Miraculous Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘An open and shut case of suicide, chief, remember,’ Head reminded him. ‘And I’d say there was probably no chance to wipe these off—the sound of the shot might have disturbed some one, or the one who fired it might have been scared of being seen—outside the door, remember. But I want that key—I can’t do a thing till I get it.’

  ‘What key?’ Wadden asked.

  But Head did not reply. He sat on the carpet, gazing pensively at the beautiful carving of the lower panel while Wells, kneeling, focused the camera and took shots of the fingerprints.

  ‘Cupid is traditionally blind,’ he remarked eventually.

  ‘Which is why the lady ain’t worried about her wardrobe, probably,’ Wadden suggested. ‘It’s a bit—well, frank, as a work of art.’

  ‘I wonder—let’s try blinding her too,’ Head said.

  Swinging the door back to its limit to permit of pressure on its surface, he placed the thumb and middle finger of his right hand on the Cupid’s eyes, and a finger and thumb of the left hand over those of Psyche. At this sudden pressure on all four points, the panel that Wells had photographed slid smoothly downward, leaving an oblong hole in the door under the lock. Head reached through and turned the big, highly ornamented key, which was still in the lock from the inside of the door, once or twice.

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Superintendent Wadden.

  Head stood up. ‘We won’t try to close the panel again now,’ he observed. ‘I rather think you have to lift it most of the way and then slide it by pressing your finger-tips against it.’

  ‘What made you think of it?’ Wadden asked.

  ‘Well, we’d eliminated everything but the door, and the dead man didn’t lock it, since he didn’t shoot himself. Take this door off its hinges, Wells—you and Jeffries. It will be exhibit number three, I think, if we make the revolver number one.’

  ‘Then what’s number two, you secretive devil?’ Wadden demanded.

  ‘A lady’s handkerchief, retrieved from a bag of soiled linen by Wells while I was questioning its owner,’ Head answered imperturbably. ‘She used it to wipe all the fingerprints off the revolver before putting it down, and either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the ring of black fouling from the pistol muzzle that came off on to the handkerchief—stuff easily identifiable as a nitro powder residue.’

  ‘But—you’ve got to show a motive, man,’ Wadden protested.

  ‘Of course, you didn’t hear what Barton had to tell me,’ Head recollected aloud. ‘Garnham rang him last night and told him to get here at eleven this morning to consult about an action for divorce, naming this man Keller as co-respondent in the case. Also, and much worse, Barton was to draw up a new will, in which the lady was not mentioned. Knowing the secret of the door, she made her gamble—and if she’d held that pistol a foot closer to her husband’s head, she might have won.’

  ‘But—Keller—’ Wadden began, half protestingly.

  ‘It’s her handkerchief, and they are her fingerprints on that panel—eh, Wells?’ He turned to the sergeant.

  ‘As nearly as I could see, they correspond to the ones I found on Mrs. Garnham’s hair brush and Thand mirror handles,’ Wells answered.

  ‘Therefore—’ Head pressed a bell push—‘I think we might have the lady in and—Oh, Gladys, I think your name is—tell Mrs. Garnham I should be glad if she’d see me in here, please.’

  He waited with his back to the door, covering from sight the hole from which the secret panel had slid away.

  The Haunted Policeman

  Dorothy L. Sayers

  Dorothy Leigh Sayers (1893–1957) needs no introduction to lovers of traditional detective fiction. The creator of Lord Peter Wimsey remains one of the most admired British crime novelists from the first half of the twentieth century, and it comes almost as a surprise to realise that her high reputation in the genre rests on a mere dozen novels, together with four collections of short stories. Her last novel appeared in 1937, and in later life her literary focus was on religious work and translating Dante.

  ‘The Haunted Policeman’, which presents such an engaging ‘impossible scenario’, appeared alongside the Coles’ ‘Too Clever by Half’ in the Detection Club anthology Detection Medley, edited by John Rhode, in 1939. Later, it was one of three final Wimsey stories gathered together in Striding Folly (1972); another of those stories, ‘Tallboys’, dealt with the theft of peaches from a walled garden in which the culprit left no footprints. ‘The Poisoned Dew ’08’, Sayers’ third impossible crime story, did not feature Wimsey; the detective work fell to wine salesman Montague Egg, a character who appeared in a handful of stories, but never captured the public imagination to the same extent as Lord Peter.

