by Alan Hunter
‘Just one thing, Gently.’ Sir Daynes flashed him a warning look. ‘We’d better get it straight — there’s been no suggestion of foul play. Personally I can’t think of anyone at the Place who’d want to do this young fellow an injury, and I don’t want you poking around as though someone had. You don’t mind me being frank?’
Gently shook his head.
‘Good,’ said Sir Daynes with satisfaction. ‘This is going to be a delicate business, and I want to handle it in my own way.’
Two cars stood parked on the terrace as the Bentley came sweeping up, both of them Wolseleys of the type favoured by the local constabulary. Under the restrained portico stood a constable, slowly rocking on his heels, looking like an icicle in spite of his buttoned-up topcoat. He marched stiffly down the steps and opened the door for Sir Daynes.
‘Woolston, is it?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s me.’
‘What the devil is the meaning of this cavalcade, Woolston?’
The constable looked bewildered. ‘It’s Inspector Dyson, sir. He’s got the surgeon and Sergeant Turner with him.’
‘What the blasted hell for? Someone pinched the Crown jewels? And get inside that door, man. You can guard it quite as well in the hall.’
Up the steps strode Sir Daynes, Gently and the squashed constable in his wake. The hall, unlit today, looked shadowed and gloomy, but just as they entered there was a hissing flash, and a lurid light reached momentarily to the distant corners. At the foot of the stairs stood a group of six men in an irregular semi-circle, one of them playing with a camera and tripod. In the centre of the semi-circle lay a still, dark, sprawling starfish, near it a navy blanket, which had apparently been used as a cover. Sir Daynes stormed up to this group like a lion pouncing on its prey.
‘Dyson!’ he barked. ‘Dyson! What in the blue blazes is all this tomfoolery?’
A tall, thin-faced man with buck teeth spun round as though he had been bitten.
‘Ah — ah — I beg your pardon, sir?’ he stammered.
‘This!’ fulminated Sir Daynes, with an inclusive sweep of his arm. ‘What is it, man? What are you playing at? Why have you got these fellows here?’
Poor Dyson gaped and swallowed and ran a tongue over his divorced upper lip. ‘I–I — we were called in, sir. Matter of routine…’
‘Routine be beggared! Do you have to turn out a homicide team to take particulars of an accidental death? Why, man, a blasted constable would have done. Wasn’t I there, living right next door? Why didn’t you get in touch with me?’
‘Well, sir… Christmas Day…’
‘Don’t talk to me of Christmas Day, Dyson!’ Sir Daynes was withering in his wrath. ‘As far as the police are concerned there’s only one day — a twenty-four-hour day — and I happen to be the chief of police in these parts. Now get these men out of here. When they’re wanted, I’ll send for them. You stay here — and you, Dr Shiel. The rest of you get back to your duties or your Christmas pudding — whatever it was you were pulled away from.’
‘But, sir-’
Dyson made a desperate effort to get a word in.
‘You heard my orders, Dyson!’
‘Sir… Dr Shiel…’
‘I have already asked Dr Shiel to remain.’
‘But, sir… the circumstances…’
It looked rather as though Dyson was going to catch another blast from the Broke thunderbox. Sir Daynes’s chin came up and his eyes sparkled pure fire. But just then a slim figure detached itself from the outskirts of the group and intervened between the inspector and his fate.
‘Excuse me, Daynes, but I believe we cannot dispose of this matter quite so simply.’
It was Somerhayes, his handsome face pale, a dry flatness in his cultivated voice.
‘Eh, eh?’ Sir Daynes turned from the flinching Dyson. ‘Henry — didn’t see you there, man. Damn it, I’m sorry this place has been turned into a bear garden for you — blasted mistake, man. I’ll soon have them out.’
‘There has been no mistake, Daynes.’
‘What? Of course there’s been a mistake.’
‘No, Daynes. The inspector came at my request. You will appreciate that as a magistrate I had no option but to take what steps seemed necessary.’
Sir Daynes stared at the nobleman as though he had taken leave of his senses. Somerhayes managed to summon up a frosty smile.
