Resorting to Murder: Holiday Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Rather,’ said Woodham heartily. ‘Come on.’ Trove made no objection.

  The road was populous in the village, and even beyond the shops had too many tourists for confidences. Reggie explained the beauties of nature to silent companions. After a while he turned off into a path across half-mown pasture and coming between them urged them to analyse the separate scents of hay in the making. Woodham with a certain condescension assisted. Trove made noises and at last exploded. ‘You wanted to ask us something, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, it is rather a complex case.’ Reggie stopped. A man who was trudging after them went into a shed. They were close to the base of the mountain wall which shut in the valley. Reggie turned away towards the gorge by which in roaring falls the river came down. ‘Of course, you fellows know much more about it than I do,’ he murmured.

  Trove gave him a fierce, puzzled stare. Woodham laughed. ‘I say! That’s rather startling. I’m afraid I don’t know anything that I know of.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. I was thinking about these two men. What exactly is the connection between Butler and Ulyett?’

  Trove looked at Woodham. ‘Why, they were very old friends,’ Woodham said. ‘Surely you knew that.’

  ‘Yes. So I’ve heard. And Ulyett makes chemicals, and Butler’s a consulting chemist. Any business connection?’

  ‘Hadn’t you better ask Ulyett?’ said Woodham coldly.

  ‘I hope to. But Ulyett’s unfortunately out of action. Rather curious conjunction. One old friend comes to see another. And one gets killed before they meet and the other is knocked out. Any business reasons?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ said Woodham. ‘I’m not in their confidence, Mr Fortune.’

  ‘You were, weren’t you?’ Reggie turned to Trove.

  ‘I was Butler’s assistant. You know that,’ Trove said sullenly. ‘Look here, what is all this, Fortune? You came into the business as a doctor. You’re talking like a policeman.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Reggie, and paced on. They were climbing the steep path into the gorge. ‘I am a policeman. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Trove growled.

  ‘Steady, Adrian,’ Woodham said gently. ‘Not quite playing the game, is it, Mr Fortune? When a fellow calls in a doctor he doesn’t expect to get a detective.’

  ‘No. It was a bit of luck.’

  ‘So that anything Adrian says can be used as evidence against him. Oh, very lucky—for Adrian.’ Woodham turned, laughing. ‘I think Mr Fortune had better go on walking by himself, old man.’

  But Trove stood fast. ‘What the devil do I care?’ he cried. ‘What do you want to know? Ulyett often consulted Butler, I can tell you that. He’d been consulting him about a process for making synthetic rubber, and Butler was going to report to him here.’

  Reggie walked on slowly, and the roar of the falling water rose about them. ‘What was Butler going to say?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Ah, pity.’ Reggie paused and looked down through the spray at the foam which boiled about the rocks in the gorge. ‘Whose process was it?’

  Woodham laughed. ‘I suppose it was mine, eh, Adrian? If you’d asked me what I had to do with Ulyett I would have told you at first, Mr Fortune. I submitted a process for synthetic rubber to Sir Samuel Ulyett. And what then?’

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Reggie. ‘Now about Butler’s death.’ He turned to Trove. ‘You started off with him up that way,’ he pointed above the gorge.

  ‘I was with them.’ Woodham smiled.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. You and Miss Ulyett saw them off.’ Reggie drew from his pocket-book a little map on tracing paper. ‘Let’s get this clear.’ Holding it by the corner, he gave it to Trove. ‘You went up the valley and Woodham left you about—where?’

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere there.’

  Reggie took the map by the corner again and passed it to Woodham. ‘What do you say?’ He smiled.

  ‘About there, yes. An hour’s walk. What’s the use of this? I came back to the hotel with Miss Ulyett and went off to Brigue.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Thanks very much.’ Reggie smiled and took the paper again delicately. ‘I’m afraid it was rather greasy.’ He put it away with care. ‘Sorry. I wanted your finger-prints.’

  Woodham shrugged. ‘You seem to prefer dirty tricks, Mr Fortune.’

  ‘What do you want my finger-prints for?’ Trove cried.

  ‘Would you be surprised to hear there were finger-prints on Butler’s clothes?’

