The Polo Ground Mystery

by Robin Forsythe

  “Was Winter asleep?” asked Vereker.

  “No, he was sitting up in bed, and on my telling him what had happened, he jumped up with the words, ‘Good God! Have you told Edmée yet?’ Without troubling to answer him, I hopped into Degerdon’s room. He was fast asleep, and it seemed to me that I took the deuce of a time to wake him. After I’d shaken the liver out of him, he simply rolled over with a muttered, ‘I shan’t get up yet. Call me in another hour.’ Finally I managed to bring home to him the seriousness of the situation, and he began very collectedly to get up.”

  “Was he at all upset?” asked Vereker.

  “Not the least bit at first. Degerdon seems at times to be slow in the uptake, but he gradually realized what a horrible tragedy had occurred and appeared to be overwhelmed. This was my impression, but you must remember I wasn’t in a condition myself to be very observant. By the time I had pulled on my clothes, Fanshaugh had already left the house. Degerdon had dressed, met Angela, and was accompanying her out, taking her arm. He shouted to me to ring up a doctor and the police and follow as quickly as possible.”

  “I wonder why he should suggest police before he was certain it was murder,” remarked Vereker.

  “Damn it, but that never struck me,” said Ralli, with a shade of surprise. “In any case, I think I told him it was murder, and I suppose he took it for granted. One doesn’t think beneath the surface at such a moment.”

  “Perhaps not. Who was the last to arrive on the scene?”

  “Edmée and Aubrey together. Aubrey, phlegmatic in temperament, was rather chalky about the face but otherwise perfectly calm. Edmée, nervous and highly strung, was, as I’ve said, quite hysterical at first, but recovered later in the morning.”

  “Fanshaugh seems to have kept his head,” commented Vereker.

  “It’s what one would expect from a soldier. Frankly, I was mighty glad Fanshaugh hadn’t gone back to Nuthill on the previous night, as had been his intention. He was simply splendid!”

  “Was it very late when you turned in the night before?”

  “Not exceptionally. Excusing myself, I went to bed at eleven. To tell the truth, I was feeling bored with the company. They weren’t in a particularly cheerful or bright mood. I had just got a copy of Richard Oke’s Frolic Wind and had made up my mind to have a go at it in bed. Reading in bed’s a habit of mine. I started with the expectation of falling comfortably asleep over it, but for the life of me I couldn’t lay it down. About half-past twelve I heard Fanshaugh and Degerdon coming along the corridor. They were in a chirpy mood and talking at the top of their voices. I may add that they both appreciate a drop of really fine whisky. Then, at one o’clock I heard Aubrey Winter enter his room rather quietly, and a quarter of an hour later the closing of my uncle’s door told me that he had followed suit.”

  “And then you fell asleep?”

  “No, I read on till about two o’clock, when I switched off my light and settled down. I fell into a doze, but was wakened by the sound of movements from the floor below. It sounded as if either Angela or Edmée was up and treading rather lightly about her room. I didn’t pay much attention to this, for Angela is a restless sort of soul at times. If she can’t sleep she’ll often get up and rake around for an aspirin tablet or fish out the manuscript of a novel she’s writing. No one has ever seen that manuscript, but she admits that she has been at work on it for seven years. She says her genius is volcanic and has alternate periods of eruption and quiescence, but chiefly quiescence. Then I fell off again, but was wakened by the sound of a window being opened. The night was tropical, so that this incident didn’t fire my curiosity. Shortly after, I heard a car start up and make off eastward along the Nuthill road. Once more I slipped away to the land of Nod. The dawn light woke me up, as it nearly always does, and it was then I heard the shots. To tell the truth, I wasn’t quite sure at the moment that they were shots. I persuaded myself that I’d heard a car backfire on the road and dozed off again. My next sensation was seismic in its violence, and its origin, as I’ve related, was dear old Dunkerley.”

  Ralli had hardly finished speaking when the sounds of footsteps on the gravel announced the approach of some one, and next moment two figures suddenly appeared at the western end of the veranda. At once Ralli greeted them and introduced them to Vereker as Ralph Degerdon and Captain Fanshaugh.

  “Frederick told us you were on the back veranda, so we said we’d stroll round and wake you up,” said Fanshaugh, as both men seated themselves.

