by Sapper
Pressed as to how he knew it was a gun, he stated that he had seen the faint glint of the barrel. Moreover, it was being carried as a man carries a gun, and not a walking-stick. What type of gun it was he could not say, but nothing would make him budge from his statement that it was some form of weapon.
Now the most superficial glance at the topography of the place revealed that if Sir Peter had been killed round about nine-thirty, the murderer, should he have been walking towards Charles Denne’s house, would pass Dillon’s door ten minutes later. And this, coupled with the fact that Charles and his cousin had shot rabbits over Dillon’s ground a few weeks previously, seemed to clinch things conclusively. It was true that Dillon had not actually recognised Charles in the darkness, but if it was not he who else could it have been? Who but he would have alluded to George Denne as Mr George? And if it was not George Denne who had been alluded to, who was it? He was the only George who had shot over Dillon’s ground.
Strangely enough Ronald did not seem as worried as I expected.
“Proceeding on the assumption, Bob, as we are, that Charles Denne is innocent, this is merely another attempt to foist the crime on to him. It has of course been obvious to you all along that the murderer must be conversant with Denne’s habits. The significance of Wednesday night being selected cannot be overlooked the one night when the servants are out and their master can’t rely on them for an alibi. So is it surprising that he should also have known that Charles Denne and his cousin George shot over Dillon’s land? And made use of the knowledge?”
Which was perfectly sound, but it left the solution of the main problem as far off as ever. Who was the man who had impersonated Charles Denne? The inspector, conscious that his case was by no means foolproof, had not stopped his investigations. But nothing further came to light. The staff at Horsham Grange could, one and all, account satisfactorily for their movements between nine and ten on the fatal night. Two men who lived in the neighbourhood and who had recently been released from prison after serving a sentence for poaching, were equally convincing. And there seemed to be no one else who could possibly desire Sir Peter’s death.
He even went so far as to check up George Denne’s movements, once again to come up against a brick wall. The evidence was absolutely conclusive that at 11.45p.m. on Wednesday he had arrived in York on the eight o’clock express from King’s Cross. The ticket collector who knew him, since he often did the journey, was positive of the day because of a remark he had made when handing up his ticket. It had concerned a horse which had won that afternoon, and so had impressed itself on his memory. Further, there was the evidence of the hotel where he had stayed, and of the business deal he had put through on the Thursday morning.
In fact, every single being that Drury knew of who could possibly be interested in Sir Peter’s death had a perfect alibi. And so the only logical conclusion was that it was someone he did not know of or that it was Charles Denne. The mere thought of Muriel Padston being the culprit – though it was undeniably true that there was no one who could vouch for her movements – he dismissed as too horrible to contemplate.
After the first stiffness had worn off Drury had got along well with Ronald. He realised they were both working in a common cause – the finding of the criminal. And no one would have been better pleased than he were Ronald able to prove it was not Charles Denne.
“A more open-handed gentleman, sir,” he remarked on the day after our arrival, “I’ve never met. Everybody knows that he and his uncle didn’t get on, but that he should have been guilty of such a dastardly crime is beyond me. And yet, if it wasn’t him, who the devil was it? If it was someone from Sir Peter’s past life – someone we haven’t even heard of – how comes it that he was so glib with his local knowledge? If he’d been knocking around the place here he’d have been noticed; a stranger in a village like this is everybody’s business in ten minutes.”
But there had been no one. Muriel Padston could throw no light on it, nor could Charles Denne. And nor could George, living as he did in London. He had arrived in time for dinner on the Thursday, having motored post-haste from Town.
“I was busy this morning in York,” he said, “and never read the paper. Actually, the first thing I heard of it was when I reached London and a man sympathised with me in the club. What, a ghastly thing! Uncle Peter of all men.”
The funeral was attended by the whole county, a striking tribute to the dead baronet’s popularity. And a few days later Charles Denne was formally committed for trial on the charge of murdering his uncle. No further evidence had come to hand, and opinion as to his guilt was divided. A few loyal friends never wavered in their belief in his innocence. But the majority were floored by the same difficulty that had defeated Inspector Drury. If it was not Charles Denne, who was it?
