The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Sir Clinton conceded the point without ado.

  “I won’t deny it,” he said curtly. “But you needn’t let your mind run exclusively on the female population of Westerhaven in a matter of this sort. A man would be a much more convenient witness for Silverdale to take with him. Why leave Silverdale’s male friends out of account?”

  “If you’re thinking of Markfield, sir, we’ll not get much out of him, I’m afraid,” Flamborough pronounced. “So far, except when he couldn’t help it, he’s done his level best to refuse any information about Silverdale and his doings—if he hasn’t actually served out misleading statements to us. I don’t much care for Dr. Markfield’s way of going about things.”

  Sir Clinton crossed the room and took down his hat from its peg.

  “Well, let’s sample his methods once more, Inspector. We’ll go round now to the Croft-Thornton and look into the question of the jacket. You can bear the burden of the interview, if you like; but I should prefer to hear what goes on. And you might press Silverdale a little more sharply about his doings on the night of the bungalow affair. We may as well give him a chance of second thoughts, though really I don’t expect anything from him at this stage.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE JACKET

  Sir Clinton and the Inspector found Markfield at work in his laboratory when they reached the Croft-Thornton Institute. Flamborough wasted no time in preliminaries, but plunged at once into the business which had brought him there.

  “What do you make of that, Dr. Markfield?” he demanded, producing the shred of cloth with the button attached and showing them to the chemist.

  Markfield examined the object carefully, but his face showed only a certain bewilderment when he looked up at the Inspector again.

  “It seems to be a button and a bit of cloth with a picric acid stain on it,” he pointed out with a tinge of irony. “Do you want me to make an expert examination of it? If so, you’d better tell me some more about it, so that I’ll know what you want with it.”

  Flamborough stared at him for a moment or two, as though trying to read something in his expression, but Markfield seemed in no way put out.

  “I’m not a mind-reader, Inspector,” he pointed out. “You’ll need to explain clearly what you expect me to do; and I’ll have to be told whether I can cut bits out of your specimen for chemical analysis.”

  Flamborough saw that his attempt to draw Markfield was not going to be so easy as he had hoped.

  “Have a good look at the thing first of all,” he suggested. “Can you remember anything like it?”

  Markfield stolidly examined the object once more.

  “It’s a button and a piece of cloth,” he said at last. “Of course I’ve seen buttons before, and bits of cloth are not uncommon. I should think that this stain is a picric acid one, but that’s a matter for further examination before I could say anything definite. Is that what you wanted?”

  Flamborough kept his temper with difficulty.

  “What I want to know, Dr. Markfield, is whether you have recently seen anything that you could associate with that thing—any garment from which it might have been torn, or anything of that sort.”

  Markfield’s eyes narrowed and he glanced with obvious unfriendliness at the Inspector.

  “It’s a coat-button, by the look of it. I’m no specialist in buttons, I admit. It might have come off any lounge suit, so far as I can see.”

  “I’d advise you not to fence with us too long, Dr. Markfield,” Flamborough suggested. “Look at the cloth. Does that remind you of anything that’s familiar to you?”

  Markfield’s face betrayed his obvious annoyance.

  “I suppose you’ve identified it already for yourselves. Why come to me? Presumably you mean that it’s a bit torn off Dr. Silverdale’s laboratory coat. Well, I can’t swear to that. It may be, for all I know. Why not compare it with the coat, and if the coat’s torn, you’ve got your evidence, whatever it may be. I don’t see why you drag me into the thing at all.”

  Flamborough’s voice grew hard as he answered:

  “There’s one thing I want you to bear in mind, Dr. Markfield. A man may very easily become an accessory after the fact in a murder case; and the penalty runs as high as penal servitude for life. I’m not at all satisfied with the way in which you seem to have determined to evade some of the questions I’ve had to put to you; and I’d like to remind you that you may be running risks. It would be far better if you’d deal frankly with us instead of shuffling.”

  The covert threat seemed to have its effect on Markfield. He looked sulky, but he appeared to make up his mind to alter his tactics.

  “Well, ask your questions, then,” he snapped. “But put them on matters of fact. I’m not going to say what I think about this and what I suppose about that. I’ll tell you anything that I know definitely, if you ask about it.”

  Flamborough wasted no time before taking up the challenge.

  “Very good, Dr. Markfield. We’ll stick to facts, if you like. Now once upon a time you saw Dr. Silverdale acting in some private theatricals, I believe. I learned that from Dr. Ringwood. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. We were members of a small amateur show at one time.”

  “In any of his parts, did Dr. Silverdale play the banjo?”

  Markfield reflected for a moment.

  “I think he did.”

  “He’s an expert banjo-player?”

  “He plays the banjo,” Markfield corrected. “I’m not going to give you my opinion about his playing. That’s not a question of fact; it’s a mere matter of taste.”

  Flamborough let this pass without comment.

  “He plays the banjo, anyhow. That’s what I want to get at.”

  He stepped across the laboratory to where a little glass apparatus was attached to a tap at a sink and examined the rubber tubing attached.

