"Field-glasses, eh?" ruminated Masters. "A pair of old field-glasses, on an orange-topped table near the north-west side of the roof!"
"That's right"
"Would it interest you to know, sir, that other witnesses who went up there later didn't see any field-glasses?"
"I can't help that They were there earlier."
"I say, Masters." H.M. raised his head briefly. "Could they 'a' been the same glasses George Fleet used on the famous day?"
Masters simmered. "For the last time, Sir Henry—" "Will I stop babblin' about field-glasses, you mean? Oh, Masters, I know there were no hokey-pokey spikes to stick him in the eye! But I gather the field-glasses weren't busted; they fell just wide of the terrace and on the grass. And that's why the policeman picked 'em up and carried 'em inside." "Yes!"
H.M., an unlighted cigar in his fingers, craned round in his chair to blink at Martin.
"Now tell me, son," he said. "Supposing, Just supposing!) these were the same glasses! Were they a good pair? Good lenses? Easy focus? No blurrin' that would…" He paused. "Were they?"
"As I told you," Martin returned, "I didn't look through them very long. But they were in first-rate condition. I’ll swear to that"
"That's good news," breathed H.M. "Oh, my eye! That helps a lot."
Masters was unable to yank down his bowler hat on his bead, since he was not wearing it, but his gesture conveyed this.
"The field-glasses," he said, with strong self-control, "were in A-l order. They, had nothing wrong with them. And therefore (eh?) they're a great big smacking-sure help to us?"
"That's right, Masters."
"Er — just so." Masters addressed himself to his notebook and to Martin. "Anything more you can tell us, Mr. Drake?"
"I don't think so." This atmosphere had become dangerously explosive, and Martin tried to lighten it "I woke up with Lady Brayle sitting beside me. I annoyed her, and she annoyed me, so I decided to dress and come downstairs. In here I found H.M. telling Aunt — telling Lady Fleet about his previous existence as a Cavalier poet and duellist" He grinned. "By the way, sir, you ought to talk to Dr. Laurier."
"What's that, son? Hey?"
"Dr. Laurier. He's an authority on old-time fencing. He can tell you all about the 'Fifty-fifty and the 'Low-High' and the 'Vanity' and everything else. Incidentally, he says his father fought two duels in France."
Masters barked him back to attention. But Masters himself had a grievance, and was annoyed enough to air it
"A fat lot of good;" he growled, "this gentleman Laurier did us last night!"
Martin, knowing a question would shut him up, said nothing.
"All he kept talking about" Masters growled, "was his father, with the big grey beard, when the gentleman was old and a bit scatty, sitting in a rocking-chair in front of that infernal skeleton-clock, rocking back and forth and muttering something in French that Sir Henry says means, 'Would a man of honour have done it?’
"Ah, but not done a murder,’' Masters added. "Because, according to the record, he was in this very room talking to the butler when Sir George Fleet pitched off the roof." Masters started, and woke up. "Hurrum! Sorry! Off the subject! Now, Mr. Drake! What I wanted to ask—"
But he never asked it
Masters's gaze had strayed towards H.M.; and, after a pause, Masters's expression became that of one who sees a prayed-for portent in the sky.
H.M. had sat up straight His mouth fell open, and the unlighted cigar dropped out and rolled on the carpet. His look was fixed straight ahead behind the big spectacles; his hands were on the arm of the chair, his elbows hooked as though to push himself up. His voice, astounded, started from deep in the cellar and was at the same level when it emerged.
"Wait a minute!" H.M. begged. "Lemme think! Stop babblin' and lemme think!"
Nobody spoke. Martin, Ruth, and Stannard exchanged inquiring glances; Masters remained very quiet indeed; and H.M. fiercely pressed his hands over his head.
"But that couldn't be," H.M. addressed the empty air. "It couldn't be, unless… yes, burn me there was!"
His hands dropped again to the arms of the chair. With some effort he propelled himself to his feet
"I got to go and look at something," he explained, with an — air of haste and absent-minded apology. "I've been an awful ass; but I got to go and look at something now. You stay here. You play bridge or something." And he lumbered across to the hall door, where he turned right towards the interior of the house.
