Miraculous Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ***

  I

  Dr. Benjamin Tancred took a long pull at the tall glass, set it down again on the table beside him, and leaned back luxuriously in the deep leather chair.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘do let me give you a word of advice. If ever you make up your mind to commit a murder, don’t make the mistake of trying to be clever. Push the chap over a precipice or shoot him from behind a hedge, or something of that sort, and get away from the scene of the crime as fast as you can. Then don’t do anything else. Above all, don’t start laying false clues, or trying to build up an unbreakable alibi, or anything of that sort. Lie low, and say as little as you can. I assure you, many more murderers have been hanged through being too clever than through not being so clever as Scotland Yard.’

  ‘But isn’t that only because the murderers who try to be clever are really stupid all the time?’ I asked. ‘Do really clever people ever commit murder?’

  ‘I grant you,’ Ben Tancred answered, ‘it’s a stupid thing to do. But all the same, there are clever murderers. I’m thinking of an actual case. A most ingenious fellow, this one was. And that was what hanged him in the end.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell us the story,’ I said expectantly. ‘In fact, you’ll have to now, in order to prove your point.’

  ‘I think you’ll agree it bears me out,’ he answered. ‘Ever been in Herefordshire—place called Willis Hill?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s only a tiny place—miles from anywhere. About eight miles west of Leominster, as a matter of fact. Just a group of cottages, straggling up the side of a hill; and then, about a mile on, you come to a public house, standing all by itself. At least you used to—only it isn’t a pub any longer. Lost its licence, after the affair I’m going to tell you about. It was called the “Golden Eagle” in those days—Samuel Bennett, licensee. Samuel Bennett’s the man I’m going to hold up to you as an awful example.

  ‘I came upon the “Golden Eagle” quite by chance about nine o’clock on a wonderful evening in July. You know that when I get fed up with things, or want to think a difficult problem out at leisure, I find the best way is to go off on a long, solitary tramp—with a knapsack, making up my route as I go, and sleeping wherever I happen to find what looks like a decent inn. I like walking pretty late, too, on a fine evening; and when I came up to the “Golden Eagle” I thought I would go in and order a drink, but not ask about a bed unless I liked the look of the place when I’d spied out the land.

  ‘So I walked into the bar, and ordered a pint of mild and bitter; and the man who served me was the Samuel Bennett I’m telling you about.

  ‘He didn’t look like an innkeeper, or a barman. In fact, you could see at once he was a gentleman of sorts—probably a University man from the way he talked. He was tallish and slightly built, with a lot of floppy fair hair that he wore long and kept pushing back from over his eyes. He had little side-whiskers, too, and he was wearing a brown corduroy-velvet coat that had seen a lot of service. All that sounds as if he looked a bit soft; but I assure you he didn’t, for with it all he had a pair of very bright little pigs’ eyes that took stock of you as if they weren’t missing much, and a hard, thin-lipped mouth that struck me as cruel the moment I set eyes on it.

  ‘There was no one else in the bar when I went in; and the landlord and I entered into talk. I told him I came from London and was on a walking tour, and presently I got out of him that he was a Cambridge man who was trying to write books and had taken to pub-keeping in order to keep the wolf from the door. He volunteered presently that he was married; and from something he said I gathered the pub had come to him through his wife’s people. She was out for the evening, but would be back later on.

  ‘All the time we were talking I thought the chap seemed jumpy, as if his nerves were on edge. Presently he made his excuses, and left me alone in the bar; and while he was away two young men, who looked like farmers or small-holders, or something of that sort, came in, and started talking politics. I joined in, and in a minute or two Bennett came back, and joined in too. He was one of those people who profess to despise politics and tell you the politicians are all a corrupt lot, and one party as bad as another. So, what with me being a bit of a Socialist and the two young men both stout Conservatives, we had a good set-to.

