Resorting to Murder: Holiday Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  So far, however, Roger had been disappointed. The Penhampton police was a very small force and his host, though a bachelor, had been unable to enliven the previous evening by tales of grisly murder in his district, for the good reason that his district had never had a murder. When therefore the major announced that on their way to the golf-course he had to call in at Police Headquarters to take formal view of some poor stiff who had got himself drowned the day before, Roger pricked up his ears.

  ‘And by the way,’ added the major, ‘you may be able to help us a bit. Ever hear of a chap called Barton in your line? Writes books and things, y’know. Michael Somerville Barton. Hey?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know him. A bit too Bloomsbury for me, I fancy. Why?’

  ‘Because he’s probably dead.’

  ‘What, murdered?’

  ‘No, not murdered. Just plain drowned.’

  ‘People have been murdered by drowning before now,’ Roger pointed out mildly.

  ‘Well, this one wasn’t. Good lord, Sheringham, you amateur detectives! A corpse in every cupboard, and every death a murder, eh? Haven’t you ever heard of such a thing as an accident?’

  ‘Very well: how did Michael Somerville Barton meet his accidental death by drowning?’

  ‘Oh, went bathing with another fellow yesterday morning. Lonely bit of coast. Neither of them seen again. Damn fools, they will do it, in spite of our notices. It’s the other fellow’s body I’ve got to look at. Very humdrum and ordinary, I’m afraid. Hurry up with that coffee.’

  ‘I’ve finished.’

  ‘Then come on. Got your clubs?’

  ‘They’re in the hall.’

  ‘Not they. They’ll have been put in the cupboard under the stairs by this time. A place for everything and everything in its place in this house, my boy.’

  With pride the major threw open the cupboard door and extracted his own clubs. Roger’s were not there. They were finally found standing in a corner of the hall.

  ‘Come Drake,’ Roger said. ‘The house isn’t so bad as you make out.’

  It was only a few minutes’ ride to the police station, where on the steps a plainclothesman greeted them respectfully. The chief constable introduced him as Detective Inspector Clarke, in charge of the small C.I.D. section. Roger was childishly pleased to note the look of interest on the inspector’s face as they shook hands.

  The little party went through to the superintendent’s office, where they picked up the large and comfortable man and also the police doctor who happened to be in the building; and after the details of the case had been recited on one side and duly absorbed on the other, a move was made to the mortuary.

  ‘Pasty-faced beggar, eh?’ was the chief constable’s comment, as they stood in a circle round the slab that bore the dead man.

  ‘He’s certainly no advertisement for you,’ Roger agreed. ‘“Penhampton for Bonnie Sunshine,” eh? Perhaps you haven’t had any bonnie sunshine lately?’

  ‘Hot and sunny all the week,’ retorted the major. ‘He can’t have been here long, that’s all.’

  ‘The Huttons arrived on the 12th, sir,’ put in the inspector. ‘That’s about ten days ago.’

  ‘Then this fellow was no sun-bather,’ Roger commented. ‘Or else he wore a panama. Queer how some men actually prefer hats.’

  ‘Come now, Sheringham,’ said the chief constable impatiently. ‘Don’t begin making difficulties. His forehead’s got a bit of brown to it.’

  ‘And the skin on his nose looks as if it might have begun to peel at any moment. What more could Penhampton want?’

  ‘Well, Superintendent, if that’s all—’

  The major’s intention of escaping was however temporarily frustrated, for at that moment the sergeant clerk arrived to say that he was wanted on the telephone, by Scotland Yard.

  ‘Scotland Yard, eh?’ repeated the major, obviously gratified. ‘What on earth do they want? Some dam’ red tape, no doubt.’ He went, followed by the superintendent who obviously took no chances.

  Roger felt it up to him to make conversation. ‘You’ve made your examination, doctor? Death due to drowning all right.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the doctor nodded. ‘No doubt about that. His lungs were chock-full of water.’

  ‘Why, did you notice anything, Mr Sheringham?’ the inspector asked eagerly.

  ‘Afraid not, this time,’ Roger laughed. ‘Except that Mr Hutton wasn’t so spruce as he might have been.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘He hadn’t shaved yesterday morning.’