"By George," breathed Masters, "the old bounder's got it!"
Martin stared after H.M. "Got what?"
"Never you mind that, sir," Masters said cheerfully. "We'll get back to business. Now, Mr. Stannard!"
"I beg your pardon?" Stannard was obviously surprised.
"I said a while ago," Masters told him smoothly, "that I'd like a word with you. If you don't mind, I'd like to take a statement from you as to what happened in the execution shed last night." '
The other stood motionless, a vertical line between his black eyebrows.
"If memory serves, Inspector, I gave a statement to the police this morning."
"Yes, sir. But that was to Inspector Drake. County Constabulary."
"True. And what then?"
'The Chief Constable's Office—" Masters was suave—"have got in touch with our people in London. I’m in charge of the case, you see. Now, about that statement…"
Stannard pushed back his cuff and glanced at his wrist-watch.-
It's rather late, Inspector."
"I'm afraid I've got to insist, Mr. Stannard."
Dead silence.
The light of battle sprang across that room as clearly as the opposing lamps had shone behind the fencers at Pentecost Prison last night. And Martin knew why.
Too often had John Stannard wiped the floor with the police, including Chief Inspectors of the C.I.D., in a battle of question-and-answer at the Central Criminal Court Masters knew this; Stannard knew he knew it They looked at each other.
Last night, Martin reflected, Stannard could have wiped the floor with Masters in such an engagement But Stannard was shaky now; there was some horror inside him; his eyes were dull; his movements, perhaps mental as well as physical, seemed slow. Then he glanced towards Ruth Callice.
To Martin's astonishment, Ruth was looking at Stannard with an expression of… well, not nearly as strong as hero-worship; but something deeply moved and as near to love as made no difference. What had been happening during the past twenty-four hours? Ruth veiled her look instantly, slipping back into H.M.'s chair.
And Stannard smiled.
"I'm at your service, Inspector," he said. And vitality seemed to flow and expand through him.
He sat down at the other end of the sofa from Martin, crossed his knees, and took from his pocket a cigar in a cellophane wrapper.
"I’ll make the statement" he went on, "mainly because," he looked sideways, "I think my friend Drake deserves to hear it."
'The trouble was," Martin blurted, "I thought I might have left you there helpless or dying or — God knows what."
"No. You played the game strictly according to the rules. Unfortunately, however…"
Sharply Masters cut across the amenities.
"You might begin," he said, "from the time Mr. Drake locked you up behind the iron door at just past midnight — Well!’
To tell the truth," Stannard admitted, "I was not as easy in my mind as I led others to think. I have — some imagination too. But there it was; it had to be done, and more than done. So I opened the door of the execution shed." Again he looked at Martin. "You never saw it. Nor did any of the others. I'd better describe it. It was—"
"I don't want to hear any of that sir," snapped Masters.
"Oh?" Stannard slowly turned his head back. "You 'don't want to hear any of that?"'
"No. Not by a jugful!"
"Thus," Stannard said evenly, "denying a witness his right to give testimony in his own way. The other name is coe
rcion. May God help you if I ever quoted your words in court"
Sling went the mental whip across Masters's face. Masters, dogged and conscientious, was inwardly raving. But he remained impassive, with sheathed claws.
"Hurrum! My mistake. Go on!"
"It was a good-sized room," pursued Stannard, taking the cellophane wrapper off the cigar, "though with not a very high ceiling, as in the condemned cell. Its walls were brick painted white, pretty dirty, with two small barred windows near the top of the opposite side.
"I picked this up, detail by detail, with my light In the centre of the floor, which was stone, I saw the gallows-trap: two big oblong wooden panels, fitting closely together and set flush with the floor-level. They would drop together when you pulled a lever. An iron beam stretched across the ceiling just over this trap. In the left-hand corner — concealed from a condemned man as he entered by the opening door — was a rather large vertical lever which controlled the drop.
