Love Lies Bleeding

by Edmund Crispin

  The doctor dusted his knees and wiped his eyes. ‘Exactly what you’d expect,’ he said. ‘He was shot at a distance of something like six feet with – I think – a .38.’

  ‘Six feet,’ Stagge muttered. He paced out the distance to where the murderer had presumably stood, and having arrived there, looked about him rather vaguely in search of inspiration: but apparently none was forthcoming, for he made no further remark.

  ‘He must have a thick skull,’ the doctor went on, nodding towards the body, ‘because the bullet’s lodged in his brain…Death was instantaneous, of course.’

  ‘Time of death?’ Stagge asked.

  ‘Anything between half an hour ago and an hour and a half.’

  Stagge consulted his watch. ‘And it’s twenty minutes to midnight now. Between ten and eleven, in fact. Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the doctor uncompromisingly. ‘Can he be taken out to the ambulance?’

  Stagge shook his head. ‘Not for a moment. I must go through his pockets and the sergeant must take his fingerprints. After that you can have him.’

  He bent down and removed the contents of Somers’ pockets, laying them on the central table. At first glance there seemed nothing unusual about them: keys, money, a wallet – containing banknotes, an identity card and a driving licence – a pencil, a handkerchief, a half-filled tortoiseshell cigarette case and a utility petrol lighter…

  ‘But what on earth is he doing with that?’ Fen enquired.

  ‘That’ was a large sheet of spotless white blotting paper folded into eight, which had been in Somers’ breast pocket. Stagge turned it over carefully in his hands.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t see anything specially odd about a man carrying blotting paper. I dare say…’

  But Fen had taken the sheet away from him and was comparing it with the pad on the table. ‘Same kind,’ he observed, ‘same colour, same size.’ He glanced round the room. ‘And there are several identical pads, all with clean blotting paper.’ Turning to Wells, he said: ‘Are you responsible for renewing the blotting paper in these pads?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I do it on the first day of every month, regular.’

  ‘Wells is a stickler for routine,’ the headmaster put in.

  ‘And this,’ said Fen thoughtfully, ‘is June first.’

  Wells nodded eagerly; with the switching off of the electric fire something of his animation had returned. ‘I changed the blotting paper earlier this evening, sir.’

  ‘I dare say,’ the headmaster remarked rather deprecatorily, ‘that Somers wanted some and just pinched it. People do that sort of thing, you know.’

  But Fen seemed dissatisfied with this explanation. To Wells he said: ‘Where do you keep the fresh blotting paper?’

  ‘In a cupboard in my office, sir.’

  ‘And where does it come from in the first place?’

  ‘Well, sir, from the school stationery shop.’

  ‘And is the same sort of blotting paper sold to the boys and the masters when they happen to want it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I believe so.’

  ‘When you replace it, do you put a specific amount in each pad?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Three large sheets, folded double.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fen. ‘Have a look at all the pads in this room, then – including the one Somers was using – and see if there’s a sheet missing from any of them.’

  Glad of occupation, Wells began to bustle about.

  Stagge said, ‘I don’t quite see what you’re getting at, Professor Fen.’

  ‘Was ist, ist vernünftig,’ said Fen cheerfully. ‘All facts are valuable, superintendent.’

  Stagge’s self-confidence visibly waned at this evasive response, and he was silent, watching the sergeant at his disagreeable task. He had cleaned Somers’ fingers with benzoline and pressed them on to an inked metal plate; now he was transferring the prints to a sheet of white paper. Finishing the job, he straightened up, red with effort, and said, ‘What about his wristwatch, sir? You’ll be wanting that?’

  Stagge grunted. ‘I’m glad you reminded me,’ he said, and bent down to unstrap it. The headmaster, watching this operation, broke in with, ‘He’s wearing it the wrong way round.’

  Fen looked at him with interest. ‘The wrong way round?’

  ‘He always wore it on the inside of his wrist, as I believe the Americans do. It isn’t like that now.’

  Stagge had the watch at his ear, holding it delicately by the edge of the strap. ‘Anyway, it isn’t going,’ he said, and examined it. ‘The hands are at five to nine.’

