Death Devil's Bridge

by Robin Paige

  “That is not necessary,” Charles said. “Let her work. But you say Lady Kathryn and Cook have gone off together? Where have they gone?”

  “I can’t say, sir. They was in a ‘urry. ’Er ladyship took the pony cart.”

  Before she left Devil’s Bridge that morning, Kate had told Charles about her conversation with Agnes and her plan to speak to the Widow Jessup. He had encouraged her, having learned from experience that his wife had ways of discovering information that he could not—a woman’s touch, approach to, entirely wanting in his investigation. He also guessed that Kate had stopped in the kitchen to ask Cook about the crockery pot of red grease, although he could not hazard a guess where she and Mrs. Pratt had gone. As to luncheon, however, he knew how to fend for himself.

  “Well, then, Mudd,” he said, “I trust we might find a bit of bread and cheese in the larder, and perhaps a slice or two of cold meat, and some drink. See what you can discover that might do for myself and Constable Laken, please, and bring it here shortly. I am expecting the constable at any—” He heard the crunch of wheels on gravel. “Ah, there he is now.”

  When the constable came into the library, Charles observed that his friend wore a disgruntled look. “Your interviews at the inn did not go well?” he asked.

  “Go well?” Laken asked with some sarcasm, dropping into a chair. “Say, rather, Charles, that they went too well. Every man Jack of that crew has a motive to murder every other man. It is hard to say which of them hates the most vehemently. And to a man, they all hate Dunstable, who seems to have done them each a vile injury.” He wrinkled his nose as if he were smelling a bad odor. “If what they tell me reflects the reality of London life in these days, I am heartily glad to be elsewhere. It’s a wonder that the dock isn’t overflowing with murderers, and the morgue with victims.”

  Charles sighed. “They are. But before you begin, I had best tell you what I have learned about the cause of the accident.” It took only a minute or two to describe what had been done to the brake, to show Laken the pot of grease that had been used, and to mention the fingerprint.

  “Such luck,” Laken said, with a touch of humorous sarcasm. “Dactyloscopy to the rescue, eh?”

  Charles sighed. Unfortunately, the Home Office held the same skeptical attitude toward the use of fingerprints. In fact, the Troup Committee, which had been charged in ‘93 to study the problem of criminal identification, had last year come down against dactyloscopy and in favor of anthropometry: the complicated system of physical measurements of the length and circumference of the head, length of arms, of fingers, of feet, and so on, that had been developed over the past two decades by Alphonse Bertillon in Paris. Bertillonage seemed to have conquered Europe, its practices being introduced into the police systems of Portugal, Denmark, and Holland, and most recently, in the German Empire. Meanwhile, dactyloscopy, which Charles regarded as a much more reliable tool of identification, was viewed as an interesting but impractical scientific curiosity. Only Francis Galton, the old friend of his father’s who had brought fingerprinting to Charles’s attention in 1888, was continuing to collect fingerprints. He asked all visitors to his laboratory in the South Kensington Museum to leave their fingerprints and had photographic enlargements made of the most interesting, studying the patterns of lines and whorls until he had finally created a system for classifying the similarities and differences. But even though Galton’s system of identification was (to Charles’s mind, at least) far more manageable than Bertillon’s, it had not found nearly such wide acceptance.

  “I doubt if dactyloscopy can come to the rescue in this instance,” Charles said with some regret. “The print is smudged and incomplete, and may prove only partially useful. And of course, we should have to match it against a known print. That’s why it is important to narrow down the field of suspects.” He paused. “And what of your morning’s work, Ned? What were you able to learn?”

  Laken took out a small notebook and began to flip through the pages. “I might as well begin with Rolls, although I saw him last. He seems to me to have the least motive to harm Dunstable or Albrecht or destroy Marsden’s motorcar, and in fact, to have a substantial stake in Albrecht’s winning the chase. He is also the most congenial of the lot, although I found him (if you don’t mind my stating an opinion) to be rather a wild young man. He has a taste for loose women—at least, if Frank Ponsonby is to be believed. Ponsonby appears to know all about him.”

