Tragedy at Ravensthorpe (A Clinton Driffield Mystery)

by J. J. Connington

  “Half of what you’ve said already sounds like riddles to me, sir,” Armadale protested, fretfully. “I’m never sure when you’re serious and when you’re pulling my leg.”

  Sir Clinton was saved from the embarrassment of a reply by the arrival of Cecil Chacewater. He nodded curtly to the two officials as he came up. The Inspector stepped forward to meet him.

  “I’d like to put one or two questions to you, Mr Chacewater,” he said, ignoring the look on Sir Clinton’s face.

  Cecil looked Armadale up and down before replying.

  “Well, go on,” he said, shortly.

  “First of all, Mr Chacewater,” the Inspector began, “I want to know when you last saw your brother alive.”

  Cecil replied without the slightest hesitation:

  “On the morning I left Ravensthorpe. We’d had a disagreement and I left the house.”

  “That was the last time you saw him?”

  “No. I see him now.”

  The Inspector looked up angrily from his notebook.

  “You’re giving the impression of quibbling, Mr Chacewater.”

  “I’m answering your questions, Inspector, to the best of my ability.”

  Armadale tried a fresh cast.

  “Where did you go when you left Ravensthorpe?”

  “To London.”

  “You’ve been in London, then, until this morning?”

  Cecil paused for a moment or two before answering.

  “May I ask, Inspector, whether you’re bringing any charge against me? If you are, then I believe you ought to caution me. If you aren’t, then I don’t propose to answer your questions. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

  Armadale was hardly prepared for this move.

  “I think you’re injudicious, Mr Chacewater,” he said in a tone which he was evidently striving not to make threatening. “I know you didn’t arrive by the first train this morning, though you told us you did. Your position’s rather an awkward one, if you think about it.”

  “You can’t bluff me, Inspector,” Cecil returned. “Make your charge, and I’ll know how to answer it. If you won’t make a charge, I don’t propose to help you with a fishing inquiry.”

  The Inspector glanced at Sir Clinton’s face, and on it he read quite plainly the Chief Constable’s disapproval of his proceedings. He decided to go no further for the moment. Sir Clinton intervened to make the situation less strained.

  “Would you mind looking at him, Cecil, and formally identifying him?”

  Cecil came forward rather reluctantly, knelt down beside his brother’s body, examined the clothes, and finally, removing the handkerchief, gazed for a moment or two at the shattered face. The shot had entered the right side of the head and had done enough damage to show that it had been fired almost in contact with the skin.

  Cecil replaced the handkerchief and rose to his feet. For a few moments he stood looking down at the body. Then he turned away.

  “That’s my brother, undoubtedly.”

  Then, as if speaking to himself, he added in a regretful tone:

  “Poor old Chuchundra!”

  To the Inspector’s amazement Sir Clinton started a little at the word.

  “Was that a nickname, Cecil?”

  Cecil looked up, and the Inspector could see that he was more than a little moved.

  “We used to call him that when we were kids.”

  Sir Clinton’s next question left the Inspector still further bemused.

  “Out of The Jungle Book by any chance?”

  Cecil seemed to see the drift of the inquiry, for he replied at once:

  “Yes. Rikki-tikki-tavi, you know.”

  “I was almost certain of it,” said Sir Clinton. “I can put a name to the trouble, I think. It begins with A.”

  Cecil reflected for a moment before replying.

  “Yes. You’re right. It does begin with A.”

  “That saves a lot of bother,” said Sir Clinton, thankfully. “I was just going to fish in a fresh direction to get that bit of information. I’m quite satisfied now.”

  Cecil seemed to pay little attention to the Chief Constable’s last remark. His eyes went round to the shattered thing that had been his brother.

  “I’d no notion it was as bad as all this,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so bitter about things.”

  The sergeant and constables appeared at the edge of the clearing.

  “Seen all you want to see, Inspector?” asked Sir Clinton. “Then in that case we can leave the body in charge of the sergeant. I see they’ve got a stretcher with them. They can take it down to Ravensthorpe.”

  Armadale rapidly gave the necessary orders to his subordinates.

  “Now, Inspector, I think we’ll go over to Ravensthorpe ourselves. I want to see that chauffeur again. Something’s occurred to me.”

  As the three men walked through the belt of wood-land Sir Clinton turned to Cecil.

  “There’s one point I’d like to have cleared up. Do you know if Maurice had any visitors in the last three months or so—people who wanted to see the collection?”

  Cecil reflected for a time before he could recall the facts.

  “Now you mention it, I remember hearing Maurice say something about a fellow—a Yankee—who was writing a book on Leonardo. That chap certainly came here one day and Maurice showed him the stuff. The medallions were what he chiefly wanted to look at, of course.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “No. None of us saw him except Maurice.”

  Sir Clinton made no comment; and they walked on in silence till they came to the house. Inspector Armadale was by this time completely at sea.

  “Find that chauffeur, Inspector, please; and bring him along. I’ve got one or two points which need clearing up.”

