Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  Inspector Armadale soon produced Marden, who seemed rather surprised at being summoned again.

  “It’s all right, Marden,” Sir Clinton assured him. “It merely struck me that when there was a doctor on the premises you ought to have these cuts of yours properly fixed up.”

  Dr Greenlaw speedily removed the temporary bandage which the valet had improvised.

  “I’ll need to put some stitches into this,” he said, as the extent of the injury became evident. “Luckily these glass cuts are clean-edged. You’ll hardly see the scar after a time.”

  Sir Clinton inspected the wounds sympathetically.

  “You’ve made a bit of a mess of your hand, Marden,” he commented. “It’s just as well I thought of getting Dr Greenlaw to look after you.”

  Marden seemed to have been looking for an opening.

  “I’m glad you called me up again, sir,” he explained. “I’ve just thought of two other points about this affair.”

  “Yes?”

  While the doctor was cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, Marden addressed himself to the Chief Constable.

  “I forgot to say, sir, that when I got back to the house I found Mr Foss’s car waiting for him. I said a word or two to the chauffeur as I passed. It only struck me afterwards that this might be important. I forgot about it at the time.”

  “Quite right to tell us,” Sir Clinton confirmed.

  “The second thing was what the chauffeur told me. He’d been ordered to wait for Mr Foss, it seems; and he got the idea that Mr Foss was leaving Ravensthorpe this afternoon for good. I was surprised by that; for I’d heard nothing about it from Mr Foss.”

  He flinched slightly with the smart of his wounds, as Greenlaw washed them carefully.

  Sir Clinton seemed to be struck by a fresh idea.

  “Before the doctor bandages you up, would you mind if we took your finger-prints, Marden? I’m asking everyone to let us take theirs, and this seems to be the best chance we shall have of getting yours, you see? Of course, if you object, I’ve no power to insist on it.”

  “I’ve no objections, sir. Why should I have?”

  “Then you might take impressions of the lot, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Don’t spend too much time over it. We must get the bandages on this hand as quick as possible.”

  Inspector Armadale hurried away for his outfit and soon set to work to take the valet’s finger-prints. While he was thus engaged a fresh suggestion seemed to occur to Sir Clinton.

  “By the way, Marden, you have that parcel which Mr Foss sent to the post?”

  “I can give you it in a moment, sir, once the doctor has finished with my hand.”

  “Very good. I’d like to see it.”

  The Chief Constable waited patiently until Marden’s hand was completely bandaged; then he dispatched the valet for the parcel. When it was forthcoming, he dismissed Marden again. The doctor took his leave, and Armadale was left alone with Sir Clinton.

  “Now let’s see what Foss was sending off, Inspector.”

  Cutting the string, Sir Clinton unwrapped the paper and disclosed a small cardboard box. Inside, on a layer of cotton-wool, was a wrist-watch. Further search failed to bring to light any enclosed note.

  “I suppose he was sending it to be cleaned,” the Inspector hazarded. “Probably he wrote a letter by the same post.”

  “Let’s have a look at it, Inspector. Be careful not to mark it with your fingers.”

  Sir Clinton took the watch up and examined it closely.

  “It looks fairly new to need repair.”

  He held it to his ear.

  “It’s going. Not much sign of damage there.”

  “Perhaps it needed regulating,” Armadale suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Clinton’s tone was non-committal. “Take a note of the time as compared with your own watch, Inspector; and just check whether it’s going fast or slow in a few hours. Try it for finger-prints along with the rest of the stuff.”

  He replaced it gently in its bed of cotton-wool and closed the box, taking care not to finger the cardboard.

  “Now, if you’ll send for the chauffeur, we may get something from him.”

  But the chauffeur proved a most unsatisfactory witness. He admitted that Foss had ordered him to bring round the car at 3.15 and wait for further orders; but he was unable to give any clear account of the talk he had with his employer when the order was given.