  ‘Sorry, but he had,’ corrected the doctor with a smile. ‘That cut’s fresh, at the side of his mouth. If it had been made the day before, it would have been half healed.’

  ‘And yet there’s plenty of stubble on his chin. Queer.’

  ‘Oh, if you’re interested in queer details,’ said the doctor, ‘have a look at the scratches on his back.’

  ‘What scratches?’

  The doctor signed to the inspector, and the two of them turned the corpse over. Roger saw that the skin on the back was badly lacerated, from the shoulders to the small of the back, while the elbows were almost raw.

  ‘Barnacles,’ explained the doctor shortly.

  ‘There are barnacles on the rocks here?’

  ‘Covered with them. And it was among the rocks that the body was found. Still—’

  Roger nodded. ‘I see what you mean. If the body was washing about, why did it only get lacerated in that particular area? It is queer. Very queer.’

  ‘But there’s a simple explanation, after all,’ the doctor smiled. ‘The man who found him pulled him by the legs to where he could pick him up more easily. That’s all.’

  ‘No, sir,’ put in the inspector respectfully. ‘The body was wedged under a big rock at the side of a pool. Trewin, the farm hand who happened to find him when he went down for a pail of sea-water, says he picked him straight up from the pool.’

  ‘There’s an abrasion on the front of the right thigh, where he was wedged,’ supplemented the doctor.

  ‘Yes, but that’s natural. Those scratches aren’t.’

  ‘And there’s another thing, though I didn’t put this in my report because I’m not certain. I’ve an idea those lacerations were made during life. There were signs of free bleeding—freer than I should have expected after death.’

  ‘That clinches it,’ said Roger.

  ‘Clinches what, sir?’ asked the inspector.

  The return of the chief constable prevented Roger from answering. Major Drake wore an air of triumph.

  ‘Well, it seems we’ve caught a Tartar,’ he announced. ‘This fellow was wanted by the Yard for share-pushing. They’ve arrested his partner, but didn’t know Hutton was here. They saw the report of the accident in this morning’s papers.’

  ‘Well, fancy that,’ observed the inspector.

  Roger stared down at the dead man. ‘You never know, do you? He doesn’t look like my idea of a share-pusher. Those long hands. Weak chin, too.’

  ‘Yes, yes: criminal type, obviously,’ pronounced the major. ‘Well, doctor, this is bound to raise the question of suicide. Fellow wanted by the police and all that. Any chance, do you think?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said so. But of course he may have swum deliberately too far out and drowned himself.’

  ‘And Barton got drowned trying to save him,’ suggested the superintendent. ‘The papers might fake up something like that.’

  Roger broke into the discussion.

  ‘Look here, I’d better tell you. This man Hutton didn’t commit suicide, or get drowned by accident. He was murdered.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Really, Sheringham,’ observed the chief constable with disgust. ‘Didn’t I warn you, Superintendent? Sheringham, this is no time
for joking. We’re due on the golf-course in ten minutes.’

  ‘What makes you think he was murdered, Mr Sheringham?’ asked the superintendent, more temperately.

  Roger explained, calling on the doctor for support. The chief constable was not convinced.

  ‘Scratches! Nonsense! Bathing dress, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you mean, he wore a backless swimsuit, as I believe the loathsome term is?’

  ‘He was wearing a pair of slips,’ said the superintendent. ‘They were a goodish bit torn at the back, but not in front.’

  ‘It’s murder,’ said Roger with finality. ‘And I think I know how it was done. I want Inspector Clarke to take me to where the body was found, and help me look round.’

  ‘Inspector Clarke has his work to do,’ barked the major.

  ‘This is his work. And I warn you, if you don’t take up an investigation of this case, I’ll write an article for The Daily Courier showing how the murder was done, and blame the Penhampton police for obstruction.’

  ‘I believe you would, too,’ admitted the baffled chief constable. ‘Very well. You can have Clarke for an hour or two this afternoon to help investigate your mare’s nest. In the meantime—’

  ‘Oh, I’m not playing golf,’ Roger retorted. ‘Come on Inspector. If we hurry we can reach the major’s car before he does.’

