Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

The doctor continued with his examination, with a gloomy lack of confidence.

  “Not going to be so easy, eh?” asked Kendall.

  “We’ve both got nuts to crack,” grunted the doctor.

  “You’re right. What’s that on the back of his head?”

  “An old scar. That didn’t do it—though, from the look of it, it’s a wonder it didn’t do it at the time.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “What can you say?”

  “At the moment, Kendall, about as much as you.”

  “Which is nothing,” smiled Kendall grimly. He gazed around. “This has Madame Tussaud’s beaten. I expect they’d like it for their Chamber of Horrors. Can you see to-morrow’s headlines?”

  “Yes—I suppose our young friend is working them out now,” replied the doctor.

  “Well, it’s his job, and you and I are doing ours.”

  “Ours are more useful!”

  “That’s merely our opinion. Something’s in your mind. Let’s have it.”

  Doctor Saunders glanced towards the door.

  “Do you think he may have had anything to do with this?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “He may have,” answered Kendall. “So may you and I. I once arrested a coroner just after he’d adjourned the inquest.” He sniffed. “Get anything?”

  The doctor sniffed.

  “Not more than I expect.”

  “Can you say the same about their complexions?”

  The doctor raised his eyes and stared round the room. He became unprofessionally human for a moment.

  “I think we deserve medals for coolness,” he said.

  “It’s our business to be cool,” responded Kendall. “This isn’t the first time you and I have seen death.”

  “I’ve never seen seven in a bunch like this!”

  “No, and to my thinking seven’s easier to stand than one. You can sympathise with one. Seven beats you—like the little boy in the Guitry film who lost all his family at once and didn’t know which member to grieve for. I’m still waiting to hear what you’ve got to say about their complexions.”

  “And I’m still waiting to have something to say,” retorted the doctor.

  “Well, how’s this, to go on with? When you’ve found what killed one, you’ll have found what killed the lot… Hallo!”

  He darted towards the fireplace and stooped. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he used it while picking up a small revolver to preserve fingerprints. With the same care he opened the weapon, examined the barrel, and closed it. Then he replaced the revolver on the carpet in the exact position in which he had found it.

  “That didn’t kill them,” said the doctor, now shifting to the second body lying across the legs of the first.

  “No. But what did it kill?” answered Kendall. “One chamber’s empty.” He added: “And who emptied it? We’ll have to take seven fingerprints.”

  On the point of turning, he suddenly fixed his eyes on the mantelpiece. In the centre, conspicuously separated from the nearest ornaments, was a slender silver vase, designed for a small spray of flowers or a single bloom. There were no flowers in the vase now. Instead, incongruously supported on the top, was an old cricket ball. Like the jerseys of the seamen, it had lost all its original colour. It was green-yellow with age.

  “Why’s that there?” murmured Kendall.

  He drew closer to it and examined not only the vase and the ball, but the spot where they stood. He noticed four little marks on the mantelpiece, two on each side of the vase. His eyes travelled along the mantelpiece to a clock at one end.

  “Doctor, this mantelpiece is very interesting,” said Kendall.

  Saunders did not answer. He was moving to another body.

  “Here is a clock with four legs,” went on Kendall, “that has been moved from a perfectly good spot in the middle of the mantelpiece—its usual spot—the leg-marks are there—to make room for a ridiculous vase bearing a prehistoric cricket ball. The clock isn’t going, but you don’t put clocks in a corner for that.”

  “Here’s something more interesting,” replied Saunders. He was by the grey-haired man near the french window. “These shutters aren’t merely bolted—they’re nailed.”

  “Yes, I’ve already noticed that,” nodded the inspector. “They’re nailed at both windows.” His eyes were busy all the while he talked. “But that doesn’t undermine the importance of my cricket ball. I’d like to know its story.”

  “I’d rather know why the shutters were nailed up. The door wasn’t locked.”

  “Not when we came in; but don’t forget we weren’t the first. That scamp at the station’s going to tell us something presently.” He moved to the doctor, who was now kneeling by the old man. “This poor chap looks a cut above the others, though his clothes aren’t much better. Gosh, doctor—these people have been through something!”

  “Through hell.”

  “But—before this, too! Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, undoubtedly. Emaciated, most of them. This chap’s condition is terrible.”

  “And plenty of will-power to endure it, I should say. Interesting face. I imagine we’ll find that—hallo, there’s something in his hand!”

  He knelt down by the doctor and gently opened the fingers. The stump of an old red pencil rolled on to the floor. He picked it up and then stared again at the closed eyes of the man who had held on to the pencil while he died.

  “My God, Saunders,” muttered Kendall, “I’m going to find out who’s done all this! If there’s any after-life, this fellow’s watching us!”

  “There’s someone else who’s watching us, in a chair,” murmured the doctor unhappily. “I’ll go to her next.” But before he moved away a look of despair entered his face. “I suppose you know, Kendall, I’m not getting anywhere?”

  “No?”

  “All I can tell you is that their hearts have stopped.”