  “Ah,” Charles said gravely, thinking of Patsy Marsden.

  “But it is likely not true,” Laken said. “If Rolls were given to the wrong sort of woman, Bradford would surely not have brought him to Marsden Manor. Or if he had, he would have forbidden his sister to have any relationship with the man.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Charles said, remembering Patsy’s obvious infatuation and making a mental note to ask Kate’s opinion as to what to do with Ponsonby’s tittle-tattle. “What about Ponsonby, then?”

  “An insolent bastard.” Laken spoke with unaccustomed feeling. “You know, don’t you, that he’s a bill-broker, in addition to importing the Benz?” Charles nodded shortly, and he went on. “The man also deals in rumor and hearsay and takes great delight in passing along whatever ugly bits of information he may possess. I am sure that he doesn’t scruple to use it, too, to obtain what he wants from his victims.”

  “Blackmail?” Charles asked.

  “Blackmail,” Laken agreed. “Especially where encumbrances and liens are concerned. That, at least, is the accusation of Arnold Bateman, who also told me that Ponsonby and Dunstable were caught up in a sordid bit of business with a married cousin of Ponsonby’s—a certain Aurora Vickers, who killed herself after Dunstable dropped her. Unfortunately, she committed the fatal act in Ponsonby’s own bathtub, thereby leading to certain rumors that—” He shook his head. “It is too wretched to repeat. But the story certainly suggests that Ponsonby hates Dunstable with a very great passion. I don’t believe he would hesitate to disgrace him, or even to do him in.”

  “By sabotaging the motorcar in which he should have ridden,” Charles mused, “which might do for either contingency.”

  “Exactly so.” Laken looked down at his notebook. “And then there is Dickson.”

  “Ah, yes, Arthur Dickson,” Charles said. Poor Dickson, who had made his fortune, and his reputation, in steam locomotives, and was as devout a steam man as there was in all England. If Dickson had his way, they would all be driving steam cars within another decade—perhaps not a bad outcome, all things considered. In Charles’s view, steam was the most imminently practical motive power. It was a proven technology, and therefore did not face the uncertainties and complications of the as-yet poorly tested internal combustion engine.

  “As I understand it from Rolls,” Laken said, “Dickson is in serious trouble. He has been accused by a competitor of having stolen a patent and now must defend himself. Not an easy task, I am given to understand, since he has recently suffered a substantial reversal of fortune. For which,” he added, “the man blames Dunstable.”

  “Dunstable!” Charles said, in some surprise.

  “I am still looking into that one,” Laken replied. “Bateman claims, however, that Dickson’s feelings toward Dunstable are quite bitter.”

  “And what of Bateman himself?”

  “Not much there, I’m afraid. He appears to have no special grudge against Dunstable or Albrecht. He and Dickson tangled in some sort of fracas at the Crystal Palace Exhibition, but—”

  “I know about that one,” Charles said, “a minor accident. I hardly think it is relevant here. I did hear something once about Bateman and Dunstable and the Peters Pneumatic Tire Company, however. Marsden might know the details.”

  Charles looked up as Mudd came into the room, bearing a heavily laden tray. “Ah, luncheon! Put it down in front of the window, please, Mudd.” To Laken, he added, “It appears that Kate has made off with our cook, so I cannot guarantee a fine lunch.” He gestured to the tray, on which
was arranged sliced cold meat, sardines, bread, lettuce, radishes, sliced tomatoes, pickles, mustard, and horseradish, as well as a cheesecake and several jam puffs. “But from the look of it,” he added, “I believe it is adequate.”

  “Adequate, indeed,” Laken said, rising to join his friend at the table where Mudd had deposited the tray. He took a plate and began to help himself to the sliced cold meat. “Of course, the very absence of motive intrigues me, where Bateman is concerned.”