‘I omitted to tell you on the phone, Daynes, that I had some doubt as to the way in which Earle came by his injuries.’
‘Doubt?’ echoed Sir Daynes.
‘Yes. I could not feel certain in my mind.’
‘But you said he’d taken a tumble, and if that’s where you found him, by George’ — Sir Daynes poked a finger at the spreadeagled body — ‘then he did take a tumble. You aren’t going to tell me that somebody pushed him?’
‘No… I don’t think he was pushed.’
‘Then what are your doubts about?’
Slowly and without emotion Somerhayes pointed to the skull. The body was lying on its face, the head twisted to one side. Clearly visible at the upper part of the back of the skull was a broad, depressed fracture running in a vertical line. Sir Daynes stared at it grimly, making sure he was missing nothing.
‘Well? What’s so mysterious about it? Didn’t he fall far enough?’
‘To fracture his skull — yes. But what caused a fracture like that?’
‘Why, man, the answer’s obvious. He struck it on a stair. With eighteen or twenty marble stairs to pick from, it’s a wonder he had any skull left.’
Somerhayes shook his head. ‘There are two things against it, Daynes. The first is the vertical line of the fracture. I cannot think how he could have fallen to have struck his skull backwards and sideways against a stair-edge. The rest of the skull, you will observe, has only abrasions.’
‘Balderdash!’ snorted Sir Daynes. ‘Why shouldn’t he have struck his head sideways? Anything’s possible when a feller comes careening down one of those things.’
‘It may be.’ Somerhayes made the ghost of a bow. ‘The second point, perhaps, will seem more convincing. It occurred to me when I first saw the body, and Dr Shiel has come to the same conclusion independently. We find it difficult to understand how this comparatively broad fracture could have been caused by impact with one of these comparatively sharp stair-edges.’
‘That is certainly so, Sir Daynes,’ put in the police-surgeon, a gaunt-featured Scot, promptly. ‘I cannot see at all how the laddie could have done it. If there had been some railings, now, or a good stout ornamental flim-flam of some sort at the foot… but as ye see, the stairs just swell out till they reach the sides of the nook. Nothing’s here at all to make a dunt like that.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion!’ Sir Daynes’s square jaw set in an obstinate line. ‘You can’t say for certain that a stair-edge wouldn’t do it. He might have had a particular type of skull. A blow with anything might have sunk it in like that.’
‘No, sir, no, sir.’ The Scot sucked in air through his lips. ‘That’s clean against all the tenets of a very exact science. I will give you my opinion now. I’ll not move from it in a court of law. It’s a blunt weapon like a club or bortle that put out the light of yon poor fellow, and no amount of chaffering will make it into a stair-edge.’
Sir Daynes blasted this rebel in silence for a moment, but the Scot, seasoned to the attacks of many a defence counsel, was no apt subject for brow-beating. The baronet turned his attack on the imbecile Somerhayes.
‘I suppose you’ve got something tangible to support this — this flimsy piece of medical evidence?’
Somerhayes silently shook his head.
‘No idea who’d want to do it — no evidence about how it was done?’
‘Nothing, Daynes, I’m afraid. Naturally I conducted a brief inquiry among the inmates of this establishment, but nothing relevant has come to light. As far as I can discover the lieutenant was very popular with my household, including the domestic st
aff. I, personally, found his society refreshing, and he was a great favourite with the tapissiers and our chef d’atelier. I am unable to imagine any motive whatever for his death.’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Sir Daynes triumphantly. ‘And neither am I, Henry — neither am I. It’s the most preposterous piece of twaddle I ever heard of. A man everyone likes takes a tumble down some stairs, and because he cracks his skull one way and not another everybody starts assuming there’s been foul play. Blasted morbidity, that’s what I call it. And you heard nothing — found nothing?’
‘No, Daynes.’
‘Not even a club or bortle?’ Sir Daynes gave the Scot a leer.