The date of the trial approached, and Ronald’s irritability increased. We had long left Horsham Grange, as there was nothing further to be done there. But as the days passed his conviction of Charles Denne’s innocence strengthened, till it became almost unreasoning. And he felt it was his fault that the truth had not been arrived at.
“A verdict of what is tantamount to Non Proven is no good, Bob,” he said again and again. “We’ve got to prove him innocent, otherwise he’s finished for the rest of his life. And every instinct I possess rebels against the idea that he did it.”
And then one evening, about ten days before the trial was due to commence, he walked into my sitting-room and solemnly bent over a chair.
“Do you mind giving me a dozen of the best, Bob, as hard as you can lay in, and then sending for a mental specialist.”
A sudden wave of excitement came over me.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve solved it?” I cried.
He lit a cigarette.
“The Lord has created fools, damned fools, and me,” he remarked. “Though, ’pon my sam, you’re all in the same boat. I believe I once said to you, Bob, that it is the obvious thing one is so liable to overlook. I even gave you the homely illustration of the two women, one of whom entered a room with a baby in her arms; and the other with a sucking pig. I asked you which you would be most likely to remember, and with unerring accuracy you got the answer right. It’s been the same in this case: we’ve all been concentrating on the lady with the sucking pig.”
“For Heaven’s sake stop drivelling,” I cried in exasperation. “Who did kill Sir Peter?”
“All in good time,” he said. “But I promise you shall know very shortly. And since I have been driven into outer darkness by plumbers and people, I have taken the liberty of asking a few people round here. I trust they will keep to their timetable as it is rather important.”
The bell rang and Inspector Drury came in.
“Good evening, Inspector,” said Ronald. “I have asked you round so that you can hear a very important development in the case.”
“So I gathered,” answered the mystified officer. “What is it?”
“And here,” continued Ronald, “is Mr Jacobson, the proprietor of the Bull garage in Grantham.”
A respectably dressed middle-aged man had entered, and stood looking about in some surprise.
“Have you brought the book, Mr Jacobson? And the other thing?”
“Here it is, sir,” he said, handing a ragged and rather dirty small book over to Ronald. “I’ve got the other here, too.”
“The most valuable witness in the case, Drury,” remarked Ronald, holding it up. “And now, if you don’t mind, would you both retire into Mr Leyton’s bedroom, where you can hear without being seen.”
The bell rang again, and as the two men disappeared, Sir Kenneth Paine, KC, the brilliant counsel briefed for the defence, came in.
“Evening, Standish,” he said. “I got your message at the club. What’s it all about?”
“Some fresh facts have come to light, Sir Kenneth,” answered Ronald, “which I think are going to make your task a very easy one. But before I give them to you, we’ll wait for Mr
George Denne, who will naturally be interested in them, too. And here he is.”
“Good evening, Standish,” cried Denne, entering. “Evening, Sir Kenneth. What’s this I hear: you’ve found out something that will help poor old Charles? Excellent.”
“I’m sure this information is going to be of the very greatest assistance,” said Ronald. “So I thought we’d better have a conference at once with Sir Kenneth.”
“Quite right; quite right,” remarked the KC, lighting a cigar. “For I’m bound to say, gentlemen, that though I don’t think they’ll hang him it’s going to be a near thing on facts as they stand at present. That particular defence that no man could be such a crass idiot as to commit such a crime in such a way is weak. And if I rely on the line that someone was deliberately impersonating him, I’d prefer if I could,” he concluded with a short laugh, “to produce the someone.”
“Precisely, Sir Kenneth,” agreed Ronald. “And since I felt that way myself, I decided to produce that someone for you. There he is.”
His outstretched finger pointed at George Denne, who with an ashen face was swallowing repeatedly.
“You’re mad,” he stuttered at length. “Mad. I was in the train going to York. Is this some damn fool trick?”
