Death Invites You

by Paul Halter

  ‘Right,’ announced Hurst briskly. ‘First of all, I’ll go over the preliminary results of the investigation with you. After that, we’ll see what conclusions we can draw about this dark and tragic affair.’

  Despite a lack of sleep, Hurst looked alert and refreshed, his unruly hair plastered down over his pink brow. After extracting several pages of notes from a file and lighting a cigar, he started:

  ‘First point: the two invitations sent to Springer and you, Cunningham. No prints of the dead man were found and the postal stamp indicated collection from a station near St. Richard’s Wood at around half past six on the previous Friday. In other words, nothing useful and we still don’t know if Harold Vickers typed them on the machine himself.’

  ‘How did you manage to lift the fingerprints despite those burns?’ asked Simon, intrigued.

  ‘Stop playing the imbecile, Cunningham! We took them from his personal affairs: diary, pencils, books, etc. They were easily identifiable.

  ‘To continue. Serving dishes, plates, knives and forks, candelabra—in short everything on the table—all bear different fingerprints. We found those of the victim on several objects: one tray, three plates and several knives and forks. We haven’t had time to compare them with those of the other members of the household, but I fear they won’t tell us very much. In any case, we’re pretty sure the killer wore gloves. Not the ones found at the victim’s feet, they’re too small. I’ve no idea why they were put there. No prints on the bowl near the window, which had obviously been wiped clean.

  ‘And there’s something else: all the knives and forks, plates, glasses and all are part of the household—except the spirit stove.’

  ‘That doesn’t tell us much either,’ said Dr. Twist, pensively, stroking his moustache, ‘other than the murderer helped himself to what was available... unless it was Vickers who prepared the table. As you just said, his fingerprints were on some objects... Why some? It’s bizarre. Either he prepared the table setting or it was the murderer, one or the other.’ He frowned. ‘At least we can ask the question: if he didn’t prepare the table, how was it that we found his prints on some of the plates, spoons, et cetera? Was the master of the house in the habit of performing the servants’ duties? It hardly seems likely, from what we know of him. So....’

  ‘So,’ echoed Hurst slyly, as if he had some secret knowledge, ‘it could also be a ruse on the killer’s part. Don’t you realise that’s his intention: to throw sand in our eyes? Take the bowl half full of water: how—.’

  He broke off, looking at Simon:

  ‘Do you want to say something, Cunningham?’

  ‘If we were dealing with a normal person, that business about the invitations would speak for itself.’ Simon examined his carefully groomed nails. ‘Why would anyone invite two people to dinner and ask them to keep it a secret? It’s absurd. The conclusion therefore is that it was the murderer who sent the invitations out and prepared the table.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hurst.

  ‘Except that we’re dealing with Harold Vickers, whose behaviour is unpredictable.

  ‘We know he died on Friday between four o’clock and seven o’clock, while he was alone in the house. We also know that his prints were found on some of the plates, knives, forks et cetera. That could all be explained as follows: strange as it may seem, he was preparing the table twenty-four hours in advance, but halfway through he was surprised by the murderer who finished him off and finished the table setting off as well.

  ‘It’s one solution, but I don’t really believe it. My impression is more that we’re dealing with a plan carefully thought out by a diabolical murderer. I’m inclined to agree with you, chief: someone’s trying to throw us off the track... trying to send us off in the wrong direction.’

  Hurst’s ruddy face lit up in a bright smile:

  ‘Absolutely, Cunningham, absolutely. You understand, albeit without understanding. A few more hours of patience,’ he added in a tone which he tried to make simultaneously mysterious and superior.