  “What’s this thing here?” he demanded.

  “A water-pump,” Markfield answered, as though not quite following the Inspector’s train of thought.

  “And this rubber tubing, what sort of stuff is it?”

  “Pressure-tubing. What about it?”

  “Does Dr. Silverdale use anything of that sort?”

  “Everybody in the place uses it. Whenever one wants quick filtering one uses a water-pump with pressure-tubing connections.”

  “Miss Deepcar and Miss Hailsham use it, then?”

  “I should think there are a dozen or two of these pumps in this department alone. They’re ordinary fittings in every chemical laboratory. If I may ask, Inspector, what are you getting at?”

  Flamborough switched off to a fresh line without making any direct reply.

  “Is Miss Deepcar here to-day?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe she’s out of town—been away for a couple of days. I’ll send a message to find out definitely if you want to know.”

  Flamborough shook his head.

  “Don’t trouble. I can find out for myself.”

  “I heard that she would be back the day after tomorrow,” Markfield volunteered. “But you’d better find out for yourself of course.”

  Again the Inspector turned to a fresh line.

  “Do you know anything about a man Whalley—Peter Whalley?” he demanded.

  “Whalley?” Markfield repeated as though trying to recall the name. “Whalley? Oh, yes. He came to me with some story about having been hit by my car on a foggy night. I didn’t believe him. I knew I’d hurt no one with the car, though once I came near it that night. Mr. Whalley got no change out of me.”

  “He didn’t go any further in the matter, then?”

  “I heard no more about it. The thing was so obviously a try-on that I didn’t even advise my insurance company about it.”

  Flamborough reflected for a few moments, obviously trying to think of fresh questions which he could put; but apparently he had come to the end of his stock.

  “We’ll go along to Dr. Silverdale’s
room,” he said, leading the way to the door. “You had better come with us, Dr. Markfield. You’ll do as a witness, perhaps.”

  “I’m not very keen,” Markfield retorted grumblingly.

  However, he followed Sir Clinton and the Inspector along the corridors to Silverdale’s laboratory. The room was empty, but the door was unlocked and the Inspector opened it and stepped inside. A glance round the place revealed Silverdale’s laboratory jacket hanging on a peg; and Flamborough went over and took it down.

  “Now we’ll see,” he said, laying it on the table and spreading it out for examination. “Ah, I thought there was no mistake.”

  He pointed to the right-hand side, where it was obvious that one of the buttons had been wrenched away, taking a piece of the cloth with it.

  “Now we’ll see if it fits,” Flamborough continued, producing the fragment of fabric found in Whalley’s hand and adjusting it to the tear in the coat. “That’s clear enough. You see now the stains on the two bits correspond exactly.”

  Markfield leaned over and satisfied himself that the Inspector’s statement was accurate.

  “What is this bit of cloth?” he asked.

  Flamborough, however, had found something further, and Markfield got no answer to his question.

  “Look there,” the Inspector ejaculated, indicating a a small brownish stain on the breast of the jacket. “That’s blood, clear enough.”

  Markfield seemed about to repeat his demand for information when steps sounded in the corridor outside. Flamborough picked up the coat, moved swiftly across the room, and hung the garment on its original peg. As he turned away unconcernedly from the spot, the door opened and Silverdale entered the laboratory. He seemed taken aback by the presence of the police and looked from one to another in the group without speaking. Then he came forward.

  “Do you want me?” he asked, in a colourless voice.

  Markfield seemed rather ashamed at being caught there in the company of the two officials. He was about to say something when Flamborough robbed him of the opportunity.

  “I’ve come to put one or two questions, Dr. Silverdale,” the Inspector began. “First of all, have you had any dealings lately with a man named Peter Whalley?”

  Silverdale was obviously taken aback.

  “Whalley?” he repeated. “I know nothing about anyone of that name. Who is he?”

  Flamborough seemed to discount this statement, but he did not persist along that direct line.

  “Can you tell us what you were doing last night?” he demanded.

  Silverdale reflected for a time before answering.

  “I left here about six o’clock—between six and six-thirty. Then I walked down to the Central Hotel and had dinner. I suppose I left the hotel again about a quarter to eight. I walked home, as it was a clear night; and I did some work until about half-past eleven. After that I went to bed and read for a while before going to sleep.”

  Flamborough jotted something in his notebook before going further.

  “I suppose you could produce some witnesses in support of that?” he asked.

  Silverdale appeared to consult his memory.

  “I met Miss Hailsham as I was leaving here,” he explained. “That would give you the approximate time, if she remembers it. The waiter at the Central could probably satisfy you that I was there—it’s the tall one with the wart on his cheek who looks after the tables at the north window. After that, you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “What about your maids at Heatherfield?”

  “I haven’t anyone on the premises. No maid would take the place owing to the murder. I merely sleep there and take my meals at an hotel. A charwoman comes in during the day and cleans the place.”

  “Ah,” said the Inspector, thoughtfully. “Then you can’t prove that you were actually at home after, say, half-past eight? By the way, you hadn’t a visitor by any chance?”