  “Can you tell me how long ago they stopped?”

  “I can only make a guess at that—so far. You see, rigor mortis varies, according to the cause of death, so if you don’t know the cause of death, you don’t know what to expect. We’ve no rigor mortis here. That gives us a range of from half an hour to twenty or thirty hours. You want something closer than that to work upon.”

  Kendall glanced at his watch. It was six minutes to eleven.

  “Yes, I certainly want something closer than that,” he said, “and I’m sure when you’ve finished here you can give it to me. There are other signs, aren’t there, to an experienced doctor’s eye—?”

  “Well, yes, of course—”

  “Have a guess. You’ll be expected to, you know!”

  The doctor studied the old man intently, then made a quick tour of the other bodies.

  “I won’t stake my reputation on it,” he announced, at the end; “but—at a guess—I should say that death occurred not less than six hours ago or more than sixteen.” He threw up his hands suddenly. “And that is assuming that they all died at about the same time.”

  “There’s nothing definite to indicate that there was any great difference of time?” asked Kendall.

  “No, no. Nothing.”

  “Then that will do, to go on with. We guess they were dead by five o’clock this morning, and alive at seven o’clock last night. I’ll carry on with that, and maybe we can improve upon it later… Ah, sergeant!” He turned as his subordinate came into the room. “Any luck?”

  “Not much, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Nobody upstairs—dead or alive.”

  “I thought you were dead yourself, you’ve been such a time!”

  “Well, sir, I made a job of it. Looked in every room and the cupboards.”

  He had also looked under the beds, but he did not mention that. He felt a little hurt
at the inspector’s attitude.

  “You said, ‘Not much luck,’” commented Kendall. “It doesn’t sound as if you had any.”

  “One of the bedrooms was a bit untidy.”

  “Form any conclusion?”

  “Well, sir, someone might have left it in a hurry. There’s a pair of shoes—lady’s—in the middle of the floor, like they was kicked off and no time to put ’em away.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A dress half off a chair, like it was thrown there quick and they hadn’t stopped to fix it.”

  “That the lot?”

  “Barring no brush and comb on the dressing-table, like they’d been packed.”

  The sergeant thought this piece de resistance was a particularly smart bit of observation, and was disappointed that the inspector’s face did not register admiration. However, he’d been in the force long enough to know that praise from a superior was rarer than currants in a bun.

  “I’ll go up in a minute,” said Kendall. “Where’s Hazeldean?”

  “Adsum,” came Hazeldean’s voice as he appeared behind the sergeant; “and I’ve got something for you.”

  “What?”

  “In the dining-room. Can you come and see?”

  As Kendall followed him across the hall, he went on, half-apologetically:

  “I ought to have found this before, but I explored the kitchen quarters first. Someone’s got in through a back window; but that was probably our spoon-thief. He’s left a lot of cheese crumbs. Here we are. This door was ajar.”

  Entering the dining-room, the inspector glanced swiftly around, and his eye rested on the overturned chair.

  “Yes, but that’s not what I mean,” said Hazeldean. “That picture on the opposite wall. Damn’ shame to treat a charming child like that.”

  The charming child was a girl of about eleven, painted in oils. She had soft brown hair and demure brown eyes, but there was a glint of hidden mischief in the eyes which the artist had effectively caught. The dress was white, with a blue belt, but there was something on the dress that the artist had not put there. A little hole.

  “So that’s where the bullet went,” murmured Kendall, frowning. “Right through the heart!”

  Chapter IV

  Flaws in a Theory

  The doctor’s voice recalled them to the drawing-room.

  “Here’s your solution!” he exclaimed excitedly as they ran in. “I found this under him—what he was writing just before he pegged out. My God! Can you credit it?”

  He held out a crumpled sheet of paper. On it was written, in bold capital letters:

  WITH APOLOGIES

  FROM

  THE SUICIDE CLUB

  Kendall stared at the half-dozen grim words, while the others looked at him. Then he stared round at the seven members of the suicide club. Then he stared at the paper again.

  “No—I can’t credit it,” he said slowly. “This is in ink.”

  “Well, it was probably written before they committed suicide,” retorted the doctor.

  “And then he wanted to add something with the pencil?” queried Kendall. “Let’s see if he did.”

  He turned the paper over. On the other side, in pencil, was:

  “Particulars at address 59·16s 4·6e G.”

  The pencilled addition was not in bold capitals, but in ordinary, wobbly writing.

  “And a thorough job they’ve made of it,” commented the doctor. “I’ve looked at them all.”

  “Yes, and now it’s my turn,” answered Kendall.

  He passed from one to the other, peering for several seconds into each face before going through the pockets. When he had finished he straightened himself and walked slowly round the room. As he passed the fireplace he paused to look up the chimney. Then he said:

  “I’m going over the rest of the house and the grounds. I expect you’ve got some more to do yet, doctor. If you’ve finished by the time I have, and the others haven’t turned up, meet me in the dining-room for a talk. Sergeant, stand by the doctor in case he wants anything. Come along, Mr. Hazeldean.”