  ***

  ‘Good God!’ said his lordship. ‘Did I do that?’

  ‘All the evidence points that way,’ replied his wife.

  ‘Then I can only say that I never knew so convincing a body of evidence produce such an inadequate result.’

  The nurse appeared to take this reflection personally. She said in a tone of rebuke:

  ‘He’s a beautiful boy.’

  ‘H’m,’ said Peter. He adjusted his eyeglass more carefully. ‘Well, you’re the expert witness. Hand him over.’

  The nurse did so, with a dubious air. She was relieved to see that this disconcerting parent handled the child competently; as, in a man who was an experienced uncle, was not, after all, so very surprising. Lord Peter sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Do you feel it’s up to standard?’ he inquired with some anxiety. ‘Of course, your workmanship’s always sound—but you never know with these collaborate efforts.’

  ‘I think it’ll do,’ said Harriet, drowsily.

  ‘Good.’ He turned abruptly to the nurse. ‘All right; we’ll keep it. Take it and put it away and tell ’em to invoice it to me. It’s a very interesting addition to you, Harriet; but it would have been a hell of a rotten substitute.’ His voice wavered a little, for the last twenty-four hours had been trying ones, and he had had the fright of his life.

  The doctor, who had been doing something in the other room, entered in time to catch the last words.

  ‘There was never any likelihood of that, you goop,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Now, you’ve seen all there is to be seen, and you’d better run away and play.’ He led his charge firmly to the door. ‘Go to bed,’ he advised him in kindly accents; ‘you look all in.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Peter. ‘I haven’t been doing anything. And look here—’ He stabbed a belligerent finger in the direction of the adjoining room. ‘Tell those nurses of yours, if I want to pick my son up, I’ll pick him up. If his mother wants to kiss him, she can damn well kiss him. I’ll have none of your infernal hygiene in my house.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the doctor, ‘just as you like. Anything for a quiet life. I rather believe in a few healthy germs myself. Builds up resistance. No, thanks, I won’t have a drink. I’ve got to go on to another one, and an alcoholic breath impairs confidence.’

  ‘Another one?’ said Peter, aghast.

  ‘One of my hospital mothers. You’re not the only fish in the sea by a long chalk. One born every minute.’

  ‘God! What a hell of a world.’ They passed down the great curved stair. In the hall a sleepy footman clung, yawning, to his post of duty.

  ‘All right, William,’ said Peter. ‘Buzz off now; I’ll lock up.’ He let the doctor out. ‘Good-night—and thanks very much, old man. I’m sorry I swore at you.’

  ‘They mostly do,’ replied the doctor philosophically. ‘Well, bung-ho, Flim. I’ll look in again later, just to earn my fee, but I shan’t be wanted. You’ve married into a good tough family, and I congratulate you.’

  The car, spluttering and protesting a little after its long wait in the cold, drove off, leaving Peter alone on the doorstep. Now that it was all o
ver and he could go to bed, he felt extraordinarily wakeful. He would have liked to go to a party. He leaned back against the wrought-iron railings and lit a cigarette, staring vaguely into the lamp-lit dusk of the square. It was thus that he saw the policeman.

  The blue-uniformed figure came up from the direction of South Audley Street. He too was smoking and he walked, not with the firm tramp of a constable on his beat, but with the hesitating step of a man who has lost his bearings. When he came in sight, he had pushed back his helmet and was rubbing his head in a puzzled manner. Official habit made him look sharply at the bare-headed gentleman in evening dress, abandoned on a doorstep at three in the morning, but since the gentleman appeared to be sober and bore no signs of being about to commit a felony, he averted his gaze and prepared to pass on.

  ‘’Morning, officer,’ said the gentleman, as he came abreast with him.

  ‘’Morning, sir,’ said the policeman.

  ‘You’re off duty early,’ pursued Peter, who wanted somebody to talk to. ‘Come in and have a drink.’