  ‘Is it broken?’ Fen asked.

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘What about opening the back, then?’

  For answer Stagge went to the sergeant’s Gladstone bag, took from it a jar of grey powder, and with a camel-hair brush dusted this on to the glass and silver of the watch. He stared for a moment, blew off the powder, and picked up the sheet of paper with Somers’ fingerprints on it. For two or three minutes he was absorbed in the comparison, which he made with the help of a pocket lens.

  ‘Somers’ own prints are on it,’ he said at last, ‘and no one else’s. Which is what you’d expect.’ He prised off the back of the watch and studied its mechanism. ‘Broken, all right,’ he commented. ‘And deliberately broken, I’d say.’

  ‘To give a wrong impression of the time of death?’ the headmaster ventured.

  ‘Five to nine,’ Stagge pointed out. ‘Not a very sensible choice. And the glass isn’t smashed.’

  Wells had returned from his inspection of the blotting pads, and was hovering inquisitively at the edge of their little group. ‘I saw Mr Somers at ten o’clock, sir,’ he said. ‘Alive and well.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Stagge. ‘We’ll have a word about that in a minute.’

  The doctor, who had been dosing himself impatiently with snuff during this interchange, said, ‘Can he be taken away now?’

  ‘All right,’ Stagge agreed. ‘But don’t you go away, Stanford,’ he added hastily. ‘We’ve got another body to look at yet.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ said the doctor, who was perceptibly bored. He left the room, and presently the men from the ambulance appeared with a stretcher and carried the body away. They were all relieved to see the last of it, and Fen took some pleasure in crushing the bluebottle, which, deprived of its obscene banquet, was crawling incapably about on the floor.

  ‘Now, Wells,’ he said. ‘What about those blotting pads?’

  ‘Not a sheet missing from any of them, sir.’ This intelligence pleased Fen; he was about to make some comment on it when Wells added, ‘But as regards the watch, sir, I can tell you something about that. Mr Somers mentioned to me when I last saw him that it was out of order.’

  Fen looked more gratified than ever. ‘A delightful problem,’ he murmured.

  ‘Problem, sir?’ said Stagge.

  ‘Consider, superintendent,’ Fen adjured him dreamily. ‘Someone has, according to you, deliberately shattered the works of that watch. Now, that someone might have been Somers, but if so, he wouldn’t strap the watch back on his wrist in what to him was an unaccustomed position.’

  ‘We’re assuming, sir,’ said Stagge, ‘that it was the murderer who broke the watch.’

  ‘Are you? But from what Somers told Wells it would appear that the watch was broken before the murderer ever came on the scene. The murderer, consequently, was not under the necessity of breaking it. He might reset the hands – yes. But to do that he’d scarcely remove the watch. It’s a curious, contradictory business, and the explanation…’

  Fen paused, and a curious glitter appeared in his eyes; but when after a moment he spoke, it was only to say, in the mildest of tones: ‘I think Wells is our star witness. Can we hear what he knows about it all?’

  ‘I’d like to suggest,’ the headmaster interposed, ‘that we sit down. The heat…’

  They accepted the proposal with alacrity, Stagge motioning the sergeant and th
e constable to do the same. ‘Now, Wells,’ he said.

  Wells, a little flustered at being pushed thus incontinently into the limelight, gained time by prolongedly blowing his nose. ‘I’m not quite sure, sir, what it is you want to know.’

  ‘Everything,’ said Stagge peremptorily.

  Wells smiled feebly and pocketed his handkerchief. ‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘it’s like this. Every weekday evening I’m over in this building, working in my office, between ten and eleven.’

  ‘Where is your office?’

  ‘Just inside the east door, sir.’

  ‘That’s the door we came in by,’ the headmaster explained. ‘And by the way, when Wells says every evening, he means exactly that. His regularity’s a standing joke.’

