by Leo Bruce
“I still say: ‘Why? ‘. Why are the Rafters not as suspect as anyone else?”
“I find the question little short of obtuse,” said the headmaster huffily. “Are you going to suggest that one of them would have carried this morbid craving for causing death to the length of murdering his own brother?”
“Or uncle,” added Carolus. “But I didn’t say that. I asked why you thought they were excluded from suspicion. You seem to forget that if, as they all claim, they did not know that Ernest was in Selby that night and had not seen him for twenty years, they would not have known who it was sitting in that corner of the shelter. They are no more exempt from suspicion than anyone else.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Mr Gorringer.
“As a matter of fact,” continued Carolus unshaken, “if I am proved right it was one of the family who murdered Ernest.”
“I take it this is more of your ill-chosen facetiousness,” said the headmaster severely.” or are you going to tell me that Mrs Dalbinney stalked along the promenade with a coal-hammer with which to murder the first person she might meet?”
“No. It was Bertrand,” said Carolus.
20
MR GORRINGER affected to laugh.
“So you ask the Inspector and me to suppose that Lieutenant-Colonel Bertrand Rafter, who was awarded the MBE during the last war, a man of the highest integrity, was responsible for the murder of his brother?”
He smiled towards John Moore as if to draw him into his own attitude of disdain for such silliness, but saw that Moore was listening attentively.
“Responsible is not the word I should have chosen,” said Carolus. “Part of him at least is barking mad.”
“I see. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.”
“Not so clear-cut. But something of the sort.”
“Let’s have it, Carolus,” said Moore.
“I first suspected Bertrand when he knew that Ernest had been robbed. Who else could know that except the
murderer? The police had no idea of it. I knew from Doris that Ernest had this money on him but my reliable little Doris had told no one else. And even if she had, even if it was known that he had money, nothing had been said at the Inquest about it. The only person at all likely to know that it had been taken was the man who took it. Yet ‘Ernest was probably robbed of a good sum’ Bertrand told me. He was annoyed, I think, that the theft had not been discovered. He had never thought (and who would?) of the pocket-case remaining in Ernest’s hip pocket, which had convinced the police that Ernest had not been robbed. ‘Find out what he had on him that night’, he suggested, ‘surely you or the police can do that’. Having removed and probably destroyed Ernest’s roll he was peeved to find that this providing of a false motive had gone for nothing.”
“That seems highly conjectural,” said Mr Gorringer.
“I’ve told you, the whole thing is. But that wasn’t my only reason for thinking that Bertrand robbed the corpse to suggest robbery as a motive. Ernest’s money was from Emma and remained in an envelope ‘with writing on it’ as Doris said. When I asked Emma Rafter whether the family knew, after the murder, that she had been secretly in touch with her brother, she said, ‘I think they guessed it. Or rather Bertrand did’. And when I asked her whether she eventually told the family she had sent money to Ernest she said, ‘Bertrand seemed to know’. How could he have ‘guessed’ or ‘seemed to know’ if he had not seen that envelope addressed in her hand?
“Also he lied. He said distinctly that he was ‘in the house alone from tea-time onward’. ‘Fortunately I did not go out at all that evening’. Yet when Ernest phoned him there was no reply. Ernest told Mrs Locksley Rafter he had tried ‘the others’ but there was no reply. He also told Doris when she asked him. ‘No. No reply from any of them’, he said.”
“Again, highly conjectural,” said Mr Gorringer. “Ernest Rafter may not have tried his brother’s number.”
“Why not? It was in the book with the rest of them.”
“Or he may actually have spoken to Colonel Rafter.”
“If he did, Bertrand’s lies are manifold. He said he was not even aware that Ernest had survived Burma until after the murder and in that I believe him. However, I’m not trying to prove my case. I’m admitting that it never could have been proved on the evidence in the first murder.”
“You are not seriously suggesting, my good Deene, that Colonel Rafter not only disposed of his brother but subsequently chose to murder the wife of a local newsagent by the same repulsive method?”
“Of course. What else could he do? His original scheme had broken down. He had planned to kill someone without a motive, believing that he would thus be free of discovery, and by the worst possible bad luck he had chanced on his own brother, providing himself with a motive against all his intentions. He knew, both from their questioning of him and from me, that the police had each member of the family on their list of suspects. Above all, he knew from me that the Bullamys had seen him crossing the road that evening and believed they would know him again. That wouldn’t have mattered if the murder had been of a stranger but, since it was of someone connected with himself and he was already something of a suspect, he felt his position becoming precarious.
“There was only one thing to be done—another murder for which he could not conceivably have a motive and for which Lobbin, already, as Bertrand knew from me, suspected of the first murder, would have a very strong motive.
“Let’s suppose all this and watch Bertrand’s movements from the start. He is, we will agree, a psychopath with a very conventional external character and appearance. He realizes the value of this in the circumstances. He decides on his crime and its venue. He does not go too often to the promenade at night but ‘sometimes as he told me. He had decided to wait for an occasion on which the promenade has few visitors and one of them is alone in the last shelter. He does not need an occasion on which Molly is away, but when she does go up to town for the night, he probably thinks it’s a specially auspicious occasion and perhaps spends longer than usual down there waiting for his chance, so that there is no reply from his telephone when Ernest Rafter rings at about 7.15.