  ‘His own, I suppose,’ said Woodham.

  ‘No, I didn’t see his own.’

  ‘They might be mine,’ Trove muttered.

  ‘Yes, they might have been.’

  ‘Oh, my God! You mean he was murdered?’

  ‘Steady, Adrian,’ Woodham said. ‘You’ve had enough, old man. Don’t say anything now. Better get back. You’re not fit for any more of these dirty tricks.’

  Trove stumbled away. Then Woodham turned upon Reggie. ‘So you found finger-prints, did you?’ he said, and his face was white.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Reggie smiled.

  ‘Wasn’t it luck?’ Woodham approached. ‘Wasn’t it damned luck you came?’ and sprang at him.

  Reggie dropped and caught at his knees. He fell and went on falling down into the gorge, bounded from rock to rock into the rushing foam.

  Reggie rose from the ground to meet the rush of a sturdy Swiss who chattered German at him. ‘Lord God, you are safe, you are not hurt? The villain, the murderer. I saw all. He would have killed you.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. That was the idea.’ Reggie smiled.

  ‘He is gone! He is gone!’ The detective peered down into the foam.

  ‘Yes. You’d better look for him.’

  The detective gasped. ‘As the gentleman says,’ he muttered, and stared at the placid gentleman with goggling eyes.

  Reggie wandered back to the hotel languidly.

  He was received by Herr Stein with every sign of excitement. ‘My friend, there is news. The guides they find marks that a man has been up above the couloir where the stones start from.’

  ‘Yes. That was Woodham,’ said Reggie. ‘Don’t worry. He’s dead.’

  ‘Righteous God! What is this, then?’

  ‘He tried to do me in. He fell into the Kander. Your man is fishing him out. What’s left. Come and have some lunch.’

  ‘God in heaven!’ Stein muttered and rushed away.

  Some time after lunch Mr Fortune came out of Ulyett’s room and went to his own and rang for a waiter and asked him to find Mr Trove and Herr Stein. Trove came quickly. ‘Well, what now? Are you going to give me in charge?’

  Reggie held out his hand. ‘My dear chap!’ he said. But Trove did not take it. ‘Oh, my dear chap! That little game wasn’t meant for you. I had to make sure of Woodham.’

  ‘What have you done with Woodham?’ Trove cried.

  ‘When Woodham knew I knew, he tried for me too. But I was ready, you see. He went down into the gorge.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. The best way.’

  ‘You mean he killed Butler?’

  ‘My dear chap!’ Reggie said gently. ‘Hadn’t you ever thought of that? You’re rather loyal.’

  Stein came in. ‘So!’ He looked at the pair of them.

  ‘My God!’ Trove was saying. ‘Loyal! I hated the fellow.’

  ‘Yes.’ Reggie smiled. ‘So you had to be fair to him. But Miss Ulyett won’t really miss him, you know.’

  Trove was all a blush. ‘So,’ said Stein. ‘Now we hear all about it, yes?’

  ‘Oh, quite clear, isn’t it?’ Reggie murmured. He dropped into a chair. ‘Woodham invented a process for making rubber and took it to Ulyett. Possible sort of process. I fancy the original idea was that he could force
the pace and marry Miss Ulyett before it was tried out. The lady didn’t oblige. Ulyett sent the process to Butler for investigation and report. But he was rather taken by it and he began a little gamble in rubber shares and took Woodham in. Quite a nice bit of business. Synthetic rubber coming—slump in the market. Only Butler decided the process was no good.’

  ‘He never told me that,’ said Trove.

  ‘It was in his papers. Woodham may have guessed. Probably he always knew it wouldn’t stand examination. He stuck to Miss Ulyett, but he couldn’t make anything of her, and Butler was due. Something had to be done about it. He got Ulyett to go and talk to the Zürich chemical works about subsidiary work for his precious process and so had Butler to himself for a night. I take it he made sure Butler was going to turn him down. Further action was necessary. When Butler took you off over the mountains he saw his chance. He went off to Brigue and put up his alibi. That was his only weak point. That made me take notice of Mr Woodham.’

