Trial and Error

by Anthony Berkeley

  “Really? What, no one came to read the gas meter or see to anything connected with the electric light, or inspect the water connections or mend anything or clean anything?”

  “Oh, those,” said Mrs Greenhill in great surprise.

  After five minutes patient questioning Mr Chitterwick was in possession of a rough list of meter readers, electricians and so forth, totalling seven.

  “And that’s all?”

  “That’s all, sir, so far as I can remember.”

  “I see. Well, if anyone else occurs to you, just let Mr Todhunter have a note of it.”

  “You don’t think it can have been a burglar, sir?” asked Mrs Greenhill as they prepared to go.

  “It’s a possibility of course,” Mr Chitterwick replied affably. “But I don’t see a sign anywhere of a forcible entry having been made, and I’m quite sure that both you and Edie were far too careful to leave any windows open at night?”

  “Oh no, sir. You can depend on that. Every window was shut and bolted before we went to bed every night. I saw to that myself.”

  “Exactly. Well, if there’s nothing else you can tell us, I don’t think we need keep you and Edie any longer.”

  The pair withdrew, and Mr Chitterwick shook his head.

  “Not very helpful, I fear.”

  “That precious pair damned nearly killed me,” snarled Mr Todhunter.

  “Yes, yes. They were most exasperating. But there! No doubt they felt themselves in a very equivocal position.”

  “You don’t think it was either of them?” asked Mr Todhunter hopefully.

  Mr Chitterwick shook his head. “No, my impression is they are both of them quite honest. But.. .”

  “What?”

  “I wonder if the elder woman has a husband?”

  “Mrs Greenhill? No, she’s a widow.”

  Mr Chitterwick shook his head. “A pity. I believe with such a woman there is often a ne’er-do-weel husband in the background. That might have suited our investigations very well.”

  “Yes, but in the absence of a ne’er-do-weel husband,” said Mr Todhunter impatiently, “what do you imagine has happened to that bracelet?”

  “Dear me,” said Mr Chitterwick, looking much distressed. “I’m afraid I can’t say. The—the trail is cold, you see. We can investigate all these persons whom we know have been here. They may have had a moment to slip into your room, you see. I suppose,” added Mr Chitterwick diffidently, “that you really did leave that drawer locked?”

  “Of course I left it locked.”

  “Yes, of course, of course,” Mr Chitterwick said hastily. “It was just. .. yes, of course.”

  “And how long,” asked Mr Todhunter with sarcasm, “do you imagine it’s going to take to enquire into the movements and problematical guilt of all those persons? A couple of months?”

  “It would take time, certainly,” Mr Chitterwick had to admit.

  “Then let’s pursue some other line,” barked Mr Todhunter, whose nerves were wearing thin. “We’ve only got five days. Perhaps you’re forgetting that?”

  “No, no. Oh, no indeed. I assure you I’m not overlooking that.”

  “Well, damn and blast it,” shouted Mr Todhunter. “I shot the woman! What sort of detective do you call yourself if you can’t prove it in five days when I can tell you everything that happened, from A to Z?”

  “Don’t distress yourself, Todhunter,” implored Mr Chitterwick. “I do beg of you not to distress yourself.”

  “Well, you’d be distressed in my position, wouldn’t you?” croaked Mr Todhunter.

  “I am distressed in any case,” answered Mr Chitterwick, and from his face it was plain that he spoke the truth.

  2

  Mr Chitterwick dined with Mr Todhunter that evening, and afterwards they discussed the case for two solid hours, for the most part calmly. Such was Mr Chitterwick’s power of soothing that not once was Mr. Todhunter’s aneurism endangered. But unfortunately no conclusion was reached nor any very hopeful line of enquiry uncovered. By the time Mr Chitterwick left it had only been decided that the next morning, which was a Saturday, should be spent in traversing, in daylight, the route taken by Mr Todhunter on the fatal evening—and damn the owners of the gardens on the way if they objected!