‘Nothing of the sort has been discovered about the immediate scene of the tragedy. My butler-valet, Thomas, found the body when he was passing through the hall shortly after seven this morning. He immediately aroused me, and together we searched the hall and the galleries for any indication suggestive of what had occurred. We were both familiar with the precise disposition of the contents, but we could find nothing unusual or out of place.’
‘Of course you damned well couldn’t! What would you expect to find after a feller falls downstairs?’ Sir Daynes rubbed his hands with the air of one who was restoring rationality where madness had reigned. ‘Let’s be cool about this, Henry. We’d all been making merry last night. If that young feller wasn’t used to hard liquor, it’s ten to one he finished up a bit uncertain on his pins. Do you remember him drinking after we’d gone?’
‘Yes,’ assented Somerhayes, after a pause.
‘Hah! And strong stuff at that?’
‘The last drink we had was an 1905 cognac.’
‘There you are — what more do you want? A vintage cognac, on top of all the other stuff we’d been putting away. The wonder is you didn’t have to carry him to bed, not that he tripped over his feet at the top of the stairs. No, no, Somerhayes, I appreciate your anxiety about this. You’ve tackled the business like a good feller and a conscientious magistrate. But I assure you you’re making too much of it. The shock of the thing has unsettled you, man. Now I’ll just get an ambulance along and give the coroner a tinkle, and we’ll try to get this affair out of our minds…’
Sir Daynes came to a halt, his eye falling on Gently. The forgotten Central Office man had apparently been doing some exploring, for he was now in the act of descending the great marble stairway. He looked woodenly at the baronet and then at Somerhayes, and Sir Daynes, who knew his Gently, felt a sudden uneasiness creep over him.
‘This hall… is it cleaned out often?’
For some reason, a pin might have been heard to drop.
‘Not at this time of the year.’ Somerhayes’s voice sounded flatter than ever. ‘In summer when the visitors come it is cleaned several times a week, but now, perhaps not more than once a fortnight.’
‘Would it have been last cleaned recently?’
‘Yes, I think two days ago, in preparation for Christmas.’
Gently nodded his mandarin nod. He seemed quite unaware of the pregnant silence.
‘So that if, out of six objects in the hall, five had a thin layer of dust and one had not, you would say that that one had been wiped at some time less than two days ago?’
Somerhayes’s head slowly sank in acknowledgement.
‘Damn it, man, what is all this?’ erupted Sir Daynes fiercely. ‘What the devil six objects are you talking about?’
Gently pointed up the stairway. Seven pairs of eyes followed his outstretched finger. On two oval panels, hung on each side of the marble doorway, were displayed six antique japanned-and-gilt truncheons.
‘It’s the lowest one on the left-hand side… Do you think we might have it sent to the lab?’
‘Blast you, Gently!’ roared Sir Daynes. ‘I thought I asked you to keep out of this business?’
Gently hunched his shoulders and looked down at the sprawling figure at the foot of the stairs.
‘There was somebody else who asked me to keep in,’ he replied expressionlessly.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dr Shiel estimated the time of death at between one and three a.m. The ambulance had arrived and departed; Earle’s belongings had been collected and examined by curious policemen. The best part of them were comprised by a pile of variously shaped packages wrapped in silver foil and tied up with gold tinsel… Each one was labelled, and it was a nice legal point whether the labels did or did not have the force of a last will and testament. Sir Daynes, with the air of one gripping a nettle, had phoned Earle’s unit at Sculton and conservatively reported the details of the lieutenant’s demise.
‘That’ll mean trouble before we’re very much older,’ he forecast gloomily as he pressed down the receiver.
They had returned to the Manor for lunch, which was, of course, dinner; but the flavour had gone out of the festivities for that day. Sir Daynes was like a bear with a sore head. Even now he was unwilling to relinquish the comfortable theory of accidental death — surely that was a bad enough condiment for the turkey, without invoking the ultimate in misfortunes.
‘I suppose that damned truncheon of yours clinches the matter,’ he grumbled over his pudding. ‘No other reason why it should be wiped… People don’t go around wiping odd truncheons.’
‘We’ll know when we get the lab report.’ Gently was no more in love with life than his host.