  “Any further news?” asked Degerdon.

  “None whatever,” replied Ralli. “What do you know?”

  “Rather startling development in the village of Nuthill,” said Fanshaugh. “A man called John Salt drowned himself last night in the village pond. He ought to have chosen the sea with that name. He’s the walla the police arrested the other day as a suspect in connection with Sutton’s shooting. At the time of his arrest he was tight as an owl and was boasting about having done the job. It came out later that he’d lost all his dough in the Braby crash and was merely drowning his woes. Now he has gone one better.”

  “Poor devil, I’m sorry for him,” remarked Degerdon, with feeling. “He’s not the only one. The crash has brought Degerdon and Co. down with it. We’ve got to pack up and quit. I don’t know what the old boy will do. I shall look out for a job abroad.”

  For some moments there was a sympathetic silence, and then Ralli asked:

  “Is there any truth in the yarn that my uncle was the indirect cause of this smash? I know he and Raymond Braby were bitter enemies in business, or the ‘world of finance,’ as it’s politely called.”

  “It was mainly through Sutton that the whole swindle was brought to light. The Public Prosecutor simply had to take action. I know Braby came to your uncle, and on bended knees begged him to try and save him. But Sutton was out for scalps and drove him from the office with twinkling feet and a hammy knife. I doubt whether he could have given him a hand in any case. It was bound to come out in the end, and it was jolly cute on his part to refuse to filthy his own hands,” replied Degerdon.

  “Look here, Degerdon. I’m not a business man,” said Ralli, with a kindly note in his voice, “and I’ve an idea that business morality is not of a seraphic order. It hurts me to think my uncle was the cause of your misfortune, even indirectly. If there’s anything I can do to give you a lift out of the ditch, call on me.”

  “Very good of you, Ralli, but you’ve got troubles enough of your own just now without being worried by mine. In business, as in sport, you’ve just got to be prepared to take a fall. Though we’ve come a nasty purler, I’m not going to blame your uncle for it. I don’t even bear Raymond Braby much of a grudge, if it comes to that. It’s no use, and we ought to have kept our eyes wider open. The only thing to do is to keep a stiff upper lip.”

  “That’s the spirit, Ralph,” agreed Fanshaugh. “It’s all in a day’s hunting. You’ve got a check; the only thing to do is to cast and get on the line again.”

  During this conversation, Vereker was making full use of an excellent opportunity to observe the outward bearing and characteristics of the newcomers and trying to cull from them some indication in each case of the true man that moved behind the exterior. Rickaby Fanshaugh conformed unexpectedly in appearance to his preconception of him. Of medium height, lean and wiry, with a sharp, bronzed face, a light moustache and light hair which barely showed incipient greyness, he suggested a cavalry officer who had seen much service abroad. From that bronzed face shone a pair of eyes of almost startling brightness of a very pale blue-grey. There was something about those eyes which intrigued Vereker. Their colour gave an impression of flatness and declared a man whose views, if not wide, were sharp and irrevocably definite. Unflinching courage was there, and the whole set of his face bespoke resolution and a certain virile challenge which bordered on contemptuousness. In spite of a perpetual guard over his feelings, Vereker instinctively liked him. He was a soldier—a soldier by choice�
�and to Vereker there were few types of men who were preferable.

  Ralph Degerdon, on the other hand, seemed to him to be of a different fibre. The face was frank and jovial, with a softness and roundness which gave it an expression of exaggerated boyishness. His eye was dark brown and deep, with peculiarly long lashes; the mouth firm but somewhat full and sensitive. At the moment there hung about him an air of weariness bordering on exhaustion, and at intervals there shone in his eye a gleam of sudden desperation. In spite of his attitude of philosophical acceptance of misfortune, it was clear that the financial ruin which had overtaken his family had had its effect on him. He gave the impression of a man recovering from a shattering crisis.

  “I came up here, Basil, to-day to see you about a rather pressing business,” said Fanshaugh, breaking the silence which had followed his last words. “I don’t suppose you feel a bit like discussing business, but the world has got to go round, you know. Have you decided what you’re going to do about the ponies and hunters?”

  “I haven’t given them a thought. What’s the business?”