  At 10 a.m. punctually, therefore, on Saturday, December fourth, Mr Chitterwick presented himself in Richmond and the pair set forth. Their faces were stern and set; even Mr Chitterwick’s cherubic countenance seemed to be trying to set itself into lines of relentlessness. With long, shambling strides Mr Todhunter strode along the pavement, and Mr Chitterwick trotted at his side, bouncing at every few steps rather like a large rubber ball,

  At last Mr Todhunter turned, without hesitation, down a side lane and stopped before a certain place in a 6-foot fence.

  “It was somewhere about here that I climbed over,” he said.

  Mr Chitterwick regarded the fence with surprise. “You climbed that? Good gracious me.”

  “I used to be a good climber. A fence like that presents no difficulties.”

  “Yes, but you might have killed yourself.”

  “I rather hoped,” confessed Mr Todhunter, “that I should. But I didn’t. One can’t rely on doctors.”

  “You’re not going to climb it now?” asked Mr Chitterwick anxiously.

  “I am not. If you can find the place where I climbed over before, we will go round and find another way into the garden.”

  Mr Chitterwick looked doubtful. “I’m afraid there are hardly likely to be any traces remaining. It was so long ago.” He stared at the fence in a vague and somewhat helpless way.

  “I seem to remember that my foot slipped near the top,” persisted Mr Todhunter. “It might have scored the wood. We could at any rate examine the thing.”

  “Oh yes,” Mr Chitterwick agreed readily enough. “We’ll examine it, by all means.”

  They examined it.

  After a few minutes Mr Todhunter could have been seen staring at a faint excoriation of the wood about a foot from the top of the fence. Mr Chitterwick joined him.

  “That fits with your recollection,” he said, but not too hopefully.

  “It could have been made by the toe of a boot?”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” said Mr Chitterwick, examining the mark more closely. “But it need not have been. I mean, there’s no proof that this is where you climbed over.”

  “There may be marks the other side, where I landed,” suggested Mr Todhunter, who appeared unusually sanguine now that the hunt was really up. “Footprints, perhaps. I jumped down, you see.”

  “After all this time? Well, it’s possible, if there is no cultivated bed the other side, but . . .” Mr Chitterwick, generally so optimistic, was giving the impression that he considered their present quest not far from useless.

  “We’ll see if we can get into that garden without climbing the fence,” pronounced Mr Todhunter.

  They went a little further down the lane. A gate in the fence towards the river end proved to be luckily unbolted. Access to the garden was simple.

  Mr Chitterwick had marked the top of the fence above the excoriation, and the two proceeded to examine the ground beneath it in the garden. A hedge of Lonicera nitida ran along the fence and for the distance of a foot or more beyond its roots the ground was hard and had obviously not been broken up for some time. Beyond this caked earth was a gravel path.

  Hardly had they bent to their task before Mr Todhunter uttered an expression of jubilation. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing a bony forefinger at an undoubted depression in the earth.

  Mr Chitterwick plumped down on his hands and knees. “It is the mark of a heel, undoubtedly.”

  “Made by someone jumping off the fence?”

  “It could have been,” said Mr Chitterwick cautiously.

  “What do you mean, it could have been? It was.”

  “Oh yes, undoubtedly,” Mr Chitterwick agreed hurriedly.” “Of course.”

  “Well, this
is satisfactory, isn’t it? We’re finding what we wanted to find? If we have as much luck at the other hedges, we shall be able to prove the passage of someone across these gardens into Miss Norwood’s, whereas it’s known that Palmer came in through the front gates.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly.” Mr Chitterwick began to beam, but the worried look did not altogether leave his face.

  “Then what’s troubling you?”

  “Well, you see the only thing is, will the police accept that these marks were made so long ago, even if we are able to make a connected lie of them leading into Miss Norwood’s garden? They may hold that they are—er—casual marks, and we have selected them arbitrarily.”

  “But we haven’t.”

  “I’m only trying to put the police answer, “said Mr Chitterwick humbly.

  Mr Todhunter snorted. “Come and see if there’s anything to be found on the other side,” he said and strode across the lawn.

  Mr Chitterwick followed, not without a timorous glance or two towards the house whose privacy they were thus invading. Mr Chitterwick had all the Englishman’s horror of committing trespass.