  ‘But all the time we were talking—it was only a few minutes in all—Bennett struck me as having his mind half elsewhere. He seemed to me as if he were listening for something. Once, when a passing car back-fired with a good, loud bang, he gave a jump as if he had been shot, and spilt most of the contents of the glass of ale he was just pouring out for one of the young farmers. For a moment he looked as if he were going to let out a yell, and then another man came into the bar, said good evening, and demanded a pint of the usual. He was a big fellow, with a bushy black beard—obviously a farmer.

  ‘Bennett was just handing over that pint when there was a second bang—very much louder than the first, and seeming this time to come from right inside the house. It made us all jump, and there was a moment’s dead silence after it had died away. You know how an unexplained loud bang takes people for a minute, so that they stand staring at one another, not knowing what to do. But I noticed that this time Bennett hadn’t spilt the beer, but had set the full tankard down on the counter without a tremor. All the same, he sounded pretty much upset as he said:

  ‘“My God, what’s that? D’you think it was—a shot?”

  ‘“A what?” exclaimed one of the young men, while the other said: “Sounded to come from upstairs like. Anyone there?”

  ‘“Your missus, Sam?” asked the big man who had just arrived.

  ‘“No, she’s out. There’s no one there bar her brother Sidney. He was writing some letters—at least, he said he was going to. But…he’s been badly depressed lately. Anyhow, we’ve got to go and see what’s happened.”

  ‘“What d’you mean?” said the big man.

  ‘“Hell, how do I know what I mean? I mean—he’s been telling us life isn’t worth living and that sort of stuff. I didn’t take any account of it—but I suppose he meant it. Suppose he’s gone and shot himself,” Bennett said.

  ‘“Well, if that’s on the cards,” said the big man, “we’d best have a look quickly.”

  ‘He strode to the foot of the stairs, which ascended to the upper part of the house from the far corner of the bar-parlour. Bennett started after him, and I was just behind Bennett. The two young men followed me.

  ‘At the head of the stairs a swing door shut off the upstairs rooms. As it was flung open I smelt distinctly the acrid smell of powder.

  ‘“This way,” Bennett was saying, as he pushed the man just ahead of him down the corridor leading to the right. A second later we were all standing before a closed door, while the big man rattled at the handle and shouted to someone within: “Sidney, Sidney, are you all right?” There was no reply.

  ‘The door was a heavy, old-fashioned affair that looked as if it would take a good deal of breaking down. It had the keyhole very high up, as some of these old doors do; and as we stood outside in the dimly lighted passage I could see plainly the little round and oblong of light made by the keyhole, that showed a light must be burning inside the room.

  ‘“Better break the door down, if he doesn’t answer,” Bennett was saying.

  ‘By way of answer, the big man made a lunge at it with his shoulder; but the door held fast. As you can see, I’m a pretty hefty chap, too, in my way: so I pushed forward, and the two of us threw our weight at it together. It still held firm. In the days when that pub was built, doors were doors; and this one wasn’t going to give way in a hurry, I could see.

  ‘Still, there were four of us; and on the next occasion we all made a united rush. There was a cracking sound that time, though still the door did not yield.

  ‘“Go and find a chisel, Sam,” s
aid the big man, “and we’ll soon have her open.”

  ‘But Bennett seemed loth to go. “We’ll have her down quicker than that if we throw our weight at her again,” he answered. He made an ineffectual push at the door on his own.

  ‘“You’d much better get a chisel,” the big man grumbled. “But if you won’t…Now, then. One, two. All together this time. One. Two. Three.”

  ‘There was a sound of rending woodwork, and we fell headlong into the lighted room. The big man and I were both flung right off our feet, and plunged sprawling on the floor. As I gathered myself up, I could see the two young men, who had tumbled over behind us in the doorway. Samuel Bennett was the only one of the five of us who seemed to have kept his feet. At all events, he was standing up just inside the room when I noticed him; and he was pointing, with outstretched hand and horrified face. “Oh my God!” he was saying, “he’s dead!”

  ‘I followed the direction of his pointing finger. At the far end of the big bedroom was a writing-table, with a desk-chair drawn up to it. In the chair, lumped down in a heap, was the body of a man, the head flung down on the table, and one arm hanging down limply at the side. On the floor, beneath the hanging arm, lay a revolver.

