With a wry smile he turned back to the couch, and Scales followed him. If Drury could have acted death as he was acting it now! … Scales could not rid himself of the notion that he was acting—that the shine upon the skin was grease-paint, and the rough, painful breathing, the stereotyped stage gasp. If truth could be so stagey, then the stage must be disconcertingly like truth.
Something sobbed at his elbow. Walter had crept into the room, and this time the doctor made way for him.
‘Oh, Mr. Drury!’ said Walter.
Drury’s blue lips moved. He opened his eyes: the dilated pupils made them look black and enormous.
‘Where’s Brand?’
The doctor turned interrogatively to the other two men. ‘His son?’
‘His understudy,’ whispered Scales. Walter said: ‘He’ll be here in a minute, Mr. Drury.’
‘They’re waiting,’ said Drury. He drew a difficult breath and spoke in his old voice:
‘Brand! Fetch Brand! The curtain must go up!’
Garrick Drury’s death was very ‘good theatre.’
Nobody, thought Scales, could ever know. He could never really know himself. Drury might have died, anyhow, of shock. Even if the blood had been right he might have died. One couldn’t be certain, now, that the blood hadn’t been right; it might have been all imagination about the smudged pink rose. Or—one might be sure, deep in one’s own mind. But nobody could prove it. Or—could the doctor? There would have to be an inquest, of course. Would they make a post-mortem? Could they prove that the blood was wrong? If so, the doctor had his ready explanation—’particular idiosyncrasy’ and lack of time to make further tests. He must give that explanation, or accuse himself of negligence.
Because nobody could prove that the plate had been moved. Walter and the doctor had not seen it—if they had, they would have spoken. Nor could it be proved that he, Scales, had seen it—he was not even certain himself, except in the hidden chambers of the heart. And he, who lost so much by Drury’s death—to suppose that he could have seen and not spoken was fantastic. There are things beyond the power even of a coroner to imagine or of a coroner’s jury to believe.
Ex-Supt. Cornish, C.I.D, investigates Dorothy L. Sayers’ Crime
THEY WOULDN’T BELIEVE HIM!
I CAN IMAGINE MANY READERS LAYING DOWN Blood Sacrifice with the exclamation: ‘At last the perfect murder!’
It is certainly true that, on the facts as Miss Dorothy L. Sayers has given them, I could not hope to prove, either to a jury’s satisfaction or to my own, that John Scales was guilty of the crime of murder. Neither could any other detective—not even, I think, that distinguished amateur, Lord Peter Wimsey. None of us could prove, indeed, that murder had been committed.
On the face of it, this does suggest that the conditions necessary to the perfect murder have been fulfilled. But I respectfully submit, addressing myself to that large and highly intelligent jury, the readers of Miss Sayers’ detective stories, that a crime which Lord Peter cannot distinguish as such can be no crime.
The truth is, I am afraid, that for once Miss Sayers has been too clever. She has been so concerned to make the ‘crime’ of John Scales detection-proof that she has failed to establish the fact of murder. That does not, of course, detract in any way from the interest of her story as a story or as a psychological study. But my criticism is not concerned with these things. Neither am I concerned with the verdict of the reader, sitting at home in his arm-chair. He may very well decide to take this narrative at its face value and to say that John Scales has committed the perfect murder.
But … transport the same reader from his arm-chair to the jury-box of a criminal court and place before him all the facts which are given by Miss Sayers in her story. Would he bring in a verdict of ‘Guilty’ against John Scales, the prisoner in the dock?
Frankly, I don’t think that he would. And that is why, examining this story purely from the angle of the detective, I say that this ‘perfect murder’ is not murder at all.
I don’t base this upon the fact that there is no evidence that Garrick Drury has been murdered. There are circumstances in which Drury might have died, after the blood transfusion, when there would be no more suggestion of foul play than in the present instance, but when murder would have been done. For instance, had Scales deliberately turned round the plate before the specimens were labelled, he would have been guilty of the crime of murder. Yet, at least at first, no suspicion would have been aroused.
That is not to say that Scales would then have committed the perfect murder. Unknown to him, the action might have been seen by someone who, unaware of its significance at the time, would yet realise it later on. Or, because Scales is not, as Miss Sayers has depicted him, a criminal type, he might be driven by remorse to confess his guilt. If he made such a confession, he would certainly be arrested.
But Scales did not touch the plate—unless he did so accidentally and unconsciously.
Let us examine what he did do. Let us think in terms, not of who is going to suspect him of murder and why, but of what would occur if he went to Scotland Yard and told the story of Garrick Drury’s death as Miss Sayers has told it in Blood Sacrifice.
When a murder is committed, it may happen that a number of persons go to the police and accuse themselves of the crime. Sometimes they tell highly circumstantial stories. All such ‘confessions’ are checked and again and again it is found that the people making them have had nothing—and could have had nothing—to do with the killing. Their reasons for making these false statements are of different kinds. Sometimes they suffer from delusions. Sometimes they are actuated by a craving for notoriety—they want to see their name in the newspapers; they want to become a centre of public interest.