  This offer re-awakened all the official suspicion.

  ‘Not just now, sir, thank you,’ replied the policeman guardedly.

  ‘Yes, now. That’s the point.’ Peter tossed away his cigarette-end. It described a fiery arc in the air and shot out a little train of sparks as it struck the pavement. ‘I’ve got a son.’

  ‘Oh, ah!’ said the policeman, relieved by this innocent confidence. ‘Your first, eh?’

  ‘And last, if I know anything about it.’

  ‘That’s what my brother says, every time,’ said the policeman. ‘Never no more, he says. He’s got eleven. Well, sir, good luck to it. I see how you’re situated, I and thank you kindly, but after what the sergeant said I dunno as I better. Though if I was to die this moment, not a drop ’as passed me lips since me supper beer.’

  Peter put his head on one side and considered this.

  ‘The sergeant said you were drunk?’

  ‘He did, sir.’

  ‘And you were not?’

  ‘No, sir. I saw everything just the same as I told him, though what’s become of it now is more than I can say. But drunk I was not, sir, no more than you are yourself.’

  ‘Then,’ said Peter, ‘as Mr. Joseph Surface remarked to Lady Teazle, what is troubling you is the consciousness of your own innocence. He insinuated that you had looked on the wine when it was red—you’d better come in and make it so. You’ll feel better.’

  The policeman hesitated.

  ‘Well, sir, I dunno. Fact is, I’ve had a bit of a shock.’

  ‘So’ve I,’ said Peter. ‘Come in for God’s sake and keep me company.’

  ‘Well, sir—’ said the policeman again. He mounted the steps slowly.

  The logs in the hall chimney were glowing a deep red through their ashes. Peter raked them apart, so that the young flame shot up between them. ‘Sit down,’ he said; ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  The policeman sat down, removed his helmet, and stared about him, trying to remember who occupied the big house at the corner of the square. The engraved coat of arms upon the great silver bowl on the chimney-piece told him nothing, even though it was repeated in colour upon the backs of two tapestried chairs: three white mice skipping upon a black ground. Peter, returning quietly from the shadows beneath the stair, caught him as he traced the outlines with a thick finger.

  ‘A student of heraldry?’ he said. ‘Seventeenth-century work and not very graceful. You’re new to this beat, aren’t you? My name’s Wimsey.’

  He put down a tray on the table.

  ‘If you’d rather have beer or whisky, say so. These bottles are only a concession to my mood.’

  The policeman eyed the long necks and bulging silver-wrapped corks with curiosity. ‘Champagne?’ he said. ‘Never tasted it, sir. But I’d like to try the stuff.’

  ‘You’ll find it thin,’ said Peter, ‘but if you drink enough of it, you’ll tell me the story of your life.’ The cork popped and the wine frothed out into the wide glasses.

  ‘Well!’ said the policeman. ‘Here’s to your good lady, sir, and the new young gentleman. Long life and all the best. A bit in the nature of cider, ain’t it, sir?’

  ‘Just a trifle. Give me your opinion after the third glass, if you can put up with it so long. And thanks for your good wishes. You a married man?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Hoping to be when I get promotion. If only the sergeant—but that’s neither here nor there. You been married long, sir, if I may ask.’

  ‘Just over a year.’

  ‘Ah! And do you find it comfortable, sir?’

  Peter laughed.

  ‘I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours wondering why, when I’d had the blazing luck to get on to a perfectly good thing, I should be fool enough to risk the whole show on a damned silly experiment.’

  The policeman nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I see what you mean, sir. Seems to me, life’s like that. If you don’t take risks, you get nowhere. If you do, things may go wrong, and then where are you? And ’alf the time, when things happen, they happen first, before you can even think about ’em.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Peter, and filled the glasses again. He found the policeman soothing. True to his class and training, he turned naturally in moments of emotion to the company of the common man. Indeed, when the recent domestic crisis had threatened to destroy his nerve, he had headed for the butler’s pantry with the swift instinct of the homing pigeon. There, they had treated him with great humanity, and allowed him to clean the silver.