  ‘Only way to be sure of getting things done, sir,’ said Wells, with a smugness which earned him Fen’s heartfelt disapproval. ‘Anyway, at eleven o’clock, in the normal way, I shut the windows and lock up the building and go home. This particular evening I arrived here about a quarter to ten, so as to empty the ashtrays and deal with the blotting paper. Mr Etherege was in here, finishing his reports. I chatted to him for a bit, and somewhere round five to ten Mr Somers turned up.’

  ‘Did he seem his usual self?’

  ‘Yes, superintendent; I didn’t notice anything out of the way.’

  ‘And he was alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Etherege chaffed him with having left his reports to the last moment, and they counted up the number he still had to do, and Mr Somers said he’d be able to finish them by eleven.’

  ‘Just one question,’ Fen interrupted. ‘Why on earth didn’t he take the reports home and deal with them there?’

  ‘It’s strictly forbidden to remove them from this room,’ said the headmaster. ‘About thirty-five men have to fill them in during less than a week, and if each one took them home with him there’d be chaos.’

  ‘I see. Go on, Wells.’

  ‘Mr Somers, sir, he said to me, “My watch is broken, Wells, so you’ll have to let me know when it’s eleven, but don’t disturb me before then.” And he settled down to work, at that very table.’

  ‘Was it placed as it is now?’ Stagge asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, except it’s got knocked a bit askew with him falling against it…Anyway, I went out of here with Mr Etherege and left Mr Somers on his own. Mr Etherege walked down to my office with me, and then he went off. I got down to my work. Then at eleven o’clock’ – Wells licked his dry lips – ‘I came up here and found him like you saw.’

  Stagge frowned. ‘You must have heard a shot, though.’

  ‘No, sir. I heard nothing.’

  Stagge looked rather blank at this. ‘I take it,’ he said to the headmaster, ‘that the nearest building would be Davenant’s.’

  ‘Yes, superintendent. It isn’t particularly near, mind you; I don’t know if one would hear a shot. Anyway, I’ve been in my study all evening, with the windows open, and I heard nothing.’

  Fen had been examining the windows of the common room. There were two symmetrical sets of them opposite to one another in the longer walls. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that these windows on the west look out over the river. Is there a public footpath?’

  ‘Not on this side, sir,’ Stagge replied. ‘And the one on the other side isn’t much frequented.’

  ‘And these other windows…’

  ‘They look out on a little inner courtyard.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fen seemed a trifle bored, as though he were asking these questions rather from duty than from inclination. ‘Well, I think a test is indicated, to see whether a revolver shot here is audible in Wells’ office; one sometimes gets acoustical freaks in old buildings like this. On the other hand, it’s possible that a silencer was used.’

  ‘Not only possible, but likely,’ said the headmaster. They turned unanimously to stare at him. ‘There is – or perhaps I should say there was – a silencer in the JTC armoury.’

  ‘An odd thing, surely, for a school to possess,’ Fen commented.

  ‘In fact, it belonged to Somers,’ the headmaster explained. ‘He picked it up while he was in the army, somewhere in France or Germany, and handed it over to Sergeant Shelley as a kind of memento. I remember hearing about the thing, but I don’t think I ever set eyes on it myself.’

  Stagge brought out a notebook and wrote something hurriedly on a virgin page. ‘I’ll make enquiries. It’ll be worth finding out, too, if any of the pistols are missing from the armoury…Now.’ He closed the notebook. ‘As regards access to this room…’

  ‘There’s only one outer door from which you can arrive here,’ said the headmaster. ‘And that, of course, is the one we came in by. Hubbard’s Building is inconveniently divided into three watertight compartments, each with its own outer door.’

  Stagge addressed himself to Wells. ‘I think you said that your office is just inside the door.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did anyone go in or out while you were working there between ten and eleven?’

  ‘Not a soul, sir. I had my door open because of the heat, so I could see as well as hear.’

  ‘M’m,’ said Stagge. ‘In that case, the murderer reached this room in some other fashion. There’s no doubt,’ he added parenthetically, ‘that he was in this room. Somers couldn’t, for instance, have been shot through the windows…’

  ‘The murderer might have been hidden in the building before Wells settled down in his office,’ the headmaster suggested, ‘and not have left until Wells came up here to mount guard.’