  As Simon’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, Dr. Twist remained impassive, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  ‘Let’s go on,’ said Hurst importantly. ‘According to the testimony of the servants, Mrs. Vickers, her two daughters and Roger Sharpe got up from the table at about seven thirty. Once the dishwashing was finished at around eight o’clock there was nobody left in the kitchen: the Kesleys had gone up to their room on the second floor; Roger Sharpe had already left for Soho; Henrietta was in her room on the first floor; Valerie had just left; and Mrs. Vickers was alone on the ground floor, reading in the living-room at the end of the hall, next to the kitchen. At a quarter past eight, Gladys Kesley comes downstairs to look for aspirin in the kitchen—there’s no one there. Before going back upstairs, she knocks on the living-room door to borrow a magazine from her mistress, who’s sitting in an armchair reading. Around a quarter to nine, Philip Kesley comes down to see if his mistress desires anything. He does it every night and she often asks for a cup of tea, but on this night she doesn’t ask for anything. He goes into the kitchen to find a soft drink—there’s still no one there—and goes back upstairs. At five minutes to nine, Cunningham, you ring the doorbell at the entrance hall; Mrs. Vickers comes to open it for you. You know the rest. What seems clear is that, because of the time required and the smells that would have been caused, the feast couldn’t have been prepared in the kitchen: the Kesleys couldn’t have failed to notice.

  ‘Could it have been brought in from the outside? To begin with, that would have required a key to the front door, but that’s a minor matter compared to the rest—the murderer could have an accomplice on the premises. Can you see him arriving with his boiling oil, his arms full of cooked dishes, making several trips? No, it’s not feasible. There’s only one explanation: the murderer prepared the feast in the same room as the crime. Of course he would have to bring in kitchen equipment during the day when the field is clear. He starts to cook around eight o’clock—a quarter past at the latest—puts the finishing touches to the scene and leaves.’

  ‘At what time?’ asked Twist.

  ‘Let’s say at a quarter to nine, nine o’clock.’

  ‘What about the noise Mrs. Vickers heard at five to nine?’ asked Simon. ‘And what about the chicken? I’m sure—and I’m not the only one—they’d just been roasted. They were still smoking.’

  ‘Let’s say... let’s say nine, five to nine.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Twist, looking hard at Hurst. ‘At a quarter past nine, we break down the door. During that brief period of time he arranges to leave with all his gear despite the presence of Springer, Cunningham and Mrs. Vickers. And that’s not all: how did he manage to get out of that room bolted on the inside? Not to mention the strictly limited time at his disposal... It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Well, there’s no secret passage,’ sighed Hurst, ‘I can assure you of that. All right, so we don’t yet know how he did it. But let’s be sure of one thing: it’s all the fruit of a plan prepared a long time in advance, which only a professional criminal could have pulled off.’

  ‘A professional?’ asked Twist. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  The inspector smiled cagily.

  ‘We’ll soon have a better picture and I’ve a few more ideas on the subject. I wasn’t exactly slacking off last night. I made a few calls and I should be getting the results shortly. So, let’s be patient. Another thing: the pistol was fired at point blank range and the weapon belonged to the victim. Which means it’s practically certain that someone in the house pulled the trigger. Regarding suspects, we’d better talk to everyone before constructing any theories. We may be in for a few surprises. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to find the victim’s notebook. I’m afraid the killer may have taken it.’

  ‘You left a man on duty there, I assume?’ asked Simon anxiously.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Hurst in high dudgeon. ‘Don’t try to teach me my business. Why do you even a
sk that question?’

  ‘Because... because I’m convinced the solution to the locked room situation is to be found on the premises. There’s some kind of a trick. The murderer can only have left by the door or the window, there’s no other possibility. The lock and the window need to be re-examined... there must be a some trace, I’m sure.’

  Hurst seemed to agree as he tapped his cigar over the ashtray. Simon continued earnestly:

  ‘What about the brother? Has he been contacted?’

  ‘That’s been taken care of,’ replied the inspector. ‘We’re waiting for a reply.’

  Dr. Twist smiled briefly, then changed the subject:

  ‘There’s something we haven’t considered yet: the stage management. Why is it like it is? Is there a connection to Grandfather Theodore’s heart attack?’

  ‘Let’s leave that aside for the time being,’ said Hurst in a calm, soothing voice. ‘There’s a connection to the novel, but not what you think. As far as the grandfather is concerned: just a simple coincidence. Add to that the visions of a certain police sergeant....’