  “If you’re going to get rid of them, Dixon of Lingfield would like to buy Nutcracker. Cub-hunting’s ahead, and now’s the time to sell. He’s a top-sawyer, and Dixon’s generous when he wants a thing badly. I shall shed tears when he goes, but business is business, and he’ll go to a damn good man to hounds. A good man deserves a good horse even more than he does a good wife. Then there’s Proserpine. She’s a ewe-necked, sickle-hocked, pig-eyed, flat-sided mistress of hell, and I’d cheerfully give her away with a truss of hay to that ‘thruster,’ Morton, only I know he wouldn’t take the trouble to come and fetch her. Sutton bought her off his own bat, and she started her gay career by kicking Foxglove, one of the best hounds in the pack!”

  “Dear old ‘Fruity,’ don’t worry yourself. I’m not going to get rid of them. Just carry on as you’ve done for my uncle. Give Proserpine to your worst enemy. I leave everything in your hands. Later on I may become an ardent disciple of old Jorrocks. Fox-hunting’s as good a qualification for heaven as any other faith.”

  “You don’t know how damned glad I am to hear you say so. It’s the first bit of common sense I’ve heard on religion for years. To refer to an unpleasant topic, I saw Inspector Heather with a small army of assistants, about an hour ago, near the ‘Silver Pear Tree.’ I suppose they’re going to scour the place for that automatic pistol.”

  “What automatic pistol?” asked Vereker, with startling abruptness.

  The directness and tone of his question seemed for a moment to disconcert Captain Fanshaugh. He parried with a cold glare, which was intended to show that he resented the manner of its asking, but replied quietly:

  “The automatic pistol used by Sutton’s murderer.”

  “Did he tell you that?” asked Vereker, unabashed.

  “Well, no, he didn’t. It was merely a presumption on my part. It seems to me to be the thing to find, if possible.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Vereker innocently; “but even if it’s found it might be impossible to trace its owner.”

  “That’s true,” remarked Degerdon, and asked, “Have they found any further cartridge case?”

  “One, I believe,” replied Vereker casually, “but for the life of me I can’t see the use of hunting for cartridge cases. What can they learn from them?”

  “Oh, a great deal,” replied Fanshaugh. “For instance, a private of a foot regiment, when we were in India, shot his company sergeant-major for kissing his wife. No one saw the crime committed, and dozens of men were under suspicion. But the culprit was discovered at last. They found out by the ejector marks on the rim of the cartridge and by the firing-pin impression on the cap which rifle that cartridge had been fired from. They taxed the walla to whom that rifle belonged, and he said, ‘Please, sir, it was me as did it.’”

  “Very smart,” was Vereker’s sole comment, and when he looked up, he noticed that Ralli’s eyes were fixed on him with a strangely perplexed and questioning glance.

  “To me the business looks like suicide,” said Degerdon, stretching himself lazily.

  “Not with a shot in the apron, Degerdon,” replied Fanshaugh, “unless Sutton was camouflaging suicide to look like murder. There’s the case of that chief of police in America who recently played the trick. He thought he’d fake a murder by gangsters and put bullet- holes into the walls and ceiling of his room with another revolver and then shot himself through the heart. I thought the heart shot was damned cunning. The police know that suicide by shooting through the heart is a very rare occurrence. Of course he did it so that the payment of his insurance policies might not be questioned.”

  “I remember it,” agreed Vereker. “He even faked threatening letters to himself, and just before doing himself in called up the telephone operator and gasped out that he’d been shot by gangsters. But in Armadale’s case,” he added significantly, “there was no need for trickery over insurance policies and apparently no reason for committing suicide. Besides, the police definitely know it was murder.”

  “How did they find that out?” asked Degerdon eagerly.

  “Well, the inspector didn’t tell me how they found out that it was murder. Although I’m very friendly with him, he knows I’m from the Daily Report, and of course the police always keep the Press in the dark on certain points. To tell us everything might seriously hamper them in their work.”

  With these words, Vereker rose and, thanking Ralli for his hospitality, said that he would get back to the “Silver Pear Tree.”

  “Don’t forget your shooting-stick and let me know how it works,” said Ralli, as he accompanied Vereker through the house to the main entrance. “Also remember my words about your room here. Come up and see me at any time. Don’t stand on ceremony. I’d like to know how your sleuthing goes. In this hunt, as ‘Fruity’ would put it, I’m only a foot-follower, but even he, if he’s genuine, may be useful when hounds have checked. I suppose you would rather I said nothing about your detective work to anyone?”