  With a mind oddly clarified by champagne and lack of sleep, he watched the constable’s reaction to Pol Roger 1926. The first glass had produced a philosophy of life; the second produced a name—Alfred Burt—and a further hint of some mysterious grievance against the station sergeant; the third glass, as prophesied, produced the story.

  ‘You were right, sir’ (said the policeman) ‘when you spotted I was new to the beat. I only come on it at the beginning of the week, and that accounts for me not being acquainted with you, sir, nor with most of the residents about here. Jessop, now, he knows everybody and so did Pinker—but he’s been took off to another division. You’d remember Pinker—big chap, make two o’ me, with a sandy moustache. Yes, I thought you would.

  ‘Well, sir, as I was saying, me knowing the district in a general way, but not, so to speak, like the palm o’ me ’and, might account for me making a bit of a fool of myself, but it don’t account for me seeing what I did see. See it I did, and not drunk nor nothing like it. And as for making a mistake in the number, well, that might happen to anybody. All the same, sir, 13 was the number I see, plain as the nose on your face.’

  ‘You can’t put it stronger than that,’ said Peter, whose nose was of a kind difficult to overlook.

  ‘You know Merriman’s End, sir?’

  ‘I think I do. Isn’t it a long cul-de-sac running somewhere at the back of South Audley Street, with a row of houses on one side and a high wall on the other?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Tall, narrow houses they are, all alike, with deep porches and pillars to them.’

  ‘Yes. Like an escape from the worst square in Pimlico. Horrible. Fortunately, I believe the street was never finished, or we should have had another row of the monstrosities on the opposite side. This house is pure eighteenth century. How does it strike you?’

  P.C. Burt contemplated the wide hall—the Adam fireplace and panelling with their graceful shallow mouldings, the pedimented doorways, the high round-headed window lighting hall and gallery, the noble proportions of the stair. He sought for a phrase.

  ‘It’s a gentleman’s house,’ he pronounced at length. ‘Room to breathe, if you see what I mean. Seems like you couldn’t act vulgar in it.’ He shook his head. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t call it cosy. It ain’t the place I’d choo
se to sit down to a kipper in me shirtsleeves. But it’s got class. I never thought about it before, but now you mention it I see what’s wrong with them other houses in Merriman’s End. They’re sort of squeezed-like. I been into more’n one o’ them tonight, and that’s what they are; they’re squeezed. But I was going to tell you about that.

  ‘Just upon midnight it was’ (pursued the policeman) ‘when I turns into Merriman’s End in the ordinary course of my dooties. I’d got pretty near down toward the far end, when I see a fellow lurking about in a suspicious way under the wall. There’s back gates there, you know, sir, leading into some gardens, and this chap was hanging about inside one of the gateways. A rough-looking fellow, in a baggy old coat—might a’ been a tramp off the Embankment. I turned my light on him—that street’s not very well lit, and it’s a dark night—but I couldn’t see much of his face, because he had on a ragged old hat and a big scarf round his neck. I thought he was up to no good, and I was just about to ask him what he was doing there, when I hear a most awful yell come out o’ one o’ them houses opposite. Ghastly it was, sir. “Help!” it said. “Murder! Help!”, fit to freeze your marrow.’

  ‘Man’s voice or woman’s?’

  ‘Man’s, sir. I think. More of a roaring kind of yell, if you take my meaning. I says, “Hullo! What’s up there? Which house is it?” The chap says nothing, but he points, and him and me runs across together. Just as we gets to the house, there’s a noise like as if someone was being strangled just inside, and a thump, as it might be something falling against the door.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Peter.

  ‘I gives a shout and rings the bell. “Hoy!” I says. “What’s up here?” and then I knocked on the door. There’s no answer, so I rings and knocks again. Then the chap who was with me, he pushed open the letter-flap and squints through it.’

  ‘Was there a light in the house?’

  ‘It was all dark, sir, except the fanlight over the door. That was lit up bright, and when I looks up, I see the number of the house—number 13, painted plain as you like on the transom. Well, this chap peers in, and all of a sudden he gives a kind of gurgle and falls back. “Here!” I says, “what’s amiss? Let me have a look.” So I puts me eye to the flap and I looks in.’