  ‘I was the first one to acknowledge it,’ retorted Simon, flustered.

  ‘Don’t get upset, Cunningham,’ said Hurst with an innocent smile. ‘It’s well known that you only need to speak about ghosts for them to appear. Right, we’re about to make a trip to St. Richard’s Wood. Are you coming with us, Cunningham?’

  ‘To interrogate Valerie’s family? I can’t do it. I shall be going there tonight, but not as a policeman. Please don’t think I’m not interested in solving the case, but...’

  ‘Very well. Then we can meet in St. James’s Park at two o’clock, on the bench near the purveyor of drinks. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said the young sergeant, who seemed very troubled.

  There were three brief knocks on the door and a small, wizened man entered.

  ‘Inspector Briggs!’ exclaimed Hurst. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I knew this case reminded me of something,’ said the intruder, beaming.

  ‘What?’ replied Hurst, sitting up smartly.

  ‘It’s just as I thought. This isn’t your murderer’s first attempt; he did the same thing in Devon twenty or so years ago!’

  9

  The Case of Charles Fielder

  ‘Take a look at this Times cutting of 1917,’ said Briggs. ‘Then you’ll understand.’

  THE DINNER OF DEATH!

  Imagine the stupefaction of the police when they were called to the Royal Restaurant in Exeter: in a private dining room at the rear, seated in front of a table laid for dinner, a man had fallen forward into his dish, a bullet in his brain, fired point blank. The weapon, still warm, was on the table. At the deceased’s feet was a pair of gloves, certainly not those of the victim because he had a pair of his own in his overcoat. Another curious detail: a small bowl half filled with water by the window, standing on a napkin.

  The dead man, Charles Fielder, had reserved the room for a dinner for two. The Royal Restaurant was almost full when he arrived at half past seven. The meal was served according to his instructions at a quarter to eight, at which time Mr. Fielder was alone in the room. The staff recall having seen, just before eight o’clock, an unknown person passing through the restaurant and entering the rear room. Being very busy at the time, they paid scarce attention to the man, who was of medium height and was wearing a raincoat with the collar up and a hat down over his eyes. The shot was fired ten minutes later. After a confusion lasting a few seconds, they attempted to enter the room but the door was locked. Having received no response to their knocks on the door, the staff broke it down. It seems quite obvious that the man in the raincoat—who was no longer in the room, having fled via the open window—was the murderer.

  For a long moment there was no noise other than from the traffic in the street. Simon and Dr. Twist tried to catch Hurst’s eye but he continued to stare at the cutting as if transfixed, his unruly lock of hair down over his forehead again.

  ‘So, my lads,’ snorted Briggs, ‘does that take your breath away or not? Hang on! I’ll read you another article which appeared a few days later: “The affair of the macabre dinner has still not been.... ” And, a little farther on: “The pistol found on the table was clean of fingerprints, so the possibility of suicide has been firmly ruled out. Charles Fielder, a famous surgeon, enjoyed a peaceful retirement in his house at Crediton, near Exeter, where he appeared to have no enemies. His family life, on the other hand, had been rather unhappy. He lost his wife very early and their daughter, an only child, had died in childbirth. The newborn had also succumbed. James Merrilow, his son-in-law, is the sole surviving member of the family. The fact he is the sole heir has made him the prime suspect, but he appears to have a solid alibi and was not recognised by any of the staff of the Royal Restaurant. The police, baffled by several aspects of the case—for example the half-filled bowl of water under the window, have made little progress.”

  ‘I’ll save you the trouble of reading the rest of the press coverage. All you need to know is that the finger of suspicion continued to point to James Merrilow, because Charles Fielder had drawn up a new will leaving everything to his son-in-law just a few days before he died. Which, let’s face it, is quite a coincidence. Despite their suspicions, the police were unable to establish his guilt. In his defence, he didn’t need the money and his father-in-law was already near death’s door, so why would he have committed the crime?