“He has provided himself with the weapon. Where this came from we may never know, but it certainly was not in ordinary use in his house, for he has no coal and the only hammer there is a lighter one kept in the tool chest. I daresay he had the idea of murder in his mind for years and kept this hammer concealed somewhere, perhaps since he moved to the town from some coal-heated home. At all events it was a weapon through which he could not be traced.
“He found what he had awaited for a long time, a man, probably half-drunk, huddled in a corner of the last shelter. He did his job and began walking smartly away. Having earlier joined the promenade at the point nearest to Marine Square, that is where the road forked away from the tarmac, he had met no one on his way to the shelter and expected to meet no one as he returned. But as he was approaching the fork, the first point at which he could leave the promenade, he saw coming towards him a man and woman whom he did not recognize—Mr and Mrs Bullamy taking their (still somewhat inexplicable) evening stroll.
“This did not alarm him in the least. But since they appeared to be strangers who would not in any case recognize him it would be better, he thought, to leave the promenade at the fork and cross the road so that he would not pass them. In this he rather misjudged the distance—or the striding power of the mannish Mrs Bullamy—for they were uncomfortably close to him before he could wheel left and he had to hurry to avoid coming face to face with them.
“However, all had gone as he anticipated and he could congratulate himself when he reached his house, unnoticed so far as he knew or we know. The couple he had passed could not be sure of recognizing him again and even if they were able to, what possible connection could there be between Lieutenant-Colonel Rafter and the murder of some wretched unknown man in a shelter?
“Imagine his feelings when he learned who that unknown man was. The very s
tructure of his plan was knocked away, for as everyone quickly knew he had a motive for killing Ernest. Perhaps he had congratulated himself, when he formulated his plan, on having found one which no coincidence or bad luck could possibly disturb, perhaps he realized now that there can be no such plan. Coincidence, bad luck, destiny, or if you like the Will of God cannot be flouted by even the cleverest schemer.
“I think at first he almost expected the police to arrive to arrest him. But as time passed and he was asked only a few almost formal questions about his whereabouts and he realized that there were other suspects—one far more likely than himself—he grew easier. He had taken the precaution of robbing the corpse and destroying the notes he found and stressed robbery as a possible motive when he discussed the matter with me. He was settling down to wait for the arrest of Lobbin or for the whole thing to be forgotten when on Christmas day I told him my theory and said that the Bullamys would recognize the road-crosser. That really frightened him, and he decided to make sure Lobbin took the blame.
“He had, as I knew, been several times to Lobbin’s shop and seen the coal-hammer there. ‘Bertrand’s only taken to coming to the shop lately’ Lobbin told me. Bertrand also knew that Lobbin was in the bar of the Queen Victoria every evening from six to ten, because he told me so. Finally, Bertrand had a very good reason to get himself admitted by Mrs Lobbin. He only had to say he wished to apologize for Mrs Dalbinney, or something of the sort, to settle the quarrel between Mrs Dalbinney and Mrs Lobbin, in fact, to be admitted by Bella.
“He had, as I knew, a hammer in his house and took this in the pocket of his overcoat. This second murder was forced on him by circumstances and fear and he had not time for the detailed planning he had done for the first. But he saw how to go about it. He would murder the woman with his own hammer then go downstairs to the shop for hers, blood it and leave it by her. It would be the means of hanging Lobbin. Meanwhile he would go home, scrupulously clean his own hammer and return it to the tool chest.
“All this he carried out with skill and good fortune. He was becoming an accomplished murderer now. He did not know that Mrs Cocking had watched his entry but in any case she could not see much of his face. Then he hurried home to arrange matters so that should anyone call, or should Molly French return, no one could guess that he had been out.
“I found him so ‘settled’ and established by his electric fireside that my respect for him as a clever murderer was lessened. He had overdone it. The smoking jacket and slippers, the calf-bound volume of Gibbon, the brandy and the nearly smoked cigar were a little too much, particularly since (as I discovered later) he had arranged to call for Molly French at that time. But what really gave him away was a piece of that petty parsimony for which he was known. He had not found it difficult to burn the paper money found on Ernest, but when he wanted to be discovered smoking the last of a cigar, he could not bring himself to throw away the length of Corona from which it had been cut and it was this I found in the box. He covered this as best he could. ‘Not that. It’s only half a cigar’, he said jovially. But trivial as it may appear it provided me with one of the few pieces of evidence concrete enough to convince me.”
“You think he anticipated your visit?” said Moore.
“Some visit, anyway. Mine or Molly’s. When I reached Prince Albert Mansions Paul’s first words to me were ‘we rather wondered if you would come round’. They had heard from the hall porter who was the husband of one of the barmaids at the Queen Victoria that the murder had happened. They may have phoned Bertrand. Or he may have sensed that I had my suspicions. At all events there was a big act intended to show that he had not been out that evening.