  “Ah, yes,” Charles said, making up his own plate. “The others appear to have too much motive, so Bateman is distinguished by having too little.” He reached for the carafe. “Wine? Or here is beer, if you like.”

  “Beer would suit me,” Laken replied, as they sat down with their lunches on their laps. After a moment, Charles said, with his mouth full, “And of course, there’s Dunstable himself.”

  Laken made a disgusted noise. “You know, I hardly know whether to credit that cock-and-bull story about the man’s being beaten and chucked in the dung heap. It is all too convenient, if you ask me—takes him out of suspicion.”

  “You think he might have made it up? But he was found in the dung heap, was he not?”

  “Oh, that’s right enough. Discovered under a tarpaulin, with his hands tied behind him and a wadded-up kerchief thrust into his mouth. But the man is a charlatan, through and through. I did not myself observe the knots in the rope, nor the gag—and it would have been entirely possible for him to have crawled into that dung heap unobserved at any time during the day.”

  “And his injuries?”

  “I’ve seen far worse self-inflicted wounds.” Laken chewed reflectively. “And, of course, there is also the possibility that he hired a couple of village lads to tap him lightly on the head with something that would leave a mark, if he were not confident of managing it himself.”

  “But to what end?” Charles asked. “And with what motive?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. The man is known to be a publicity hound. Perhaps he meant to disable Marsden’s Daimler, then cry foul, expecting that the newspaperman who was here yesterday would blow the whole thing up and that he would gain attention and sympathy thereby. Of course,” Laken added, “he would not have counted on Albrecht’s going into a ravine and impaling himself on the tiller.” Laken took up a pickle.

  “There is also the matter of opportunity,” Charles said. “I suppose you looked into that.”

  “For what little good it did me,” Laken said wryly. “Assuming that the stuff was smeared on the brake some time after the Daimler was left in the Park on Friday night and the start of the chase on Saturday morning, any of the drivers, and Dunstable as well, had the opportunity. Not to mention the villagers and the workers who were setting up the fete.”

  “Or handling the balloon,” Charles said.

  “Indeed,” Laken replied. “What, by the way, exactly is the substance that was smeared on the brake?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Charles admitted. “But I certainly intend to spend some time this afternoon in the laboratory, attempting to analyze it. If I can determine the type of lubricant, perhaps we can trace it to its manufacturer, and hence to one of our suspects.”

  “But that is likely to take some time,” Laken objected. “Those fellows will not consent to remain for much longer, and it will be difficult to hold them if they should choose to go.” He looked up at the clock. “It is already nearly two.”

  “I know,” Charles said. He put aside his plate. “We had better get busy. While I am working in the laboratory, perhaps you can return to the inn and obtain the men’s fingerprints.”

  “Their fingerprints?” Laken frowned. “On what grounds?”

  “On suspicion of—”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do, Charles,” Laken said, shaking his head. “It won’t do at all. These men may not be gentlemen, in Society’s definition of the word, but they have a high standing in London commerce and are sure to have powerful friends. Anyway, this fingerprinting is a nasty business. You can hardly expect such men to willingly smear their hands with tar and press them upon—”

  “Printer’s ink,” Charles amended. “It is readily removed.”

  “That may be, but this is England. A man is innocent until a jury of his peers pronounces him guilty.”

  Charles stared at his stubborn friend, the frustration mounting. “But how are we to discover the guilty man without this evidence, Ned? And don’t forget that Scotland Yard is taking the fingerprints—”

  “—of convicted felons who have already forfeited their freedom, not of free men who have not yet been charged with a crime.”

  “But what then do you do with the fingerprints that are left at the scene of a crime?” Charles asked. “Is it an invasion of a man’s privacy to take those prints, for possible use against him?”

  Laken frowned. “At the scene of a crime? I think we may suppose that those prints are those of a criminal and—”

  “If you concede as much, then, you must also concede that prints that are left anywhere may be taken, for possible use in the solution of a crime. Am I correct?”