  When the chauffeur arrived it was evident that Armadale had not been mistaken when he described him as stupid-looking. Information had to be dragged out of him by minute questioning.

  “Your name’s Brackley, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton began.

  “Yes, sir. Joe Brackley.”

  “Now, Brackley, don’t be in a hurry with your replies. I want you to think carefully. First of all, on the day that Mr Foss was murdered, he ordered you to bring the car round to the front door.”

  “Yes, sir. I was to wait for him if he wasn’t there.”

  “You pulled up the car here, didn’t you?”

  Sir Clinton indicated the position in front of the house.

  “Yes, sir. It was there or thereabouts”

  “Then you put up the hood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What possessed you to do that on a sunny day?”

  “One of the fastenings was a bit loose and I wanted to make it right before going out.”

  “You didn’t think of doing that in the garage?”

  “I didn’t notice it, sir, until I’d brought the car round. My eye happened to fall on it. And just then I saw Mr Foss going off into the house with some people. He didn’t seem in a hurry, so I thought I’d just time to make the repair before he came out.”

  “You got on to the running-board to reach the hood, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which running-board? The one nearest the house?”

  “No, sir. The other one.”

  “So you could see the front of the house as you were working?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see anything—anything whatever—while you were at work? You must have raised your eyes occasionally.”

  “I could see the window opposite me.”

  “By and by, I think, Marden, the valet, came up and spoke to you?”

  “Yes, sir, he did. He’d been going to the post, he said, but there had been some mistake or other and he’d come back.”

  “He left you and went into the house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After that, did you see Marden again—I m
ean within, say, twenty minutes or so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where did you see him, if you can remember?”

  “Up there, sir, at that window. He was talking to Mr Foss.”

  “When you were up on the running-board, you could just see into the room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I finished the repair; so I came down off the running-board and let down the hood again.”

  “Anything else you can remember, Brackley?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well. That will do. By the way, Inspector,” Sir Clinton turned round, preventing the Inspector from making any comments while the chauffeur was standing by. “I’d clean forgotten the patrolling of the place up yonder. I’ve never found time to go up there; but it’s really a bit out of date now. I think we can dispense with the patrol after to-night. And the same holds for that guard on the museum. There’s no need for either of them.”

  “Very good, sir,” Armadale responded, mechanically.

  The Inspector was engaged in condemning his own stupidity. Why had he not seen the possibilities involved in that repair of the hood? With the extra foot of elevation of course the chauffeur could see further into the museum than a man standing on the ground. And here was the damning evidence that Marden’s story was a lie. And the Inspector had missed it. He almost gritted his teeth in vexation as he thought of it. The keystone of the case: and the Chief Constable had taken it under his nose!

  Sir Clinton turned to Cecil as the chauffeur retired.

  “I shall be here about one o’clock in the morning, Cecil,” he said, lowering his voice. “I want you to be on the watch and let me in without anyone getting wind of my visit. Can you manage it?”

  “Easily enough.”

  “Very well. I’ll be at the door at one o’clock sharp. But remember, it’s an absolutely hush-hush affair. There must be no noise of any sort.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Cecil assured him.

  Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector.

  “Now I think we’ll go across to where we left my car.”

  On the way to the police station Sir Clinton’s manner did not encourage conversation; but as they got out of the car he turned to Armadale.

  “Map-drawing’s a bit late in the day now, Inspector; but we may as well carry on for the sake of completeness.”

  He led the way to his office, took a ruler and protractor from his desk, and set to work on a sheet of paper.

  “Take this point as the museum,” he said.” This line represents the beginning of the tunnel. I took the bearing that time when I lagged behind you. At the next turn—this one here—I made a pretence of examining the walls and took the bearing as we were standing there. I got the third bearing when I asked you to measure the dimensions of the tunnel. As it has turned out, secrecy wasn’t really necessary; but it seemed just as well to keep the survey to ourselves. I got the distances by pacing, except the last bit. There I had to estimate it, since we were crawling on all fours; but I think I got it near enough.”

  “And you carried all the figures in your memory?”

  “Yes. I’ve a fairly good memory when I’m put to it.”

  “You must have,” said Armadale, frankly.

  “Now,” Sir Clinton went on. “By drawing in these lines we get the position of that underground room. It’s here, you see. The next thing is to find out where it lies, relative to the ground surface. I had a fair notion; so when I got to the top of the turret I took the bearing of the Knight’s Tower. I’ll just rule it in. You see the two lines cut quite near the cell. My notion is that there’s a second entrance into that tunnel from that ruined tower. In the old days it may have been a secret road into the outpost tower when a siege was going on.”

  “I see what you’re getting at now,” Armadale interrupted. “You mean that Maurice Chacewater’s body was in the cell and that it was shifted from there up the other secret passage—the one we didn’t see—and left alongside the tower this morning?”

  “Something of that sort.”

  “And now we’ve got to find who killed Maurice Chacewater down there, underground?”

  “There’s nothing in that, Inspector. He killed himself. It’s a fairly plain case of suicide.”

  “But why did he commit suicide?”