  Hazeldean smiled as he left the room again with the inspector.

  “Am I being useful,” he inquired, “or is it just that you don’t want me out of your sight?”

  “Let’s say a mixture of both,” suggested Kendall. “I let you go once, and you found a bullet-hole I was searching for.”

  “Yes. And I didn’t much care for the spot where I found it.”

  “Canvas doesn’t feel pain.”

  “No. And some pictures deserve to be shot. Only this one didn’t.” The inspector gave him a sidelong glance. “Touché, inspector! That kid got me! What are you doing—looking for bloodstains on the stairs?”

  “I’m looking for anything I can find, Mr. Hazeldean, but so far this seems to be a bloodless tragedy. What’s your newspaper?”

  “None in particular.”

  “I see. A free-lance.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Under nobody’s orders but your own?”

  “Are you sure that’s going to make any difference?”

  “We’ll talk about that presently.”

  The top floor had four bedrooms and a bathroom, but only two of the bedrooms appeared to have been recently occupied. One of the two was obviously the room of the absent owner, Mr. Fenner, and the other, equally obviously, was that of the niece. It was the niece’s room that had been the subject of Sergeant Wade’s special report, and Kendall and Hazeldean agreed that its condition suggested a hurried departure. The two shoes—dark brown and rather worn, one of them on its side—were in the middle of the floor near the end of the bed, and the dress, a morning frock, made a little soft brown heap on the carpet beside a chair.

  “Didn’t I hear the sergeant say that dress was on the chair?” inquired Hazeldean.

  “You did,” answered Kendall. “The sergeant has been a naughty boy. Taken it up to examine it, and replaced it nearer the edge of the chair than where he found it.”

  “And it slipped down after he left?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I suppose you’re sure you’ve got it?” said Hazeldean. “Someone else may have taken it up to examine it.”

  “What? Since the sergeant left the room?” Kendall shook his head. “When you’re surrounded with trouble there’s no need to manufacture more! However.” He walked to a wardrobe, opened it, and poked his nose into a row of dresses. “She uses violet scent.”

  “Quite smart,” smiled Hazeldean.

  “When you don’t play the violin, or haven’t got a wooden leg,” Kendall smiled back, “smartness is all you’ve got to fall back on. Not that it needs much smartness to detect violet scent. Well, there seems nothing more up here. Let’s get down.”

  “Will you answer a question?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You don’t believe in this suicide club, do you?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I can be smart, too.”

  “That’s the trouble with you journalists. Sometimes you’re too smart, and the smartness goes into the next edition before it’s been properly digested. We’re going to talk about the suicide club in the dining-room, but not till I’ve finished my preliminary investigations.”

  Inspector Kendall found nothing in the kitchen quarters beyond the evidence, already mentioned to him by Hazeldean, of Ted Lyte’s visit; He examined the pantry window carefully, mentally cursing the little crook as he did so. Had the rascal’s fingerprints obliterated any others? Yet he realised the debt of gratitude he owed the very man he was cursing. It was unlikely that Hazeldean would have entered by the back window after failing to get any response from the front-door bell, and but for the crook the tragedy inside Haven House would still have remained undiscovered, and Kendall would sti
ll have been yawning and doodling at the local police station.

  He left the house by the back door, unbolting it to do so.

  “That’s the wood I came through,” said Hazeldean behind him.

  “And your boat’s in the creek beyond?”

  “Just inside the point.”

  “On holiday?”

  “Combining work with it. Doing a yachting series. ‘Yachting for Fools.’ I’m a yacht maniac.”

  “And you came ashore to stretch your legs?”

  “And to call at the post office for mail. Which, by the way, I’ve not done.”

  “Did you notice any dead animals as you came out of the wood?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Cats?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “There’s one by that little gate.”

  “So there is.” The yachtsman-journalist focused his eyes on the little black object, then turned to his companion curiously. “I take it you’re not being just conversational?”

  “I’m fond of conversation,” answered Kendall, “but when I’m on a job I never indulge in it for its own sake. I once talked utter nonsense to a woman till she used the word ‘knowledge’ with a long ‘o’. I’d heard that pronunciation over the telephone—and she’s in prison now for attempted poisoning. You came round by the side lawn, didn’t you?”

  “Whew! Yes.”

  “We’ll do the same.”

  They walked round slowly. Kendall paused at the french window to examine it, and when they came to the front of the house, went right across to the narrow path on the other side. He vanished along the path, returning abruptly at the sound of a car in the lane.

  “I think, your reinforcements,” said Hazeldean.

  “About time, too,” grunted Kendall. “Will you go into the house while I speak to them? I’ll join you in the dining-room.”

  Hazeldean nodded and complied.

  He found the dining-room empty, and while he waited he stared at the painting of the pretty little girl with the bullet through her heart. He wondered where she was, and whether the shoes in the bedroom upstairs belonged to her. Three rooms in this grim house had stories to tell, but walls lack tongues. What were the stories—and how did they all connect?