  “I can’t remember what he said exactly; but I got the notion he was leaving here to-day. I’m dead sure of that; for I packed up my own stuff and had it ready to go off at a moment’s notice. It’s on the grid of the car now. I was so taken aback that I haven’t thought of unpacking it.”

  Sir Clinton could get nothing further out of the man, and he was eventually dismissed.

  “Now we’ll have a run over the late Mr Foss’s goods,” the Chief Constable proposed, when they had dismissed the chauffeur.

  But the search of Foss’s bedroom yielded at first nothing of much interest.

  “This doesn’t look as if that chauffeur had been telling the truth,” Armadale pointed out, when they found all Foss’s clothes arranged quite normally in wardrobe and drawers. “Foss himself had made no preparations for moving, that’s evident. I’ll see that chauffeur again and go into the matter more carefully.”

  “You might as well,” Sir Clinton concurred. “But I doubt if you’ll get him to shift from his story. He seemed to be very clear about the main point, though he was weak in details.”

  They subjected all Foss’s belongings to a careful scrutiny.

  “No name marked on any of the linen; no tags on any of the suits; no labels inside the jacket pockets,” Inspector Armadale pointed out. “He seems to have been very anxious not to advertise his identity. And no papers of any sort. It looks a bit queer, doesn’t it?”

  As he spoke, he noticed a small leather case standing in a corner.

  “Hullo, here’s an attaché case. Perhaps his papers are in it.”

  He crossed over and picked up the case, but as he did so an expression of surprise crossed his face.

  “This thing’s as heavy as lead! It must weigh ten or twelve pounds at least!”

  “It’s not an attaché case,” Sir Clinton pointed out. “Look at the ends of it.”

  Armadale turned the case round in his hand. At the upper part of one end the leather had been cut away, disclosing a small ebonite disc rather more than an inch in diameter and pierced with a pattern of tiny holes. At the opposite end of the case there were two small holes side by side and a larger one above; and examination showed brass sockets inside which seemed meant for the reception of plugs.

  “You’d better get his keys, Inspector. Probably the key of this thing will be on the ring.”

  With his curiosity raised to an acute pitch, Armadale went off in search of the key-ring; and was soon back again with it in his hand.

  “Now we’ll see what it is,” he said, as he turned the key in the case’s lock and pressed the opening spring.

  The lifting of the lid disclosed a wooden casing fitted with a couple of hinged doors, an open recess in which were two levers, and a hinged metal plate, on which was an inscription. Armadale read it aloud uncomprehendingly:

  “‘Marconi Otophone. Inst. No. S/O 1164.’ What the deuce is this?”

  Sir Clinton put out his hand and lifted the hinged metal plate, disclosing below two wireless valves in their sockets.

  “Some wireless gadget,” the Inspector ejaculated. “Now what could he possibly have wanted with a thing like that?”

  Sir Clinton examined the instrument with interest, then he closed the case.

  “We’ll take this along with us, Inspector.”

  Then, with a sudden change of mind, he contradicted himself.

  “No, we’ll leave it here for the present. That will be much better.”

  Somewhat mystified by this change of intention, the Inspector agreed. Sir Clinton’s manner did not
invite questions.

  “I think we had better see Miss Chacewater again. There are one or two questions I’d like to put to her, Inspector; and you had better be there.”

  In a minute or two, Joan was found, with Michael Clifton in attendance. Sir Clinton did not think it worth while to sit down.

  “Just a couple of points I want to ask about. First of all, is there any record of the combination which opens the lock of the safe in the museum?”

  Joan shook her head.

  “Maurice was the only one of us who knew it. My father did leave a note of it; but I remember that Maurice destroyed that. He specially wished to keep it to himself.”

  “Another point,” Sir Clinton went on. “Did Foss know, on the night of the burglary, which of the rows contained the real medallions and which row the replicas were in?”

  Joan reflected for a moment or two before replying.