  Sir Clinton appeared suddenly smitten with deafness. He ignored the Inspector’s last inquiry completely.

  “I shall want you to-night, Inspector. Come to my house at about half-past twelve. And you had better wear rubber-soled boots or tennis shoes if you have them. We’ll go up to Ravensthorpe in my car.”

  “You’re going to arrest Marden, sir?”

  “No,” was Sir Clinton’s reply, which took the Inspector completely aback. “I’m not going to arrest anybody. I’m going to show you what Foss was going to do with his otophone; that’s all.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE OTOPHONE

  PUNCTUALLY at half-past twelve the Inspector arrived at Sir Clinton’s house. The Chief Constable’s first glance was at the feet of his subordinate.

  “Tennis shoes? That’s right. Now, Inspector, I want you to understand clearly that silence is absolutely essential when we get to work. We’ll need to take a leaf out of the book of the Pirates of Penzance :

  With cat-like tread

  Upon our prey we steal.

  That’s our model, if you please. The car’s outside. We’ll go at once.”

  As preparations for an important raid, these remarks seemed to Armadale hardly adequate; but as Sir Clinton showed no desire to amplify them, the Inspector was left to puzzle over the immediate future without assistance. The hint about the otophone had roused his curiosity.

  “Foss’s hearing was quite normal,” he said to himself, turning the evidence over in his mind. “He heard that conversation in the winter-garden quite clearly enough. So quite evidently one couldn’t call him deaf. And yet he was dragging an otophone about with him. I don’t see it.”

  The Chief Constable pulled up the car in the avenue at a considerable distance from the house.

  “Change here for Ravensthorpe,” he explained, opening the door beside him. “I can’t take the motor nearer for fear of the engine’s noise giving us away.”

  He glanced at the illuminated clock on the dashboard.

  “We’re in nice time,” he commented. “Come along, Inspector; and the less said the better.”

  They reached the door of Ravensthorpe exactly at one o’clock. Cecil was waiting for them on the threshold.

  “Switch off those lights,” Sir Clinton said in a whisper, pointing to the hall lights which Cecil had left burning. “We mustn’t give the show away if we can help it. Someone might be looking out of a window and be tempted to come down and turn them out. You’re supposed to be in bed, aren’t you?”

  Cecil nodded without speaking, and, crossing the hall, he extinguished the lamps. Sir Clinton pulled an electric torch from his pocket.

  “There’s a staircase giving access to the servant’s quarters, isn’t there?”

  Cecil confirmed this, and Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector.

  “Which of your men is on duty at the museum door to-night?”

  “Froggatt,” the Inspector answered.

  “We’ll go along to him,” said Sir Clinton. “I want you, Cecil, to take the constable and post him at the bottom of that stair. Here’s the flash-lamp.”

  Froggatt was surprised to see the party.

  “Now, Froggatt,” the Chief Constable directed.

  “You’re to go with Mr Chacewater. He’ll show you where to stand. All you have to do is to stick to your post there until you’re relieved. It’ll only be a matter of ten minutes or so. Don’t make the slightest sound unless anything goes wrong. Your business is to prevent anyone getting down the stair. There’ll be no trouble. If you see anyone, just shout: ‘Who’s there?’ That’ll be quite enough.”

&nbs
p; The Inspector and Sir Clinton waited on the threshold of the museum until Cecil came back.

  “Very convenient having these museum lights on all night,” Sir Clinton remarked. “We don’t need to muddle about with the flash-lamp. Now just wait here for a moment, and don’t speak a word. I’m going upstairs.”

  He ascended to the first floor, entered Foss’s room and picked up the otophone, with which he returned to his companions.

  “Now we can get to work,” he whispered, leading the way into the museum. “Just lock that door behind us, Inspector.”

  Followed by the other two he stepped across the museum to the bay containing the safe. There he put the otophone on the floor and opened the case of the instrument. From one compartment he took an earphone with its head-band. A moment’s search revealed the position of the connection, and he plugged the ear-phone wire into place in sockets let into the outside of the attachécase. A little further examination revealed a stud beside the leather handle, and this Sir Clinton pressed.

  “That should start the thing,” he commented.

  He lifted the hinged metal plate slightly and peered into the cavity which contained the valves.

  “That seems all right,” he said, as his eye caught the faint glow of the dull emitters.

  Shutting down the plate again, the Chief Constable put his finger into the compartment from which he had taken the ear-phone, pressed a concealed spring, and pulled up the floor of the compartment.

  “This is the microphone,” he explained, drawing out a thick ebonite disk mounted on the false bottom of the compartment. “It’s attached to a longish wire so that you can take it out and put it on a table while the case with the valves and batteries lies on the floor out of the way. Now we’ll tune up.”

  He brought microphone and ear-phone together, when a faint musical note made itself heard. Then he handed the microphone to Cecil.

  “Hold that tight against the safe door, Cecil. Get the base in contact with the metal of the safe and keep the microphone face downwards. It’s essential to hold it absolutely steady, for the slightest vibration will put me off.”