  ‘The affair landed in Scotland Yard’s lap. At one point they suspected the close relatives of patients who had tragically died under Fielder’s knife, but without result. The case was closed. So, Hurst, what do you think?’

  The inspector, who up to that point had remained calm, suddenly turned dangerously scarlet.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ he thundered, bringing his fist down violently on his desk. ‘It’s too much! One: last night’s business. Two: the Harold Vickers novel. Three: the grandfather’s heart attack. Four: this story, twenty years old. I’m telling you: it’s too much!’

  ‘What’s really strange in the Fielder case,’ observed Dr. Twist, ‘is the echo of such details as the gloves on the floor and the half-filled bowl placed under the window. If you want to talk about coincidence, that would be truly extraordinary.’

  ‘That’s what I think,’ said Briggs with a gleam of amusement in his eye. ‘It has to be the same murderer. Otherwise, as you say, the coincidence would be too extraordinary.’

  Hurst looked thoughtfully at Simon who was looking with great alarm at the newspaper cutting on the table. The inspector’s expression changed suddenly and a curious smile appeared on his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he declared ‘the coincidence would be too extraordinary. It’s not out of the question that Fielder’s killer is also... Briggs, you look into that: Fielder’s relations, the people he treated, whom he met frequently, his university friends and all the rest, and sift through it all to see if you can find the name Vickers. He must be there, one way or another.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? Fielder was almost seventy years old when he died in 1907. You might as well ask me to peruse the list of the Parisian conquests of the Prince of Wales at the turn of the century.’

  ‘Just do what you can, Briggs, I’m asking you as a personal favour. Take three of my men and supervise their work; you’re the expert at that kind of investigation. And find me the name Vickers somewhere. I’m counting on you. Twist, you and I are going to St. Richard’s Wood. We have to talk to a few people.’

  The mists having dispersed in that September morning, the rays of the radiant sun through the open window picked out flecks of gold in Diane Vickers’ hair. She was sitting up in bed, wrapped in a black silk kimono which accentuated the pallor of her complexion. She closed eyes reddened by tears and waited for the little clock on her bedside table to strike ten before she spoke:

  ‘No, we’ve never understood why he made that trip to Australia last year. He and Stephen hadn’t seen each other sin
ce... Goodness gracious! How long ago that was.’

  ‘You were an actress at the time, I believe, madam,’ asked Hurst.

  ‘Actress is overstating it. I’d only just begun to tread the boards of a small provincial theatre. In fact all I really wanted to do was to spread my wings and get out of the house where Papa tried to dominate everything. In fact he wanted Roger to learn the same trade as himself, locksmith, but my brother wanted to get out from under the family roof as soon as possible, just like me.’

  ‘And that was when you met the two brothers.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Diane Vickers, with a tender look in her eye which betrayed a return to the past. ‘Harold and Stephen. Physically there was a strong resemblance, but that’s where it ended. Stephen was calm and gentle, with a reassuring presence which made you feel secure. Harold, on the other hand, was completely unpredictable. He could go from euphoria to depression without warning. And finally....’

  She stopped to wipe away a tear.

  ‘Quite, madam,’ said Hurst clearing his throat. ‘Last night we met your daughter, the one who paints, and her behaviour appeared... how to put this?...quite strange.’

  ‘Henrietta didn’t like her father much, that’s a fact, but—how to put it?—she’s not in possession of all her marbles, the poor dear. Just like my mother, for that matter. But I don’t think it’s due to heredity. Henrietta was the victim of an accident.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘Yes. Quite a tragic one, as it happens. Henrietta and Valerie were around twelve years old and were playing on the swing behind the house. Valerie pushed her sister and...Henrietta fell. It appeared to be nothing serious, but then she started having memory lapses. She didn’t speak to anyone and would shut herself in her room for entire days in order to paint. Theodore, Harold’s father, was the first to recognise the seriousness of her condition. He took care of her with great patience and tenderness. His death was a cruel blow for Henrietta, who loved him dearly.’