  ‘So?’ Stein said.

  ‘Quite a nice alibi. But too simple. Brigue’s about an hour from Kandersteg. Quite easy to book a room there and be here when you want to. Woodham was up above the couloir waiting for you when you came back. He started the stones on you. And then the luck began to run against him. If you’d both been killed, he could have got back and abolished Butler’s papers and kept Ulyett in play and made something of the rubber gamble. And with you eliminated Miss Ulyett might have been easier.’

  ‘I say, keep Miss Ulyett out of it,’ Trove growled.

  ‘Sorry. He didn’t, you know. Well, he didn’t kill either of you. He found you both stunned. He rolled Butler away and stifled him.’

  ‘My God! That was it, was it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. Stifled him with a coat. Butler didn’t suffer. But meanwhile you came to and ran off for help. Second bit of bad luck. Still it looked all right to Woodham. He’d got his alibi. And if there was any talk of foul play you’d be suspected. But then you bumped into us at Interlaken. Third bit of bad luck. That was finally fatal. I’m afraid he didn’t realize it till to-day. He rather underestimated other people. These clever chaps do. Well, I think we played up to Mr Woodham quite nicely. No nasty questions. Not a word about him. Ulyett made the trouble. When he heard Butler was dead he went for Butler’s papers and found out the rubber process was no good. Hence the hasty telegram, Stein. That annoyed Woodham, who wanted to go on with the gamble and use the sham process to frighten the market. Hence a strain in their relations that night, Stein. Poor old Ulyett heard us talking things over in the garden, and instead of butting in and telling us what he knew, which was what I was playing for, he nearly fainted. Unfortunate reaction. Woodham saw him knocked over and didn’t know why. Very disconcerting. It seemed the best thing to Woodham to eliminate Ulyett. Then Ulyett couldn’t blab, and if it looked like suicide, it would look as if Ulyett had been up to something dirty. So Woodham went off for brandy, put some veronal in it, and gave it to you to take to Ulyett. He very nearly won that game too. Which made it obvious that something had to be done good and quick to deal with Mr Woodham. Hence our little altercation this morning.’

  ‘But, I say, what about those finger-prints? If you found finger-prints on poor Butler, why—’

  ‘My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!’ Reggie smiled. ‘There weren’t any finger-prints. That was only a little device to bring Mr Woodham up to the scratch.’

  ‘Good God!’ Trove stared at him.

  ‘Yes. Yes. These little things are confusing to the layman. Well, that bein that, I’ll just go back to my wife . Good-bye’ And he went.

  Trove looked at Stein and Stein looked at Trove. ‘So!’ said Stein ‘So. You see now, my friend. It is quite simple. But what an artist!’

  Mrs Fortune strolling under the trees at Interlaken was surprised by a hand coming under her arm. ‘My dear child!’ she smiled.

  ‘Come on, Joan,’ said Mr Fortune. ‘I want a hazel ice.’

  Razor Edge

  Anthony Berkeley

  Anthony Berkeley Cox (1893–1971) wrote whodunits as Anthony Berkeley, and novels about the psychology of crime, such as Malice Aforethought, as Francis Iles. Under both names, he wrote books of distinction that have stood the test of time. He founded the Detection Club, and although he effectively stopped writing crime fiction after a remarkable career lasting no more than fifteen years, he continued to review the genre with intelligence, perception, and occasional acerbity, until the end of his life.

  ‘Razor Edge’ seems to have escaped publication until 1994, when it appeared in The Roger Sheringham Stories, an edition limited to a mere 93 copies. Sheringham, a ‘great detective’ who often proves to be far from infallible, is in characteristically jaunty mood, and I am delighted to bring this story to a wider readership.

  ***

  The bathing around Penhampton is notoriously dangerous. In consequence the mortuary of the local police force is larger than usual, for swimmers are obstinate people, and though the wide sandy reaches of Penhampton beach itself are well guarded, the few miles of rocky coast in either direction, with its many coves and little bays, are impossible to supervise.

