face at the professor’s question.

  ‘I’m afraid you may think this an unpardonable intrusion,’ she said at last. ‘The truth is that Bob—Mr Halliday—who is my cousin, has heard of you and begged me to come and see you.’

&n
bsp; The professor frowned. He hated his name becoming known in connection with any investigations which he undertook, but in spite of all his efforts, many people had come to know of his hobby. Miss Farquharson took his frown for a sign of disapproval and continued with an irresistible tone of pleading in her voice.

  ‘It was only as a last hope I came to you,’ she said. ‘It’s all so awful that I feel desperate. I expect you know that my father was found dead last Saturday in a train at Tilbury, while he was on his way home?’

  The professor nodded. ‘I am aware of some of the facts,’ he replied non-committally. ‘I need not trouble you to repeat them. But in what way can I be of assistance to you?’

  ‘It’s too terrible,’ she exclaimed with a sob. ‘The police suspect Bob of having murdered him. They haven’t said so, but they have been asking him all sorts of dreadful questions. Bob thought perhaps you might be able to do something—’

  Her voice tailed away hopelessly under the professor’s unwinking gaze.

  ‘My dear young lady, I am not a magician,’ he replied. ‘I may as well tell you that I have seen Inspector Hanslet, who has what he considers a convincing case against your cousin.’

  ‘But you don’t believe it, do you, Dr Priestley?’ interrupted Miss Farquharson eagerly.

  ‘I can only accept the inspector’s statements as he gave them to me,’ replied the professor. ‘I know nothing of the case beyond what he has told me. Perhaps you would allow me to ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll tell you everything I can.’

  The professor inclined his head with a gesture of thanks. ‘Was your father in the habit of travelling by the 2.15 train from Fenchurch-street on Saturday afternoons?’

  ‘No,’ replied Miss Farquharson with decision. ‘Only when he was kept later than usual at the office. His usual custom was to come home to a late lunch.’

  ‘I see. Now, can you tell me the reason for the quarrel between him and your cousin?’

  This time Miss Farquharson’s reply was not so prompt. She lowered her head so that we could not see her face, and kept silence for a moment. Then, as though she had made up her mind, she spoke suddenly.

  ‘I see no harm in telling you. As a matter of fact, Bob and I have been in love with one another for a long time, and Bob decided to tell my father on Saturday morning. Father was rather old-fashioned, and he didn’t altogether approve of Bob. Not that there was any harm in anything he did, but father couldn’t understand that a young man liked to amuse himself.

  ‘There was quite a scene when Bob told him, and father refused to hear anything about it until Bob had reformed, as he put it. But I know that Bob didn’t kill him,’ she concluded entreatingly. ‘It’s impossible for anybody who knew him to believe he could. You don’t believe it, do you?’

  ‘No, I do not believe it,’ replied the professor slowly. ‘If it is any consolation to you and Mr Halliday, I may tell you in confidence that I never have believed it. When is the inquest to be?’

  A look of deep thankfulness overspread her features. ‘I am more grateful to you than I can say, Dr Priestley,’ she said earnestly. ‘The inquest? On Saturday morning. Will you be there?’

  The professor shook his head. ‘No, I shall not be there,’ he replied. ‘You see, it is not my business. But I shall take steps before then to make certain inquiries. I do not wish to raise your hopes unduly, but it is possible that I may be able to divert suspicion from Mr Halliday. More than that I cannot say.’

  Tears of thankfulness came to her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to Bob and me,’ she said. ‘He has been terribly distressed. He quite understands that things look very black against him, and he cannot suggest who could have wanted to kill my father. Father hadn’t an enemy in the world, poor dear.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’ remarked the professor.

  ‘Quite,’ she replied positively. ‘I knew every detail of his life; he never hid the smallest thing from me.’

  And after a further short and unimportant conversation, she took her leave of us.

  The professor sat silent for some minutes after her departure. ‘Poor girl,’ he said at last. ‘To lose her father so tragically, and then to see the man she loves accused of his murder! We must see what we can do to help her, Harold. Get me the one-inch map of the country between London and Tilbury, and a timetable of the Southend trains.’

  I hastened to obey him, and for an hour or more he pored over the map, working upon it with a rule and a protractor. At the end of this period he looked up and spoke abruptly.

  ‘This is remarkably interesting, more so than I imagined at first it would be. Run out and buy me the sheets of the six-inch survey which cover Rainham and Purfleet. I think we shall need them.’