“His plan nearly came off, for I take it you would have charged Lobbin this evening at any rate with the second murder. I am the first to admit that though all the evidence I know of in this case is circumstantial there is at this moment far more of it against Lobbin than against Bertrand. I do not think Lobbin would have been convicted but I do think it is more likely, as matters stand, than the conviction of Bertrand. Further I think that it was because I have a touch of Bertrand’s madness that I have been able to follow the ghastly distortions of his mind.”
“You alarm me, Deene,” said Mr Gorringer.
“There is no need for alarm, headmaster. I don’t mean that I have any secret desire to kill. I mean that the lunatic, the murderer and the detective who has my kind of imagination, are all touched with the same frenzy. I could put myself in his place and follow his mad logic. It was only by doing so that I could identify him.”
“To say that you have identified him is ludicrous,” said Mr Gorringer. “You have produced nothing but your morbid imaginings to make us believe this story, which smacks more of the writings of Edgar Allan Poe than of real life. Has he, Inspector?”
“Nothing,” said Moore.
“You see, Deene? You have failed to convince the Inspector, and you have made me rather indignant. I cannot see that you have produced for this theory of yours anything to which a judge or jury would listen.”
“He hasn’t,” said Moore. “Yet I shall have to investigate it.”
Mr Gorringer bridled.
“You will? It would seem, if I may say so, that you would be guilty of dangerous blundering. Mrs Dalbinney has a number of highly influential friends who would not relish the involvement of her brother in such a cock-and-bull story.”
Carolus, looking very tired, said, “I warned you, John, that I had almost nothing cogent to offer. The headmaster is quite right to say that no judge or jury would listen to it. But now it’s up to you. It should not take you long to test it.”
“It won’t.”
“There is first of all the chance of identification by the Bullamys or Mrs Cocking, or both. Then there is the hammer. You will find it in the tool chest in a small room at the back of the house. It will have been carefully cleaned but the microscope will pick out some traces of blood. Then someone must have seen Bertrand last night in the region of the Queen Victoria. But above all, there are his clothes. It is impossible that these murders could have been carried out by the method chosen without some blood getting on the murderer’s overcoat. There may have been time to have the one worn for the first murder cleaned. But not for the second. You know what happens when someone tries to clean bloodstains out of cloth? Some trace is always left. Bertrand has no means of destroying the coat in the house, because Molly French is there, and if he dumped it somewhere you will know in time.”
Moore smiled.
“I think you can leave all that to us, Carolus. It is rather more in our line than having the touch of madness which, you say, has enabled you to produce this theory.”
“I reject the word ‘theory’,” pronounced Mr Gorringer.
“It is what I looked for from you, Carolus,” Moore said. “The kind of wild hypothetical imaginary stuff which might easily turn out to hold the seeds of truth. But it is only when we get to work on it that it begins to make sense or otherwise. You wouldn’t be much good without us back-room boys,” said Moore good-naturedly, adding—”Let’s have another drink.”
It was eighteen months before Carolus had occasion to re-visit Selby-on-Sea and he found it basking in warm June sunlight. He drove along the road by the promenade, but could not see the last shelter from his car. When he reached the Queen Victoria, however, he found Doris and Vivienne still behind its bar.
“Well!” said Doris at once. “Fancy seeing you! It does seem a long time since you were here. I thought we might have heard something of you, but not a word. You’re looking very well, isn’t he, Vivienne?”
“Mmmm,” said Vivienne in almost enthusiastic agreement.
Carolus invited them to have a drink. Vivienne said she didn’t mind, and Doris said it was very kind of him.
“It was a shame about those murders,” said Doris presently, “after all the work you did, too, for the police to get the credit. I don’t suppose you minded, but I said to Vivienne, I wouldn’t
mind betting it was Mr Deene put them up to it, didn’t I, Vivienne? Still they got him in the end, that’s one thing. All those bloodstains on his coat—what else could they have been? Mr and Mrs Bullamy had to go over to Bawdon to give evidence at the trial, you know. They’d seen him crossing the road just after he’d done for this fellow with the staring eyes. They both picked him out separately on the identification parades. And that Mrs Cocking! She picked him, too, but you ought to have heard what she said about the police! She called them all the things she could lay her tongue to. But I expect you read about in the papers?”
“Yes,” said Carolus.
“Of course he confessed in the end. Seemed quite proud of it, didn’t he? Well, he wasn’t in his right mind and that’s a certainty. How he came to be a Colonel beats me. Fancy killing anyone like that! It gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?”
“No,” said Carolus, but smiled.
“All the family moved away from here afterwards. It was that Emma Rafter I was sorry for. I did hear they’d gone abroad and changed their name. Well, you can understand it, having two brothers like that. Mr Lobbin’s still here, though. He’s married again.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A very nice party she is. Older than him, but seems to understand him more. He’s started writing little bits in the paper. He was always clever. He’s in here most nights, if you want to see him. He soon seemed to get over it, once they knew it wasn’t him.”
Doris served another customer but returned to give Carolus more news.
“That young policeman still comes in. Very pleased with himself, he seems to be. I don’t know why, because he’s still in uniform, though; he hoped to go on the detective side. He married that young woman that was always about with him. So that’s two weddings we’ve had.”