"My dear Drake, do you remember the feel of the condemned cell just over’ the way? Yes; I can see you do. Well, this was worse. I had expected that. As soon as I opened the door of that execution shed, the whole room seemed to jump at me. It did not like visitors."
Chief Inspector Masters interrupted harshly.
"Just a minute, sir!"
"Yes?"
Masters had to shake his own head to clear it of a spell. Like the mist on the countryside that morning, this dim-lighted drawing-room became invaded with the shapes and sounds of Pentecost Prison.
"I ask you!" persisted Masters "What kind of talk is that?’
"It is true talk, Inspector. Write it down."
"As you like, sir."
"A dirty white brick room, a trap, an iron beam, a lever no other furniture," continued Stannard. Instead of lighting the cigar, he put it down on the arm of the sofa. "But I had seen a rocking-chair across the passage in the condemned cell. I went over there, fetched in the chair, and, as a matter of honour, closed the door behind me.
"I put the rocking-chair in a comer, the far corner from the door, looking obliquely across the gallows-trap towards the lever. I hung my lamp over the back of the chair and tried to read The Cherry Orchard. This became impossible. The influences, previously poisonous, were now devilish.
"No, Inspector! Don't make faces. I saw no ghosts and I heard none. I am prepared to admit the influences may have been imaginary, though I don't believe it Everything centered round that gallows-trap.
"There, of course, the condemned person had dropped on his long or short rope — according to weight — into a brick-lined pit underneath. It was natural that these currents of hatred, of malice, of despair, should come from there or seem to come from there.
"Then I did the worst possible thing.
"I put down my book. I did what I called in my own mind —" a sardonic grin tightened back Stannard's lips—"the act of a boxer riding with the punch. I lit a cigar. I rocked in the chair, and deliberately exposed myself to whatever was here. I tried to imagine what an execution would look like. In short, I did exactly what I said Drake would, do.’
"I knew I was somewhat rattled; but not how rattled until
"You remember that I was sitting in the comer of the execution shed. I had been imagining the hanging of Hessler, who had tried to escape from the condemned cell. I had been wondering about this: when the doctor and other officials went down into the pit to make sure the hanged man was dead, how did they get down? Ladders? But I saw no ladders. All of a sudden I woke up from these thoughts.
"My cigar, which for some reason I had been holding near the tip, had burnt down and was searing my fingers. And I was not sitting in any comer. I was sitting in my rocking-chair on the gallows-trap itself."
Stannard paused.
He moved his right hand towards the cigar on the arm of the chair, and suddenly drew back again. Ruth Callice, a little way back from the light which touched Stannard's cheek, sat back with her eyes closed. There were bluish hollows under Ruth's eyes.
"The explanation, of course," said Stannard, "is so simple as to be almost comic. I mention it as a matter of: say unconscious muscular reaction. You're familiar, I imagine, with old fashioned rocking-chairs? And how they moved when you swung? I had simply rocked myself there.
"This sobered me. I threw that chair back and stamped out the cigar. My burnt fingers seemed to pain out of all proportion. It was now getting on towards two o'clock in the morning. And I decided to carry out an idea that.. well, it bad been in my mind from the first I would try out that idea, and get rid of its fears."
"Wear' demanded Masters. "What idea?"
Stannard grimaced.
"I wanted to see what would happen," he replied, "if I threw the lever and the trap fell."
Chapter 15
Stannard essayed a smile.
"There was no reason," he said, "why I shouldn't have done this before. One cause of my reluctance;" he brooded, "may have been shrinking from mere noise. Just as all of us shrink from making loud noises in an ordinary house at night
"I had some idea, perhaps from fiction, that it would be a boom or a crash. Logical reasoning should have told me that such trap-doors, in use, would fall smoothly and without noise. Or, at a time like this, that the machinery might not work at all.
"In any case, I laid hold of the lever and pulled. It moved a little, but only a little. I pulled again, harder. A rasping noise followed, either from the lever's mechanism or from under the trap-door. Then I laid hold, blind-determined, and put out all my weight with both hands. And the trap fell.