  ‘The big man had regained his feet at the same moment as myself. He strode forward towards the huddled figure in the chair. Bennett remained motionless just inside the door, as if too horrified to stir. The two young men were by now beside him, making inarticulate sounds of astonishment.

  ‘“Stop!” I said, in a voice of as much authority as I could muster. “Don’t touch him. Nothing must be touched. I will see to him. I am a doctor.”

  ‘I thought I saw Bennett start when I mentioned my profession. The big man stopped, turned round, and stared at me. I stepped quickly between him and the body.

  ‘“Someone must telephone at once for the police,” I said.

  ‘“Can’t. It’s not working,” Bennett answered.

  ‘I, meanwhile, was looking down on the huddled figure at the desk. There was no doubt of the man being dead. I could leave examining him a minute while I saw about summoning the police.

  ‘“Then where is the nearest telephone?” I asked.

  ‘“My place,” said the big man. “About half a mile away.”

  ‘“Then go and ’phone at once!”

  ‘But the big man would not go. He came and stood beside me and stared down at the dead body. The others, except Bennett, also came nearer, and I had to warn them to stand away. There was quite an altercation before one of the two young men could be persuaded to go to the big man’s farm in order to summon the police.

  ‘I was free then to turn back to my task. The man was dead; and it seemed plain enough how he had died. But I could not rid my mind of an uneasy feeling that there was something more wrong than a mere suicide—though that would have been bad enough. You see, I felt sure Bennett had been expecting that shot.’

  Ben Tancred claimed a pause then, while I refilled his glass.

  II

  Ben Tancred went on with his story.

  ‘I said it looked plain enough how the man had died. He was not, in fact, at all a pretty sight. He had been shot full in the face, slantwise, between the eyes, at very close range, so that there was much powder-blackening round the wound. He had bled, too, pretty heavily, over the table on which his head had fallen forward, resting on his right arm, which was flung out before him over the table. The left arm, as I said, was dangling beside him limply, over the arm of the chair; and under it lay the revolver on the floor.

  ‘Obviously, the appearances suggested that the man had committed suicide by shooting himself full in the face. He would have died practically on the instant; but there must have been just time for the arm holding the revolver to fall slackly beside him before the body tumbled forward over the desk.

  ‘“Is he dead?” I heard Bennett asking foolishly.

  ‘“Of course he’s dead,” I answered. “Who is he?”

  ‘The big man spoke then. “Sidney Allsop.”

  ‘“He’s my wife’s brother,” said Bennett. “He only arrived here to-night.”

  ‘“He doesn’t live here, then?” I asked.

  ‘“No. In London. He told me he was in trouble.”

  ‘I looked down again at the dead man. He was a youngish fellow, of not more than about thirty, dark and clean-shaven, with a face that, even in death, looked to me mean and sly. I bent over him again, and felt his hands, touched his cheeks and forehead, and confessed to myself that I was puzzled. But I gave no sign to the others that I had noticed anything remarkable. I took out my watch. It was barely half-past nine.

  ‘“How long will the police be likely to take in getting here?” I asked.

  ‘“Allow ten minutes for Jack to get through to them, and a quarter of an hour for them to get here, if they was to start at once,” said the big man.

  ‘“Then till they come,” said I, “there’s nothing more to be done. We must touch nothing till they have done with it. You chaps had better get down to the bar and give yourselves a drink. I’ll stay on guard here till the police arrive.”

  ‘“Look here,” said Bennett, “I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

  ‘“As I’m a doctor, it is very much my business.”

  ‘“If you stay here, so shall I.”

  ‘“And I,” said the big man.

  ‘“Oh, very well,” I answered. “We’ll all stay. But you’ll kindly keep over the other side of the room. I haven’t done examining the body yet.”