  “He must have known. Maurice had shown him the things once at least, if not oftener; and I know there was no secret as to which were the real things and which were the counterfeits.”

  Sir Clinton seemed satisfied with this information.

  “One last thing,” he continued. “I suppose you could show me where your brother keeps his correspondence. We must get hold of Kessock’s address and notify him about Foss’s death; and there seems no way of doing it as quick as this one. If the papers aren’t locked up, perhaps I could see them now?”

  It appeared that the letters were available and Sir Clinton turned them over rapidly.

  “Fifth Avenue? That’s satisfactory.”

  He put the papers back in their place.

  “There’s just one thing more. I’m going to put a constable on guard at the door of the museum for a while—day and night for a day or two, perhaps. You won’t mind?”

  “Certainly not. Do as you wish.”

  Sir Clinton acknowledged the permission. Then, as though struck by an after-thought, he inquired:

  “Have you Cecil’s address?”

  Joan shook her head.

  “He said he’d let me know where he was staying, but he hasn’t written. Perhaps he hasn’t settled down yet. He may be staying at an hotel for a day or two.”

  “Please ring me up as soon as he sends word.”

  Joan promised to do this, and Sir Clinton continued:

  “By the way, Inspector Armadale wishes to take the finger-prints of everyone in the house. Would you mind setting an example and having yours taken along with the rest? If you do it, then it will be easier for us to get the others. They won’t be suspicious when they hear that it’s a general inquisition.”

  Both Joan and Michael consented without ado.

  “The Inspector will be with you in a moment or two,” Sir Clinton said, as he took his leave. “Just a word with you, Inspector.”

  Armadale followed him from the room.

  “Now, Inspector, there’s a lot for you to do yet. First of all, get these finger-prints. Then telephone to London and get Kessock’s business address. As soon as you get it, let me know.”

  “But you got his address from the correspondence, sir, surely. It’s in Fifth Avenue.”

  “I want his other address—his office in New York, you understand?”

  “His office will be shut by now, if you’re going to cable,” the Inspector pointed out, thoughtlessly.

  “No, it won’t. You forget that their time is some hours behind ours. We’ll catch him in office hours if you hurry. Then when you’ve done that, get Foss’s face photographed; and arrange for a constable and reliefs to be posted at the museum door till further orders. The museum door is to be left open and the light is to be left burning at night, so that he can keep his eye on things.”

  Inspector Armadale jotted some notes in his pocket-book. As he closed this, he seemed to think of something.

  “There’s just one thing, sir. You want to get into the safe? Couldn’t we get the number of the lock combination from the makers? They must know it.”

  Sir Clinton shook his head.

  “Unfortunately the safe has no maker’s name-plate on it, Inspector. I looked at the time we examined it. It’s a fairly old pattern, though, I noticed; and if it hasn’t got a balanced fence arbour, I think I can guarantee to find the combination of it with a little assistance.”

  Armadale looked rather blank.

  “I thought these things were too stiff to tackle,” he said.

  Sir Clinton suppressed a smile.

  “You ought to read Edgar Allan Poe, Inspector. ‘Human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve,’ was a dictum of his. If I’m not mistaken about that safe, I think I could guarantee to open it in less than ten minutes. The resources of science, and all that, you know. But I think it would be better to wait a while and see if Mr Chacewater turns up to open it for us himself.”

  “But perhaps Mr Chacewater’s body is inside it now,” the Inspector suggested. “There may have been a double murder, for all we know.”

  “In that case, we shall find him when we open it,” Sir Clinton assured him lightly. “If he’s inside, he’ll hardly be likely to shift his quarters.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE SHOT IN THE CLEARING

  WHEN Sir Clinton reached his office on the morning after the murder at Ravensthorpe, he found Inspector Armadale awaiting him with a number of exhibits.

  “I’ve brought everything that seemed worth while,” Armadale explained. “I thought you might care to look at some of the things again, although you’ve seen them already.”