  ‘That’s possible, of course – though it’d be a needless risk if there were any way of getting in and out of the building unobserved. Would the windows of the downstairs classrooms be open?’ Wells nodded assent. ‘That would be one method, then,’ Stagge went on. ‘I must have a look at those windows – though not, I think, until daylight…Well, we have a few facts: Somers was shot with a .38 revolver, some time between ten or eleven, by someone who was either concealed in the building or got in through one of the downstairs windows.’ He scratched his nose, rather dubiously, with the end of a pencil. ‘I wish we could narrow down the time a bit.’

  ‘There’s one obvious way of doing so,’ said Fen.

  ‘Oh? What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Somers was writing reports,’ Fen remarked, yawning grossly. ‘To judge from Wells’ account, Etherege must know exactly how many he still had to write when he began the job at ten o’clock. By examining the forms, and getting someone whose writing is similar in size and type to duplicate Somers’ efforts under the same conditions, we can find out approximately how long he spent working at the reports. In any event, we can get a minimum.’

  Stagge snapped his fingers. ‘Damn good idea, sir. I’ll see that that’s done.’

  ‘I’ll even venture a prophecy as to the result,’ said Fen, yawning again. ‘I think you’ll find that that minimum represents close on an hour’s work.’

  Stagge stared. ‘You mean he was killed just before Wells found him?’

  ‘I propose to be tiresome,’ said Fen, ‘and not satisfy your curiosity. My idea’s only tentative, and I’d rather wait for confirmation – or otherwise.’

  ‘Well, we must humour you, I suppose.’ Stagge’s jocosity was perceptibly tempered with regret. ‘Wells, have a look at those reports, and find out if Somers finished his job.’

  They sat watching while the porter examined the reports. Eventually he said, ‘Yes, they’re all completed, sir.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must confiscate the lot,’ Stagge told the headmaster. ‘I’ll let you have them back, of course, at the earliest possible moment.’ He glanced enquiringly about him. ‘I rather think, you know, that we ought to be making for Mr Love’s house…Lord, all this business over again. What a night!’

  ‘I’ve just been thinking’ – Fen spoke with his eyes closed – ‘that I shouldn’t much like to stand up in this room and shoot a man with the lights on and the curtains open…Wells, we
re the curtains open when you were in here at ten o’clock?’

  ‘They were, sir. And still open when I found Mr Somers’ body.’

  ‘M’m. That doesn’t prove or disprove anything very valuable. Oh, one other thing: was there much likelihood of Somers’ being disturbed at his solitary vigil?’

  ‘Very little, sir. It’s rare for any master to come here at that time of night.’

  ‘And there are lavatories,’ said Fen surprisingly. They all gazed at him in bewilderment. ‘Well,’ he continued rather peevishly, ‘there are lavatories in the building, I suppose?’

  ‘Just outside the door,’ Wells informed him hastily. ‘First on the right.’

  ‘And in that case,’ said Stagge, getting to his feet, ‘I think we’d better all make a move, or Mrs Love will be wondering what’s become of us.’ He collected the report envelopes into a pile and thrust them underneath his arm. ‘I’m afraid, Dr Stanford, that we shall have to keep this room locked for the time being.’

  ‘Oh, my dear fellow, how inconvenient. Masters will be wanting to come in and fetch things from their lockers.’

  ‘We’ll make some arrangements about that,’ Stagge assured him. ‘By the way, sir, what line are you going to take with the staff? I don’t see that the news can be kept from them for very long.’

  The headmaster looked worried. ‘I think, if you see no objection, that I’ll try to get them all together before chapel tomorrow, tell them what’s happened, and impress on them the need to keep quiet about it. They’ll be sensible enough, I fancy.’

  ‘No details, please, sir. The bare facts only.’

  ‘My dear Stagge, of course.’

  They all bestirred themselves and left the room, the superintendent (having closed and latched all the windows) locking the door after them and pocketing the key. Wells led the way downstairs.