  I bought the maps he required and returned with them. For the rest of the day he busied himself with these, and it was not until late in the evening that he spoke to me again.

  ‘Really, my boy, this problem is beginning to interest me,’ he said. ‘There are many points about it which are distinctly baffling. We must examine the country on the spot. There is a train to Purfleet, I see, at 10.30 tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Have you formed any theory, sir?’ I inquired eagerly. The vision of Miss Farquharson and her conviction of her cousin’s innocence had impressed me in her favour.

  The professor scowled at me. ‘How often am I to tell you that facts are all that matter?’ he replied. ‘Our journey tomorrow will be for the purpose of ascertaining facts. Until we know these it would be a waste of time to indulge in conjecture.’

  He did not mention the subject again until the next morning, when we were seated in the train to Purfleet. He had chosen an empty first-class carriage, and himself took the right-hand corner facing the engine. He said nothing until the train was travelling at a good speed, and then he addressed me suddenly.

  ‘You are a good shot with a rifle, are you not?’ he inquired.

  ‘I used to be pretty fair,’ I replied in astonishment. ‘But I don’t think I’ve had a rifle in my hand since the war.’

  ‘Well take my stick and hold it as you would a rifle. Now go to the far end of the carriage and lean against the door. That’s right. Point your stick at my right eye, as though you were going to shoot at it. Stand like that a minute. Thank you, that will do.’

  He turned away from me, took a pair of field-glasses from a case he was carrying, and began to survey the country through the window on his side. This he continued to do until the train drew up at Purfleet and we dismounted on to the platform.

  ‘Ah, a lovely day!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not too warm for a little walking. We will make our first call at Purfleet ranges. This was where young Halliday came to do his shooting, you remember.’

  We made our way to the ranges, and were lucky enough to find the warden at home. Dr Priestley had, when he chose, a most ingratiating way with him, and he and the warden were very shortly engaged in an animated conversation.

  ‘By the way,’ inquired the professor earnestly, ‘was there any firing going on here between half-past two and three on Saturday last?’

  The range-warden scratched his head with a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Let me see, now, last Saturday afternoon? We had a squad of Territorials here on Saturday afternoon, but they didn’t arrive till after three. Lord, they was queer hands with a rifle, some of them. Much as they could do to hit the target at all at three hundred. They won’t never make marksmen, however hard they try.’

  ‘Isn’t it rather dangerous to allow such wild shots to fire at all?’ suggested the professor.

  ‘God bless your heart, sir, it’s safe enough,’ replied the range-warden. ‘There’s never been an accident the whole time I’ve been here. They can’t very well miss the butts, and even if they did there’s nobody allowed on the marshes when firing’s going on.’

  ‘That is comforting, certainly,’ said the professor. ‘Apart from this squad, you had nobody else?’ />
  The range-warden shook his head. ‘No, sir, they was the only people on the range that day.’

  ‘I suppose it is part of your duty to issue ammunition?’ inquired the professor.

  ‘As a rule, sir. But, as it happens, this particular squad always bring their own with them.’

  The professor continued his conversation for a little longer, then prepared to depart.

  ‘I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you,’ he said as he shook hands. ‘By the way, I believe there are other ranges about here somewhere?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ replied the range-warden. ‘Over yonder, beyond the butts. Rainham Ranges, they’re called.’

  ‘Is there any objection to my walking across the marshes to them?’

  ‘Not a bit, sir. There’s no firing today. Just keep straight on past the butts, and you’ll come to them.’

  The professor and I started on our tramp, the professor pausing every hundred yards or so to look about him through his field-glasses and to verify his position on the map. We reached the Rainham ranges at last, discovered the warden, who fell under the influence of the professor’s charm as readily as his colleague at Purfleet had done, and opened the conversation with him in much the same style.

  ‘On Saturday afternoon last, between half-past two and three?’ replied the warden to the professor’s inquiry. ‘Well, sir, not what you might call any shooting. There was a party from Woolwich, with a new sort of light machine-gun, something like a Lewis. But they wasn’t shooting, only testing.’

  ‘What is the difference?’ asked the professor.

  ‘Well, sir, by testing I mean they had the thing held in a clamp, so that it couldn’t move. The idea is to keep it pointing in exactly the same direction, instead of wobbling about as it might if a man was holding it. They use a special target, and measure up the distance between the various bullet-holes on it when they’ve finished.’