  It was only a few minutes run in the car from Penhampton to the place where the body had been found, about a mile and a half from Penmouth on the Penhampton side. The inspector took Roger down by a cliff-path, and showed him the place on the rocky shore.

  ‘Very convenient,’ Roger commented. ‘Would you say that a body washing about on the incoming tide could possibly wedge itself there?’

  The inspector considered. ‘Well, now that you mention it, sir—’

  ‘Exactly. It was put there. Probably in the hope that it wouldn’t be found for days. Now let me see, was the murder committed here, or not? Probably not, but certainly within a short distance. He wouldn’t want to carry the body far.’

  Roger looked around. The coast at this point consisted entirely of rock, with a short fringe of shingle round the cove; of the sand implied in its name there was none. The rock was tolerably flat, but sprinkled lavishly with heavy boulders and broken up by innumerable pools, big and small. Floor-rock and boulders were alike plastered with barnacles and seaweed.

  ‘What exactly are you looking for, sir?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘A pool. Not as big as this one, but not too small. A pool that may not show any traces at all, for two tides have been over it already; but this time yesterday the pool I want was pink.’

  ‘You think that he was murdered in a pool then, sir?’ said the inspector curiously. ‘Well, I don’t see why, but there’s one just over there.’

  ‘Too big.’

  ‘There’s a smaller one just beyond it.’

  ‘Too small.’ Roger looked round carefully. On the seaward side of a particularly large rock was a medium-sized, oblong-shaped pool. ‘That’s more like it. And hidden from the shore, you see. Let’s have a look at that one.’

  They slithered over the seaweed and rock and looked down into the serene water. There was nothing to be seen but the floating seaweed and the barnacles over the flattish bottom.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing else for it,’ Roger sighed. ‘I must get in. Any regulations here against bathing in the nude?’

  ‘If there are, sir, I’ve forgotten them,’ promised the inspector.

  Roger undressed, balancing with difficulty on the seaweed, and stepped into the pool. The water came just to his knees.

  ‘What do you expect to find, sir?’

  ‘Probably nothing. I hoped there might be some signs of a struggle—seaweed torn off or something. As it is—’ He began to grope carefully among the thick bunches of seaweed that lined the sides.

  The inspector watched for a few minutes then let his eyes wander towards the shore. He could take advantage of the visit at any rate to obtain Barton’s description from Mr Turner, the farmer. As to the murder, what on earth would a man like Barton want to murder Hutton for? Why, according to the information he had collected, they had only known each other a couple of days, after a chance encounter in the cove here. Then an idea came to him.

  ‘You mean, Barton might have been one of Hutton’s sharepushing victims, Mr Sheringham? Perhaps he followed him down here, to do him in.’

  ‘There are all sorts of possibilities,’ Roger said abstractedly, from the depths of the pool. ‘But I think—hullo! What’s this?’

  He groped for a minute, and then drew out a shining object through which a strand of seaweed still ran.

  ‘A ring. A man’s wedding-ring.’ He peered inside. ‘“E.H.—B.G. 18 November 1933.” E.H. What was Hutton’s Christian name, Inspector?’

  ‘Edward, sir. Well, that proves it right enough.’ The inspector did not withhold his admiration. ‘A smart bit of work, sir, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘I thought I was on the right tack,’ Roger said modestly and scrambled out of the pool.

  While he dressed they discussed the next move. A visit to the farm was indicated, and another to the Hutton’s lodgings. In the end it was decided that the inspector should go up to the farm and get Barton’s description and any other particulars, while Roger had a look through the man’s tent.

  ‘And find out what clothes he usually wore,’ he instructed the inspector.

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, if you’re ready—why, bless my soul, you’ve never told me how the murder was done.’

  ‘As I suspected from the beginning. And,’ Roger grinned, ‘if you’d care to step into the pool with me, Inspector, I’d guarantee to murder you too, in less than two minutes, though you’re a bigger man than me. No? Well, have you ever heard of the Brides in the Bath case?’