  “That’s very good of you, Inspector. I should like to see some of them, as a matter of fact. Now suppose we begin with the finger-prints. They might suggest a few fresh ideas.”

  “They seem to suggest more notions than I have room for in my head,” the Inspector confessed ruefully. “It’s a most tangled case, to my mind.”

  “Then let’s start with the finger-prints,” the Chief Constable proposed. “At least they’ll settle some points, I hope.”

  Armadale unwrapped a large brown-paper parcel.

  “I got the lot without any difficulty; and last night we photographed them all and enlarged the pictures. They’re all here.”

  “You took Foss’s ones, I suppose?”

  “Yes, and I managed to find some of Maurice Chacewater’s too.”

  “That’s pretty sharp work,” Sir Clinton complimented his subordinate. “How did you manage to make sure they were his?”

  “I asked for his set of razors, sir, and took them from the blades. He’d left prints here and there of his finger and thumb either on the blade or on the handle. Of course I couldn’t get anything else very sharp; but these are quite enough for the purpose, as you’ll see.”

  He laid out three enlarged photographs on the desk before Sir Clinton; then, below each of the first two, he put down a second print.

  “This first print,” he said, pointing to it, “represents the finger-prints we found on the automatic pistol. You can see that it’s the arch pattern on the thumb. Now here”—he indicated the companion print—“is Foss’s thumb-print; and if you look at it, you’ll see almost at a glance that it’s identical with the print on the pistol. They’re identical. I’ve measured them. And there are no other prints except Foss’s on the pistol.”

  “Good,” said Sir Clinton. “‘And that, said John, is that.’ We know where we are so far as the pistol’s concerned. Pass along, please.”

  “I’ve examined the pistol,” the Inspector continued. “It’s fully loaded in the magazine and has an extra cartridge in the barrel; but it hasn’t been fired recently so far as I can see.”

  “Now for the next pair of prints,” Sir Clinton suggested.

  “This represents the thumb-print from the sword, or whatever you call it,” said the Inspector. “Also prints of the two middle fingers of the right hand, found on the weapon. The second print of the pair shows identical finger-prints from a different source. The thumb-prints
in the two cases are not exactly alike, because you get only the edge of the thumb marked in the grip on a sword, whereas the other specimen gives a full imprint. But I think you’ll find they’re the same. I’ve measured them, too. You can see that the thumb pattern is a loop type, quite different from Foss’s prints; and there’s a trace of a tiny scar at the edge of the thumb in both these prints. I’d like you to compare them carefully, sir.”

  Sir Clinton took up the two prints and scanned them with care, comparing the images point by point.

  “There’s no mistake possible,” he said. “The two sets are identical, so far as I can see; and the scar on the thumb is a clinching bit of evidence.”

  “You admit they’re from the same hand?” asked the Inspector, with a peculiar look at Sir Clinton.

  “Undoubtedly. Now whose are the second set?”

  The Inspector continued to look at his superior with something out of the common in his expression.

  “The second set of prints came from Maurice Chacewater’s razors,” he said.

  The Chief Constable’s lips set tightly and a touch of grimness showed in his face.

  “I see we shall have to be quite clear about this, Inspector,” he said, bluntly. “By the look of you, you seemed to think I’d be taken aback by this evidence, because Mr Chacewater is a friend of mine. I was taken aback—naturally enough. But if you think it’s going to make any difference to the conduct of this case—and I seemed to see something of the sort in your face—you can put that out of your mind once for all. The business of the police is to get hold of the murderer, whoever he may be. Friendship doesn’t come into these affairs, Inspector. So kindly don’t suspect me of anything of that kind in future. You know what I mean; I needn’t put it into words.”

  Without giving Armadale time for a reply, he picked up the last print.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the set of prints I took from the valet’s fingers,” the Inspector hastened to explain. “It corresponds to nothing I’ve found anywhere else. You can see it’s a whorl type on the thumb.”