But what is behind these confessions matters less to us at the moment than the way in which they are received. They are not treated as in themselves a proof of guilt. They are carefully investigated. They are carefully weighed and analysed. They are checked against the known facts.
This would certainly be done in the case of any confession made by John Scales.
The first question that would suggest itself to me if I were interviewing him is: Was the plate actually turned? Apparently neither the doctor nor Walter saw anything amiss and the doctor at least was a trained observer. If the plate had been turned, of those three men the doctor is the one most likely to have noticed it.
But the doctor didn’t notice it—and John Scales did? Here the important point to my mind is that Scales was not sure. When he first wondered about the pink rose, there was no more than a formless doubt, a suspicion that something was not exactly as it should be, in his mind. This doubt had hardly taken shape before the blood transfusion began. He was hardly sure even after Drury’s death. Not intellectually sure, only emotionally sure, ‘in the hidden chambers of his heart.’
Now, of the three men, if the doctor was the trained observer, Scales was, I think, indubitably the most imaginative. If the transposition had actually taken place, I should have expected the doctor to notice it. But I should not be at all surprised by Scales imagining it.
This possibility becomes a probability when we consider the emotional state in which Scales found himself at the time, the conflict which had been going on in his mind throughout the run of his play and the shock of the accident.
I expect that Miss Sayers knows more about psychology than I do, but I am told by doctors who have studied the subject that most neuroses have their origin in mental conflict and emotional repressions. Scales had been repressing his instincts as a creative artist, trying to fight down his artistic conscience. He had been at war with himself. It is obvious from Miss Sayers’ narrative that he was in a very ‘nervy’ state. It would not be surprising, therefore, if he showed certain neurotic symptoms other than those which appear on the surface.
Now, I gather that one of the most common of neurotic symptoms is an over-anxiety, an uncertainty about things concerning which healthy people have no doub
ts. A neurotic will lock up automatically on retiring, then rise in the middle of the night because he is quite sure that he has left doors or windows open. He will put two letters into envelopes correctly—and then worry himself sick in case he has sent the wrong letter to the wrong person. And the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders what has happened, the more certain will he be that he has, in fact, made this mistake.
It seems to me that the doubts and suspicions concerning the plate which Miss Sayers describes as passing through Scales’ mind follow this neurotic pattern.
But the fact remains that Drury did die—and die in a way which was quite consistent with the plate having been turned. His death, however, was consistent with other things as well. The doctor enumerates some of them. And I would draw particular attention to his words: ‘It’s always a bit of a gamble, you see, when the operation is left so late. And sometimes there is a particular idiosyncrasy. I should have preferred a direct test; but it’s not satisfactory if the patient dies while you wait to make sure.’
The transfusion had already been delayed. Suppose that Scales had voiced his doubts—as he ought to have done—that involved new tests … a very real risk of the patient dying while the doctor was ‘making sure.’ That might have been just as effective a way of killing him as giving him the wrong blood. Had Scales suggested new tests—and Drury died while they were being made—would he not have accused himself in his own mind of murder in just the same way?
These considerations would, I think, make it impossible, even if Scales made a confession on the lines of Miss Sayers’ story, to take any action against him. No detective would arrest him. If he were arrested and brought to trial, no jury would convict him.
Some detectives might even wonder whether he were not telling the story simply as a ‘stunt’—in order to interest the public in his play as originally written—and so pave the way for its production in place of the Garrick Dury version.
The case would be different had Scales actually known that the plate had been turned and the specimens of blood wrongly labelled. Then, just as surely as if he had turned the plate himself, he would have been guilty of murder. But he did not know and therefore, though we may consider that a degree of moral guilt attaches to him, I do not think that it would be possible to sustain a charge of murder, even if it were proved that Drury’s death was due to the blood transfusion. So far we have only the suggestion that this was the case—no actual proof.
In the circumstances, I am afraid that I cannot admit this to be the perfect murder. True, I have not been able to discuss it with Lord Peter Wimsey. But if he could convince me that murder had, in fact, been committed, I feel that in doing so he would also show me how to lay the criminal by the heels. And then, again, it couldn’t be the perfect murder.
But I enjoyed reading Blood Sacrifice.
Freeman Wills Crofts
THE PARCEL
STEWART HASLAR’S FACE WAS GRIM AND HIS BROW dark as he sat at the desk in his study gazing out of the window with unseeing eyes. For he had just taken a dreadful decision. He was going to murder his enemy, Henry Blunt.
For three years he had suffered a crescendo of torment because of Blunt. Now he could stand it no longer. He had reached the end of his tether. Everything that he held dear, everything that made life endurable, was threatened. While Blunt lived he would know neither peace nor safety. Blunt must die.
It was when he was turning into the road from the drive of his house one afternoon just three years ago that the blow had fallen. He had got out of his car to close the gate behind him and had met the old man. Something familiar about the long face and the close set eyes had stirred a chord of memory. In spite of himself he had stared. Blunt had stared too: an insolent leer which changed slowly to a look of amazed recognition. That had been the end of Haslar’s peace of mind. But now he was going to get it back. Blunt would trouble him no longer.