  ‘They did not withdraw, but stood watching me intently as I bent again over the dead man. I was careful to give no clue to what I was looking at, though I can tell you it was something pretty important. I was staring at a tiny discoloured patch on the upturned side of the dead man’s neck. I should have liked to turn the head over to see if there was a corresponding discoloration on the other side; but I did not want to alter the position of the body, and, besides, I did not want to give away what I had seen.

  ‘I transferred my attention to the table, on which stood a half-empty tumbler and a bottle of Jamaica rum about three-parts full. My eyes rested on these for a moment, and then transferred themselves to a fountain-pen, lying open on the desk beside the dead man’s outstretched hand. From that they shifted to a sheet of paper, half-concealed by his arm and head. From what I could see of it it looked like a letter, probably one the dead man had just written when his life came to an end. I should have very much liked to read that letter at once; but I could see only a few meaningless words. It would have to keep till the police came.

  ‘I turned back to Bennett. “There is no one in this house besides ourselves?” I asked.

  ‘“Not a soul.”

  ‘“Then, as there’s nothing to be done here, I suggest we all go downstairs together and get a pick-me-up.”

  ‘Bennett shrugged his shoulders, and said, “O.K. by me.” But he made no move, till I took him by the arm. The young farmer went first, and I insisted on being last out of the room.

  ‘As I went out, I gave a casual glance at the door, and then looked a second time. For it seemed to me vaguely that there was something peculiar about it, though it was not until a little later that I succeeded in discovering what it was. For the moment, I followed them out into the corridor, and again the smell of powder struck my nose. Odd, I thought, that I could detect no smell whatever in the room. Of course the window was open.

  ‘Downstairs, back in the bar-parlour, we had a brandy all round.

  ‘“Why do you think he killed himself?” I asked Bennett.

  ‘“He’d been depressed. Some business trouble—I don’t know what.”

  ‘“Susan’ll be all to pieces over this,” said the big man. “When’s she due back?”

  ‘“Not till quite late. She’s over at Leominster—coming back on the last bus.�
�

  ‘“You said he was your wife’s brother, didn’t you?” I asked.

  ‘“Yes.”

  ‘“No relation of yours?” I asked the big man.

  ‘“No. I’m just…a friend.” There was nothing in the words; but there was a peculiar intensity about the way he said them. “A friend of Susan’s,” he added, as if by way of amendment.

  ‘From the way Bennett looked at him then, I saw he caught the point. There was no love lost between Bennett and the big man. I was sure of that.

  ‘Suddenly Bennett went off towards the stairs. “Shan’t be a minute,” he called back.

  ‘“I think,” said I, “we had all better stop where we are till the police come.”

  ‘“Why on earth…?” Bennett began. Then he seemed to think better of what he had been going to say. He shrugged his shoulders. “All one to me,” he said, flinging himself into a chair. “I was only going to the lavatory; but it’ll keep.”

  ‘From then on we were a silent party till the police arrived. At last we heard a car drive up to the inn. Bennett flung himself out of his chair and opened the front door. There entered a uniformed police inspector, a sergeant, and a policeman. Behind them was the young farmer who had been sent to summon them. I had been surprised that he had not come back sooner.

  ‘“Now, Mr. Bennett, what’s all this?” I heard the Inspector saying.

  ‘“It’s my wife’s brother, Cox. He’s shot himself, upstairs.”

  ‘“Is he dead?”

  ‘At that I pushed forward. “He’s dead, Inspector. I am a doctor, and I happened to be here when…we discovered him.”

  ‘“Bad business,” said Inspector Cox briskly. “Got our own surgeon coming along, of course. Your name, sir.”

  ‘I gave it, and told him in a few words how the body had been found, saying nothing to suggest that I had noticed anything out of the ordinary. I said that nothing had been disturbed, and that I had been careful not to alter the position of the body. He nodded approval; but I saw him cock an eye at me when I went on to suggest that he and I should go up and inspect the scene of the tragedy, leaving the others downstairs for the moment. I tried to make the faintest sign to him that would show I had my reasons for this, without warning the rest. And I must have succeeded in making him see my point; for he fell in with my suggestion at once.