  “Anywhere?” Laken looked doubtful. “Well, I suppose—”

  “Very well, then,” Charles said. “I propose that you go to the inn and see if you can find some objects that have been handled by our suspects, so that we may take those fingerprints. You yourself said, don’t forget, that any of these men may have committed this crime.”

  “And don’t you forget, Charles: while you and some of your scientific friends may hold dactyloscopy in high regard, no court has ever used such evidence to convict a man.”

  “But that is only a matter of time,” Charles objected. “When the method of classification is perfected—”

  “Perhaps. But even then, there will be difficulties. While judges may be prepared to deal handily with such technical information, juries will scarcely know what to do with it. And privacy is one of the most sacred of our rights. To compel a man’s own hands to bear witness against him...” Laken shook his head, intently serious. “Where will it ever end, Charles? The next we know, a man may be condemned by the voice of his own blood.”

  Charles shook his head. “If you refuse to obtain the suspects’ fingerprints so I can compare them to the one on the fender, I fail to see how we can—”

  He stopped as the door opened. Kate came in, looking extraordinarily pretty in a brown wool suit and close-fitting wool hat, askew on her windblown hair. She was followed by a small, round, nervous-looking woman wrapped head-to-toe in an old blue shawl.

  “Hullo, Charles,” Kate said brightly, and, seeing Laken, added, “You, too, Ned.”

  “We’ve eaten lunch without you, I’m afraid,” Laken said apologetically.

  “Oh, good,” Kate said, taking off her leather driving gloves. She smiled. “I’ve been to the village, where I found someone who may be able to clear up part of our mystery.” She took the reluctant woman’s hand and led her forward. “Gentlemen, this is Mistress Gurton, who has always had a great desire to fly.”

  23

  If ever there was a case of clearer evidence than this... this case is that case.

  —WILLIAM ARABIN, 1773-1841

  Kate was gratified at the courteous, the rapt, attention that the two men paid to Bess Gurton’s story, as that woman told it from beginning to end, hesitant and fearful at first but gaining confidence as she went.

  “Pig’s blood!” exclaimed Charles, when she had finished. “What confounded good luck that you thought to include pig’s blood in your ointment. Mistress Gurton. You may have given us the key to solving this mystery.”

  “I fail to see,” Laken said, “the particular significance of pig’s blood as evidence in this case.”

  “The significance, Ned? Simply put, it lies in the fact that the platelets contained in swine blood are distinguished by their large size. When we use a microscope to compare the grease I removed from the Daimler’s fender with the o
intment in the mustard pot, we shall no doubt discover in both samples the same large corpuscles.”

  “Corpuscles,” Kate said in an ironic aside to Laken. “Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that?”

  Bess’s eyes were wide. “Cork-puskles? But ’ow did corks git into the blood, me lady?”

  Charles, however, was continuing. “The soot particles will be abundantly obvious. The vegetative tissue should also display similar cellular structure in both samples. Had we a mind to it, we could confirm the identification by comparing that tissue to fresh leaf samples from the same herbs.”

  Kate sighed, thinking that whatever the question, Charles would have a scientific answer. She did not mean to be disrespectful to her husband, but in her judgment, scientific evidence did not always take them closer to the truth. Sometimes truth was a matter of human spirit, not intellect.

  “Can we not simply take Mistress Gurton’s word for what is in the ointment, Charles?” she asked.

  “But that would not yield the information we are seeking,” Charles said, growing even more excited. “You see, if a third trace of this same distinctive substance were to be located—on the clothing, say, of one of the suspects—we would have incontrovertible evidence of the man’s involvement.”

  “And if he attempted to deny it,” Kate said, seeing that in this instance, science might well be of service, “the man could be confronted with the proof and might be surprised into revealing his guilt?”

  “Exactly so.” Charles was pacing up and down, his hands behind his back. “The case should be much stronger than one built solely on dactyloscopic evidence.”

  Bess bent toward Kate. “Dac-te-scoop-a-which, ma’am?”

  “Fingerprints,” Kate whispered. “The marks on the tips of your fingers.”