‘Could have been something else… some fool using it to poke the fire, or something. Or what about the feller himself? It’s shaped like a baseball bat. Might have taken a swing or two with it, just to see how it was balanced…’
‘Daynes,’ sighed his spouse, ‘you’ll almost certainly get indigestion. Why don’t you let Inspector Dyson get on with it, and stop fretting like a broody hen?’
They were smoking cigars when the lab got through. Sir Daynes was in the hall almost before the phone began ringing.
‘Well — that’s settled that! The lab confirms it was the weapon. Among other things it has his brilliantine on it, and some impacted human skin.’
‘There weren’t any prints?’
‘No — wiped off clean.’
‘Someone didn’t panic after the body went down the stairs.’
‘I think this is horrid,’ exclaimed Lady Broke reprovingly. ‘Daynes, I really will not have you discussing homicide in my lounge.’
‘All right, m’dear!’ Sir Daynes found a smile for her. ‘Come on, Gently, let’s get back. Dyson is waiting the interrogations for us.’
The Place seemed as empty and as frigid as a gigantic sepulchre on that grey afternoon. Except for the constable, reinstalled outside the door, and the servant who led them through the interminable dust-sheeted rooms, they met nobody until they arrived at the little blue drawing room in the north-east wing. Here Inspector Dyson was impatiently warming his posterior at a newly lit fire, and two constables stood gleaning what they could, one on either side of him.
‘Hah!’ said Sir Daynes, by way of inspiring the atmosphere with his presence. The monosyllable had its effect. A reluctant Dyson unbonneted the hearth, which was immediately reinvested by the shameless baronet. The two constables shrank yet further away from the centre of comfort, and their places were taken by Dyson and Gently.
‘Hah!’ repeated Sir Daynes with satisfaction. ‘Don’t know how they got on in the eighteenth century, but this blasted great barn has been an ice-house ever since I can remember. Must have bred ’em tougher in those days, Dyson. Must have had circulations like double-action pumps. No wonder the confounded females wore eighteen petticoats, eh, eh?’
Dyson essayed a polite laugh, and Sir Daynes rubbed his hands genially.
‘Well now, about this business. You’ve had the lab report, have you?’
‘Yes, sir. It came half an hour ago.’
‘What are your ideas, man? I suppose you’ve got some?’
Dyson looked uncomfortable, as though he were a bit low in that department.
‘We’ve been all round the outside of th
e house, sir, just in case there’d been a break-in. And Lord Somerhayes and some of his staff checked through the inside to see if anything was disturbed or missing.’
‘Did y’get any results?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Pity, Dyson.’
‘Looks like an inside job, sir.’
‘You don’t have to blasted well rub it in, Dyson.’
Sir Daynes knitted his brows, which were splendidly adapted to the purpose, and swayed forward slightly to adjust matters in his rear.
‘And you’ve got some ideas?’
‘Er… nothing concrete, sir.’
‘You mean you haven’t got any?’
‘At this stage, sir, I thought it best to keep an open mind.’
Sir Daynes grunted meaningfully, but refrained from a sarcasm that had obviously occurred to him. ‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ he said. ‘Ask Lord Somerhayes to come in.’
A constable was dispatched, and returned shortly to usher in the nobleman. Somerhayes looked more collected than he had done in the morning. The ghostly paleness had left his high-boned cheeks; there was some colour in his lips; a certain firmness, when he spoke, had replaced the near-hysteria-sounding flatness of his voice. He looked quickly around him on entering, and seeing Gently, gave him a fey little smile. Gently returned it with a solemn nod.
‘Haven’t interrupted your dinner, man, have we?’ enquired Sir Daynes with concern.
‘No, thank you, Daynes. I have had very little appetite for it.’
‘Mistake, man, mistake. Should keep up your strength, y’know.’
Somerhayes made no reply, but took his seat in the chair that had been set facing the table impressed for the business of taking statements. Dyson took his place opposite, his short-hand constable beside him; Sir Daynes and Gently remained standing, the former shifting over a bit to give Gently a fairer look at the fire.