  To cut half a morning’s work short, it may be said at once that some indication of Mr Todhunter’s passage three months ago was found at every barrier; or if not always a definite indication, something that could be interpreted as such—a broken shoot, a bent stem or the like, but no more footprints.

  It was while they were examining the very last hedge of all, lining Miss Norwood’s garden, that Mr Chitterwick’s forebodings were fulfilled. A voice spoke behind them, harshly and loudly, causing Mr Chitterwick to jump nearly out of his overcoat and gravely imperilling Mr Todhunter’s aneurism.

  “Hey! What the devil do you two think you’re doing here?”

  A large man with one of those round, red, well-fed faces was looking at them with obvious displeasure.

  Mr Chitterwick began to twitter incoherent apologies, but Mr Todhunter, having recovered his breath, took charge of the situation with firmness.

  “I must apologise for this unceremonious intrusion, sir, but the matter is urgent. We are examining these gardens for clues.”

  “Clues? What clues?”

  “It will not have escaped your knowledge,” Mr Todhunter went on in tones of the greatest courtesy, “that a woman was shot a few months ago in the garden adjoining yours, and—”

  “It will not, and I don’t want anyone to be shot in this garden,” interrupted the newcomer grimly. “Are you two members of the police? Because frankly you don’t look like it.”

  “We are not members of the police force, no, but—”

  “Then get out.”

  “But neither,” continued Mr Todhunter suavely, “are we mere sensation hunters, as you have every right to think. This gentleman is Mr Ambrose Chitterwick, who has worked with Scotland Yard on several important occasions. My own name is Todhunter. We have every reason to believe, in fact we know, that an innocent man has been arrested for Miss Norwood’s murder. We know that the real murderer approached Miss Norwood’s garden through this one and through those between here and the little lane. Although the trail is, to speak technically, cold, we have already discovered important evidence to bear this out. We were examining your hedge to find the final proof of his passage into Miss Norwood’s garden. Speaking personally, I am glad to see you, because we need an independent witness to the various small points of evidence we have discovered in case these are impugned later by the police, who will be naturally anxious to prove their case against the man they have arrested. We therefore invite you, sir, in the name of justice, to assist us in this and every other respect.”

  “Good God!” observed the stout man, while Mr Chitterwick looked with undisguised admiration at his companion and colleague. “You say this fellow Palmer’s innocent?”

  “I have the very best of reasons for knowing he is.”

  “What reason?”

  “Because,” said Mr Todhunter simply, “it was I who shot Miss Norwood.”

  The stout man stared. “You’re mad.”

  “So the police say. But I assure you I’m perfectly sane. I shot Miss Norwood, and I can prove it to the satisfaction of any reasonable person; but not, it seems, to that of the police.”

  The stout man was still staring. “Well, you don’t sound mad to me,” he muttered.

  “I’m not mad,” repeated Mr Todhunter gently.

  “Look here!” The stout man seemed to take a decision. “Look here, come up to the house. I’d like to talk to you about this.”

  “With pleasure. But may I have the honour of knowing your name, sir?”

  “You may.” The stout man looked at Mr Todhunter narrowly. “My name is Prettiboy. Ernest Prettiboy.”

  Mr Todhunter bowed. The name had conveyed nothing to him.

  Mr Chitterwick, however, had uttered a slight yelp. “Not—not Sir Ernest Pettiboy?”

  It was the stout man’s turn to bow.

  “I’ve heard of you, Mr Chitterwick,” he added.

  “Oh,” cried Mr Chitterwick, “this is a piece of luck. This is a very great piece of luck indeed. Todhunter, this is Sir Ernest Prettiboy—the K.C. I beg you to tell him your story. This may make all the difference.”

  3

  “This sounds an extraordinary tale,” said Sir Ernest Prettiboy, K.C. He massaged the tight little black curls that covered his large head.

  “It is an extraordinary story,” Mr Todhunter agreed.

  “But I believe it,” pronounced Sir Ernest. His tone gave one to understand that the story was thereby made true.

  Mr Todhunter thanked him politely.