  It was therefore no surprise to the borough police when a body was reported among the rocks of Sandymouth cove on a sunny July afternoon. The usual routine was set in motion, the body collected and brought to the mortuary, and the temporary assurance obtained from the police surgeon that death was due to drowning. A careful description of the body was taken, but any enquiries as to its ownership were made unnecessary by a visitor to the police station.

  It was five o’clock, and Superintendent Thomas, having signed all the documents awaiting his attention, was thinking of going home when his sergeant clerk told him that a woman was in the charge-room reporting that her husband had gone bathing in Sandymouth cove that morning and had not returned.

  ‘I’d better see her,’ sighed the superintendent, thinking of the garden he wanted to water, and put his hat back again on the rack.

  The woman had given her name as Mrs Hutton. Particulars of her husband’s name, profession and address had already been taken, and these were laid discreetly on the superintendent’s table as the sergeant showed her into the room. The woman was fair and a somewhat faded thirty-five though still with traces of a youthful prettiness, and she was in a state of some agitation.

  ‘Sit down, Mrs Hutton,’ soothed the superintendent. ‘Now—you’re worried about your husband?’

  The woman nodded, choked, and said: ‘Yes. He went out bathing this morning. I was to join him later. His clothes were on the beach, but—oh, I’m sure—I’m sure—’

  ‘Now, now,’ said the superintendent mechanically, and asked for further particulars.

  These took some minutes to obtain, but finally reduced themselves to the following facts. Mr Edward Hutton, described as a financier with an office in the City and a home in Streatham, was staying with his wife at Ocean View Boarding House in the little village of Penmouth, about five miles west of Penhampton. He had left his lodgings at about half past ten that morning, telling his wife that he was going to bathe, probably in company with a certain Mr Barton, who was camping alone on top of the cliffs of Sandymouth Bay: a Mr Michael Somerville Barton, whom Mrs Hutton vaguely believed to be a writer and novelist, from London. Mrs Hutton was to join the two men at about noon; but when she arrived, though their wraps were still on the beach, no sign of either man was to be seen. She had called and searched, and then returned to her boarding house. In the afternoon, being now thoroughly worried, she decided after discussing the matter with her landlady to come into Penhampton and report to the police.

  The superintendent nodded. ‘And the description of your husband, madam?’

  Mrs Hutton leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. ‘My husband is five foot seven inches tall, not very broad, thinnish arms and legs, thirty-four inches chest measurement, ra
ther long hands and feet, medium brown hair, clean-shaven, grey-green eyes, and rather pale complexion; he has an old appendicitis scar, and—oh, yes, and there is a big mole on his left shoulder-blade.’

  The superintendent could not restrain his admiration. ‘Upon my word, Mrs Hutton, you reeled that off a treat. Very different from some of them I assure you.’

  ‘I—I was thinking it out in the bus,’ said the woman faintly. ‘I knew you’d want a description.’

  ‘Yes. Well—’ Surreptitiously the superintendent studied the description of the body now in the mortuary. It tallied in every particular. He became aware that the sergeant was speaking.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, could the lady give us a good description of Barton, the other gentleman?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid—’ Mrs Hutton hesitated. ‘I’ve only met him once, for a few minutes. I can’t really tell you—he had a long moustache.’

  ‘We can get a description from Mr Turner, sir,’ interposed the sergeant tactfully. ‘It’s in one of his fields that Mr Barton was camping.’

  The superintendent nodded and then, with much sympathetic throat clearing, proceeded to the distasteful task of warning Mrs Hutton to prepare for a shock. He was very much afraid that in the mortuary now—if Mrs Hutton would come along for a moment.…

  He sighed again as the woman gave every sign of imminent hysterics.

  ‘He’s here already? Must I see him? Must I? Won’t—won’t the description do?’

  It took five minutes to get her into the mortuary.

  But once there she regained her calm. A curious dead-alive look came into her own face as she stared down into the other dead one from which the superintendent had gently withdrawn the sheet.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, tonelessly. ‘That’s my husband. That’s—Eddie.’

  Then she fainted.

  ***

  Roger Sheringham was staying a week-end with Major Drake, the chief constable of Penhampton. They were old friends, with a common interest in crime.