  Silverdale shook his head.

  “No, I was quite alone.”

  Flamborough made another note; and then continued his interrogation.

  “I want you to cast your mind back to the night when Mrs. Silverdale came by her death. I asked you once before what you were doing that night, but you put me off. I think you’d find it more advisable to be frank, now that I’m putting the question again.”

  Silverdale’s face showed some conflict of emotions, and he evidently considered the matter for almost a minute before answering.

  “I’ve nothing further to add,” he said at last.

  “I’ll put it plainly, so that there can be no mistake,” Flamborough emphasised. “Can you give us any account of your movements on the night that your maid was murdered at Heatherfield?”

  Silverdale tightened his lips and shook his head.

  “I’ve no information to give you,” he said at length.

  “I may as well tell you, Dr. Silverdale,” said Flamborough warningly, “that we have a certain amount of information drawn from other sources. We may know more than you think. Wouldn’t it be best to be frank with us?”

  Silverdale shook his head definitely without making any vocal reply. Flamborough concealed his disappointment, though his face grew darker. He put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew out something.

  “Do you recognise that, Dr. Silverdale?”

  Silverdale examined it.

  “Yes, that’s a cigarette-holder of mine. I recognise it by the fly in it.”

  “When did you discover that you had lost it?”

  Silverdale was obviously at a loss.

  “I can’t tell you. Ten days ago or so, I should think.”

  “Was it before or after the murder of your maid that you missed it? Think carefully.”

  “I can’t remember,” Silverdale explained. “I didn’t note it down in a diary or anything of that sort, of course. I use two or three holders. I leave them in the pockets of different suits. Naturally if one of them goes a-missing, I simply use one of the others; and perhaps the missing one may turn up later. I can’t give you any exact date when this one went astray.”

  Flamborough returned the holder to his pocket.

  “You play the banjo, don’t you, Dr. Silverdale?”

  Silverdale seemed completely astounded by this question.

  “I used to do so,” he admitted, “but I haven’t played for quite a long time. The banjo isn’t much in request nowadays.”

  “Have you bought strings for your instrument recently?”

  “No. I haven’t. Last time I used it, two of the strings snapped, and I never troubled to replace them.”

  “Just so,” Flamborough said, as though attaching no great importance to the point. “Now there’s another thing I’d like to ask about. I think that’s your laboratory coat hanging on the peg over there?”

  Silverdale glanced across the room and nodded.

  “When did you wear that coat last?” Flamborough demanded.

  “Last night,” Silverdale answered, after a slight hesitation.

  “You mean you took it off when you left the Institute to go out to dinner?”

  “Yes. This morning I’ve been up at the Research Station, so I’ve had no occasion to change my jacket.”

  Flamborough crossed the room, took down the coat, and spread it out on the table once more.

  “Can you explain this? “he questioned, putting his hand on the tear.

  Silverdale stared at the rent in the cloth with dismay gathering on his face. He looked like a man who finds himself surrounded by enemies in unknown strength.

  “I can’t account for it,” he said curtly, with whitened lips.

  “Or for this blood-stain on it, I suppose?” Flamborough demanded, putting his finger on the spot.

  Silverdale’s discomposure became even more obvious. It was clear that he felt himself in a most dangerous position; and his denials betrayed his nervousness.

  “I’ve no idea how it came there. I noticed nothing of the sort when I took the coat off last night.
Neither the tear nor that stain. I can’t account for it at all.”

  “You’re sure you can’t?” the Inspector persisted.

  “I can’t,” Silverdale repeated.

  Much to the Inspector’s annoyance, Markfield broke into the interrogation.

  “Why are you so sure that Dr. Silverdale has anything to do with the matter?” he interjected in a sardonic tone. “It’s not impossible that someone borrowed his jacket last night after he’d gone. Several of us were on the premises after he left, I know.”

  Flamborough, glancing up, surprised an expression on Sir Clinton’s face which indicated that his opinion of Markfield had risen on account of this interposition; and the Inspector felt his irritation against Markfield increasing once more.

  “I’m not asking for your assistance now, Dr. Markfield,” he pointed out, chillingly. “I want to know what Dr. Silverdale knows about the matter. You can hardly speak as an authority on that point, can you?”

  Markfield made no reply; but his smile was a comment in itself and did nothing to soothe the Inspector’s ruffled feelings.

  “I’ll have to take this coat, Dr. Silverdale,” Flamborough explained in an official tone. “It’s a piece of evidence which we must have in our charge.”

  Then, as an afterthought, he added:

  “A man Whalley has been murdered. The case didn’t get into the morning newspapers. You’ll see it in the evening news.”

  His voice took on a sub-tinge of warning:

  “If you think the better of your attitude, you’d be well advised to come to us at once and tell us what you can. It’s hardly necessary to tell you that your silence on these points is bound to raise suspicions; and if you can clear things up, you may save yourself a good deal of trouble.”

  Markfield seemed to take a cynical pleasure in destroying the Inspector’s effects. Instead of leaving him the last word, he closed the interview himself.