  “But what do you advise, Sir Ernest?” chirruped Mr Chitterwick anxiously. “I know this is most irregular. There should be a solicitor present. A consultation . . .”

  Sir Ernest waved the irregularity aside. “We must consider what it is best to do,” he said, not without weight.

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Mr Chitterwick gratefully, “That is just what I should propose myself.”

  Sir Ernest looked at Mr Todhunter and grinned. He was not a pompous man by any means, though occasionally the courtroom manner invaded him involuntarily.

  “You’re in the devil of a dilemma, my friend.”

  “I am,” confessed Mr Todhunter. “It seems absurd that I should have so much difficulty in convincing the authorities that I shot this woman.”

  “Well, you must put yourself in their position. In the first place, I happen to know that no less than eight different people have already confessed to this murder. You can’t be surprised if the authorities are getting a little sceptical.

  “Eight?” echoed Mr Chitterwick. “Really! Ah, I see. She was a well-known figure. That would undoubtedly attract those who suffer from this curious kink.”

  “Exactly, in the second place, your story really has no more support than theirs. You were not able to bring forward one single item of proof to support it. I feel it was a pity that you should have gone to Scotland Yard so impetuously, without taking proper legal advice first. Any solicitor with criminal experience could have forecast the result.”

  “Yes, I see that now. I fancy I did think of doing so though my memory is so bad nowadays that I can’t say for certain; but in any case my own solicitor, as I’ve discovered since, is quite useless.”

  “I can put you in touch with a good man. And I can tell you this. It was the biggest stroke of luck you’ve had yet to run into me during your trespassing expedition this morning, because I know something about this case. Living next door to the woman as I did, I had the police on my doorstep every day for a couple of months. And of course they didn’t bother keeping any secrets from me. So I can tell you this: they have no doubt at all that they’ve got the right man.”

  “But it’s ridiculous! I—”

  “It’s not at all ridiculous, from their point of view. The circumstantial evidence against this chap Palmer is very nearly as strong as circumstantial evidence can be—and that
means wrought iron. Not cast iron; that’s brittle.”

  “But his solicitor sounded sanguine,” put in Mr Chitterwick.

  “Yes. There are loopholes. But motive is covered, opportunity is covered and the means . . . by the way, tell me that bit about the revolvers again.”

  “Yes,” nodded Mr Chitterwick, “I found this question of the revolvers a little puzzling.”

  “There was no exchange,” mumbled Mr Todhunter with shame and explained his blunder again.

  Mr Chitterwick chimed in with a further explanation of Mr Todhunter’s error in throwing the fatal bullet away.

  “Won’t the absence of the bullet leave a gap in the chain of proof?” Mr Todhunter asked. “Without it they can’t really prove that it was Palmer’s revolver that killed her.”

  “There is that small gap, undoubtedly. But its value is nothing compared with the proof which the bullet would have given us that Palmer’s revolver definitely did not fire the shot.” Sir Ernest took another gulp from the tankard of beer which he had been holding throughout the interview. Mr Chitterwick also had a tankard. Mr Todhunter held a glass of lemonade.

  Sir Ernest leaned back in his chair. The three were sitting in the K.C’s study, and the massive legal volumes on the shelves all round them seemed to frown upon this unorthodox conference.

  “Well, I think I understand your case. It’s not an impossibility at any rate, though I think the police, not being professional psychologists, would find your motive hard to swallow—”

  “That’s precisely why I told them that I committed the murder out of jealousy,” put in Mr Todhunter.

  “Yes. But I feel,” twinkled Sir Ernest, “that they would have even more difficulty in swallowing that. It really is a great pity that you didn’t take advice. However, as I was saying, I believe your story, and we must see what can be done.”

  “You’ll help us?” asked Mr Chitterwick eagerly.

  “I couldn’t reconcile it even with my professional conscience to stand aside and see what I thought might be injustice done. Besides,” said Sir Ernest with a sudden grin, “it’s going to be damned interesting and instructive. Now let me see whether I have any inside knowledge that might help. Yes—did you know that there are witnesses to the fact of a punt being moored at the bottom of Miss Norwood’s garden at just about the time of the shooting that night? The police have been unable to trace the occupant.”