  “It would be better for the present,” agreed Vereker. “Our having been up at Oxford together ought to allay an indefinite amount of curiosity if you’re asked what I’m doing here. Besides, you can always fall back on the Daily Report. Au revoir.”

  Chapter Nine

  On leaving the house, Vereker, when half-way down the drive to the main entrance gates, turned sharply to the right and, crossing the bordering lawn and flower-beds, made his way through a narrow belt of larches into an adjoining meadow. Here, by skirting the southern wall of the kitchen garden, he came round to the polo ground. Walking at a sharp pace, he reached the spot where Sutton Armadale’s body had been found. Depositing his painting gear on the turf he went down on hands and knees and made a search for the small hole which he had discovered earlier in his investigations. After a few minutes, he located it, and reaching for the shooting-stick which he had laid at hand on the grass, inserted its steel extremity into the hole. It fitted exactly, leaving a circular impression with its terminal metal disc. At once a triumphant gleam lit his eye and he promptly commenced his search for the other hole which he had previously found. This hole he had “sighted” on the former occasion much as a beater or keeper marks down a wounded bird, and now traced without difficulty. Once more the steel shoe of the shooting-stick fitted into the aperture exactly. Then taking a tape-measure from his pocket he measured the distance between the holes and found it to be a little over twenty-six yards. At the moment he was quite at loss to work out a rational explanation of these facts, but stored them up in his memory as potential clues. At a later phase of his quest they might prove of paramount importance. Picking up his pack and easel once more, he set out for the Nuthill road. As he approached the gate leading from the meadow on to the highway, he was attracted by the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning round, he was surprised to see Captain Fanshaugh hurrying to overtake him.

  “I was taking a short-cut home,” he said, “and seeing you
ahead I thought I’d catch you up. I’ve been riding on your tail for the last ten minutes.”

  “You live somewhere over at Nuthill?” asked Vereker.

  “Yes. My sister and I set up house there when the army had no further use for me. War’s an anachronism now they’ve disbanded so many cavalry regiments. We’ve got quite a nice little bungalow and compound. We call it ‘Jodhpur.’ My sister’s a war widow and I’m a bachelor. If at any time you’d like to look us up, we’ll make you welcome. Drop in any time after dinner for a peg and a chin-wag.”

  Vereker thanked him, and as they tramped towards Nuthill turned the conversation round to the subject that was uppermost in his mind.

  “You were an intimate friend of Sutton Armadale’s, weren’t you, Captain Fanshaugh?”

  “We’ll not call it intimate. We were good friends, and I was a sort of guide and philosopher to him on polo, hunting, and shooting. Poor old Sutton, he wanted to shine as a sportsman. With his racing and yachting activities I’d nothing to do. He wasn’t very successful in the former, and the latter he finally gave up altogether because he thoroughly disliked being seasick. On polo, hunting, and shooting he was the most ineffectual enthusiast I’ve ever met. He never was a pukka sportsman. Somehow, I always think that Big Business, as they call it, is dead against true sportsmanship. It makes bad losers and breeds a sort of win-at-all-costs spirit in its devotees. After a man has spent the best part of his years at the financial game, it’s difficult to alter his fundamental outlook. In spite of all the trouble I took with him, I couldn’t teach him to be even a fair polo player. He’d listen attentively to what I had to say and then go and do the damned thing all wrong. To hit a ball under his pony’s neck he’d always ride wide instead of riding on a line with the ball. And he treated horseflesh as if it was machinery instead of soul stuff like himself. With a gun he was not only hopeless but a standing or rather acrobatic menace. In the hunting field he was an amiable nuisance. Those were old Sutton’s faults. Yet he was always dead keen, and, after all, he was unconsciously damned funny. He was generally very good-natured and could stand a joke against himself. In fact, he loved one if it brought him into the limelight. He lived for limelight. And against those faults could be set any number of virtues. He was chock full of pluck; he was a loyal friend. He loved the aristocratic tradition, but he wasn’t altogether a snob. He had a ready tongue, a hearty laugh, and a damned healthy body. He was a jolly companion and a good host.”