  A light broke over the Inspector, and shone in his face.

  ‘Exactly,’ Roger nodded. ‘He got the man into the pool somehow—perhaps called his attention to that bunch of red anemones—then grabbed his ankles, hoisted his legs in the air so that his head went under the water, and in two minutes or less the job was done.’

  ‘And but for those barnacles, sir—’

  ‘Exactly. He’d have got away with it.’

  ***

  The inspector was longer at the farm than Roger, waiting in the car, had expected, but when he returned he was brimming with news.

  ‘The woman’s in it, sir.’

  ‘Ah! You’ve discovered that?’

  ‘Did you know, Mr Sheringham?’

  ‘I had a strong suspicion. Well, what have you learned?’

  ‘Why, sir,’ explained the inspector, ‘by a stroke of luck I found a man who was working in this field yesterday afternoon. He says he saw a woman on the beach about half past three, and the clothes he describes her as wearing tally well enough with Mrs Hutton’s when she got to the station.’

  ‘Mrs Hutton didn’t mention being on the beach in the afternoon?’

  ‘No, sir: she did not. But that’s not all. There was a man with her.’

  ‘The deuce there was!’

  ‘Yes, sir. By the looks of it, they came out of a little cave under the cliff here. (I must have a look there later.) Manders—that’s the farm-hand—thought they might be a larky couple, so he watched; but after talking a minute the man went back into the cave, and the woman went off along the beach. Manders didn’t see either of them again.’

  ‘I see. And Barton’s description?’

  ‘Well, Mrs Turner couldn’t tell me much. Average sort of height, she thought; not a big man. When she saw him on the day he arrived, the nineteenth, he had on a blue suit; afterwards he always wore a pullover and grey trousers.’

  ‘A blue suit?’ Roger repeated with interest. ‘There’s no blue suit in the tent now.’

>   ‘Ah!’ said the inspector. ‘And about Barton’s moustache—’

  ‘Barton has no moustache now,’ Roger said impatiently.

  ‘No, sir. Just what I was going to suggest. Because the chap Manders saw—he hadn’t got a moustache either, but he was wearing a blue suit.’

  Roger nodded, as if the news hardly surprised him.

  ‘What do we do next, sir? This is your case.’

  Roger thought.

  ‘We go to the Hutton’s lodging,’ he said briskly.

  ‘To interview Mrs Hutton?’

  ‘No, no. Not yet. To look for a razor. You see, Barton’s razor is here.’

  The inspector looked puzzled. Then he beamed intelligently. ‘I get you sir. He ought to have taken it with him, but he couldn’t risk coming back to the tent after he’d done the murder. He had his blue suit in the cave all ready, but he forgot his razor to shave off his moustache with. So Mrs Hutton—’

  ***

  Mrs Wainwright, the stout, motherly lady who kept Ocean View, was garrulous. She also wiped her eyes a great deal on her apron. Hutton had evidently been her star boarder. Roger listened with patience to her praise of him while the inspector was professionally busy upstairs.

  ‘…a real gentleman, he was. So spick and span, and always ready with a joke. Oh, dear, it’s sad to think he’s gone. Not that he didn’t like having things his own way: well, you can’t blame a gentleman for that, can you? Not that she ever complained; not the complaining sort, Mrs Hutton isn’t. And so well they got on. Never a cross word, that I heard. Of course he used to lay down the law a bit, but Mrs Hutton didn’t mind that. One of the quiet ones, Mrs Hutton is. (But what she’ll say if she comes now and finds the other police gentleman in her bedroom, I don’t know. No lady would like that.)

  ‘Upset, sir? Well, it’s funny you should ask that, because to tell you the truth she does puzzle me a bit. In fact I’m blest if I’ve seen her cry yet. Well, it doesn’t seem natural somehow, does it? Goes down to the beach with a book or some knitting, just like she used to. “You have a good cry,” I tell her, “it’ll do you good,” but—

  ‘Yes, she went back to the beach yesterday afternoon. Said she was just going to have another look round before she went to the police, poor soul. What’s that, sir? No, no parcel. Just her beach-bag, like she always carried; and—’