It was an old story, that which had given Blunt his power, the story of a happening which Haslar had believed was dead and buried in the past. It went back five and thirty years, back to when he, Haslar, was a youth of twenty and Blunt had just passed his thirty-first birthday.
Five and thirty years ago Haslar’s name was John Matthews and he was a junior clerk in the head office of the Scottish Counties Bank in Edinburgh. Henry Blunt was in the same department, but in a more responsible job. Matthews was a good lad, well thought of by his superiors. But Blunt was of a very different type. With charming manners, he was wholly selfish and corrupt.
Owing to a run of bad luck at cards, Blunt’s finances were then at a very low ebb. Ruin indeed was staring him in the face. He decided on a desperate remedy. In the bank he was handling money all day. If only he had the help of a junior clerk he believed he saw a way in which he could transfer a large sum to his own pocket. He decided to use Matthews and made overtures of friendship. Matthews was flattered at the notice taken of him by the older man and responded warmly. He did not know that Blunt merely wanted a dupe.
Blunt had Weighed up the young fellow’s character accurately. He didn’t think he would be troubled by moral scruples, but he feared he might refuse his help through fear of consequences. Blunt was taking no risks. He decided to prepare the ground before sowing his seed. With skill he introduced Matthews to his gambling friends and with fair words got him to play. After that matters were simple. In a few weeks Matthews’ position was as desperate as his own.
The psychological moment had come. Blunt put up his scheme. There was a chance of being caught, yes, but it was so slight as to be negligible. But without the scheme there would be certain ruin. Which would Matthews choose?
The result was a foregone conclusion. Matthews joined in. The attempt was made. It failed. Matthews was taken red-handed.
At the inquiry Matthews told the truth. But he had not reckoned on the diabolical cunning of Blunt. Blunt had prepared evidence to prove that Matthews and Matthews alone was guilty. He had intended to collar and hide his share of the money before producing the evidence. But events forced his hand. To save himself he had to forgo the profits and make his statement at once.
In the face of the evidence Matthews was found guilty and sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment. No official suspicion fell on Blunt, but it was privately believed he had been mixed up in the affair. Between the cold shouldering he received in consequence and his debts, Edinburgh grew too hot to hold him. He resigned his position and disappeared.
When Matthews was released he took the name of Haslar and at once shipped before the mast for Australia. It was a hard passage, but it was the making of him. When he reached Sydney he was a man.
For a few years he lived an adventurous life, meeting the ups and downs of fortune with a brave front. Then with borrowed capital he started a small fruit shop. From the first it was a success. He soon paid back what he owed and then put all his profits into the concern. One shop after another was opened, till at last he found Himself the owner of a chain of stores, all doing well. For the first time he relaxed and went, so far as he could get the entry, into Melbourne society. There it was that he met his wife Gina, out on a holiday from England. They were married two months later. Gina did not, however, like Australia, and presently at her request he sold his business and returned with her to England, a comparatively wealthy man. She wanted to be near London, and he bought a house in a delightfully secluded position near Oxshott.
Here both of them enjoyed life as they had never done before. Haslar was pleasant and unassuming and soon grew popular with the neighbours. Gina had many friends in Town and rejoined the circles which she had left on her trip to Australia. The couple got on well together and had pleasant little week-end parties at their home. Everything was friendly and pleasant and secure. Haslar had never imagined anything so delightful.
Until Blunt came.
The meeting with Blunt gave Haslar a terrible shock. Instantly he saw that his security, his happiness, the security and happiness of his wife, ever
ything in fact that was precious to him, was at the mercy of this evil-looking old man. Once a whisper of his history became known, his life in this charming English country was done. That he had fully paid for his crime would count not one iota. The righteous people among whom he lived would be defiled if they met a person who had been in prison. Both he and Gina would be cut to their faces. Life would be impossible.
And it would not meet the case to leave Oxshott for some other district, for some other country even. In these days of universal travel their identity could not long remain hidden. No, Blunt had both of them in his hands. If he chose, he could ruin them.
And Blunt was equally well aware of the fact. At that disastrous meeting, as soon as the man realised that the fine little estate from which Haslar had emerged was the latter’s own property, Haslar had seen the realisation grow in his face; wonder, incredulity, assurance, exultation: it had been easy to follow the thoughts which passed through his mind. And they had soon been put into words. ‘Like coming home in my old age, this is,’ Blunt had said, adding with an evil leer that he would now have no further troubles, as he knew his old pal would see him comfortable for the rest of his time.
Haslar had acted promptly. ‘Get in,’ he had said, pointing to the car. ‘We can’t stand indefinitely on the road. I’ll run you wherever you want to go and we’ll have a good chat on the way.’ Blunt had hesitated as if he would prefer to be taken to the house, but Haslar’s determined manner had its effect and he climbed in. By a stroke of extraordinary luck no one had seen the meeting.
Six Against the Yard Page 19