"With luck there would have been no more than a heavy creak. But the right-hand trap-door, too heavy for its old hinges, ripped loose and fell into the pit with a crash which seemed to bring down the roof."
Martin Drake stared at the past.
The crash which had roused him out of sleep — loud, yet not very loud because it was muffled by a heavy oak door and the inside of the pit — the crash which had roused him, at two o'clock, was just that
But Stannard was speaking again.
"If I had expected a noise," he said, "I never expected a noise like that. It dazed me. Immediately afterwards," he turned his head towards Martin for a brief look, "my friend Drake called out from the grille of the iron door 'Stannard!' And them 'Stannard! Are you all right?' I shouted back, 'Yes! Quite!' Though I fear my voice showed — never mind.
"While I was tugging at the lever, I had put down my lamp on the floor. Now, in not quite the best state of mind, I went over to the edge, and turned the beam of the lamp down into the pit. It was square in shape, a brick-lined shaft much bigger than the oblong trap."
Stannard paused.
"Well, Mr. Masters," he added, "Inspector Drake must have told you what I saw."
"What you saw?" exclaimed Martin.
"I saw a very young girl," said Stannard, "lying on her back. Her eyes showed whitish slits, and her mouth was open. Her bodily mutilations: well, those are for the morbid. But this I saw; and it seemed to me that all the evil forces in that room were settling down on her like flies."
With a murmured apology Stannard rose to his feet Limping a little, he went slowly to a gilt table in the middle of the room. On the table-top, of eighteenth-century mottled marble, had been set out a decanter of whisky, a syphon, and glasses. He now faced Martin and Ruth; and Masters, twitching round his own chair, also faced Stannard.
"Enid Puckston," said Masters. "Now we're getting to it!"
Stannard's eyes were glittering darkly as of old. His hand trembled very slightly as he tipped whisky into a glass.
"Enid Puckston," Masters repeated. "Did you recognize the girl, sir?"
"No. Never saw her before."
"But you guessed she was murdered? And recently?"
Stannard, in the act of pressing the handle of the syphon, gave Masters a long and almost affectionate look.
"Yes, Inspector," he answered. "I guessed that." Soda hissed into the glass.
"You were one of a group of people (eh?) who found a blood-stained dagger — with fresh blood — over in the condemned cell?"
"I saw it shortly after it was found, if that's what you mean."
"Just so. Didn't you (hurrum!) associate that dagger with the murdered girl?"
"Not at that moment, I think. Afterwards, naturally."
Masters was snapping at him now; and Stannard, motionless with the glass in his hand, seemed to throw his replies through half-shut teeth.
"Mr. Stannard, do you know what a person is required by law to do when they find a murdered body? — Mind your answer."
"Inform the police, I believe. — Mind your grammar."
"Ah!" said Masters. "Now I understand Mr. Martin Drake was within easy calling-distance of you.. "
"Come to think of it," Stannard frowned, "he called to me, for a second time, shortly after I saw the girl's body. His voice seemed to come from farther away, as though he'd moved back from the grille. But he called, 'Are you sure you're all right?'"
"Did you answer that?"
"Yes. I told him to mind his own damned business."
"So you could have called for help. And yet you didn't?"
Stannard's gaze wandered towards Ruth.
"Inspector," he said tenderly, and took a deep pull at the whisky and soda, "I wouldn't have 'called for help,' as you put it, for anything on earth."
"What did you do next?"
Stannard took another deep pull at the whisky and soda, emptying the glass.
"I put my lamp on the floor. I put my hands on the edge of the shaft opposite the side on which the trap door had fallen. I let myself hang down inside, stretching my arms to full length. Then I let go, and landed on my feet in the blood beside the dead girl."
Masters was badly jarred. "You mean — you thought you might give help of some kind?" "Never mind my motives. That's what I did." "Oh, ah. And then?" '
"The shaft, as I had noticed before," Stannard's husky voice had grown huskier, "was ten feet deep." His vitality seemed to be ebbing, despite the whisky. "I couldn't get out. I was shut in. And I had no lamp. Consequently, all I could do was sit down in a corner and wait for daylight."
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