His self-control was coming back, and he rose to his feet.
“I don’t know much about the law, Mr Standish, but I believe there’s one on libel. How dare you make such an accusation against me?”
Ronald Standish was balancing the little book in his hand.
“Do you know what this is, Denne?”
“I don’t; and I don’t care.”
“This is the book in which Mr Jacobson, who owns the Bull garage at Grantham…”
With an oath, George Denne hurled himself on Ronald, only to be met with a straight left on the jaw, that knocked him half senseless to the floor.
“Here’s your man, Inspector,” called out Ronald. “He murdered Sir Peter on the night of Wednesday the twenty-first of last month by shooting him through the head from close range with a sporting gun.”
With venomous eyes, Denne glared at Ronald from the carpet.
“It’s a lie,” he said thickly.
“It looks it,” remarked Sir Kenneth dryly. “Your face at the moment is enough to send you to the gallows, without further evidence. But having made the accusation, Standish, it’s up to you to substantiate it. I understood, I must confess, that he was in the eight o’clock express from King’s Cross to York.”
“That’s what we all understood, Sir Kenneth,” said Ronald quietly. “And beyond any question of doubt he arrived in that train at York where he handed up the first half of a return ticket from London to York. Naturally, under such circumstances, the assumption would be that the passenger boarded the train in London, thereby giving a cast-iron alibi for a murder committed between nine and ten. And what we all overlooked, every man jack of us, was the fact that the train stopped at Grantham.”
The inspector gave a whistle of disgust.
“It seems incredible, I know,” continued Ronald, “that such a blatant and obvious point should have been missed. I suppose it was because it was so obvious. But the instant it penetrated my fat skull the whole case changed. What was a cast-iron alibi became no alibi at all. The train arrived at Grantham at ten, which left ample time for you, Denne, to murder your uncle and catch it there.”
“Have I no redress against these monstrous allegations, Sir Kenneth?” snarled Denne.
“I take it you can prove this, Standish?” said Sir Kenneth gravely. “What you are saying is pretty serious.”
“Is the number of your car VCT480, Denne?”
“It is.”
“Where was your car on the night of Wednesday the twenty-first?”
“In London to the best of my belief.”
Ronald turned over the pages of the little book.
“Would it interest you to know that VCT480 was taken in by the Bull garage at Grantham at nine-forty-three that night?”
A muscle in Denne’s neck was twitching. “Very much,” he said. “If what you say is the case somebody must have been joy-riding, I suppose.”
“Really,” remarked Ronald. “By what train did you leave York on Thursday, the twenty-second?”
“Go to hell,” shouted Denne. “What the devil has that got to do with you?”
“If I were you, Mr Denne,” said Sir Kenneth quietly, “I would answer the question. If you don’t it is apt to give a false impression.”
“By the noon train,” said Denne sullenly.
“Which arrives at Grantham at one-forty,” continued Ronald, again consulting his book. “Would it interest you to know that VCT480 was removed from the Bull garage at one-forty-seven that day, by the same man who had put the car in the preceding night and who stated he had just come from York?”
Denne scowled but said nothing.
“The reason I can say that with confidence,” went on Ronald, “is that the man rather impressed Mr Jacobson by his almost morbid interest in Sir Peter Denne’s death which he had read about coming down in the train. And so he remembered the whole conversation and the man.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been me,” snarled Denne. “I knew nothing about my uncle’s death till I reached London.”
“I am quite aware that that is what you have always maintained,” said Ronald gravely. “Which is not quite the same thing, is it? Because, Mr Denne, a most unfortunate thing took place. As VCT480 drove out of the garage Mr Jacobson saw, lying on the ground, an international driving licence, which had obviously fallen out of one of the pockets. He ran after the car but he couldn’t stop it, and so he kept the licence expecting the owner would write for it.”
Denne’s face was ghastly to look at; his forehead was covered with sweat.
“That doesn’t prove that I was driving the car,” he muttered.
“Mr Jacobson,” called out Ronald. “Come in, will you? Is that the man?” he asked, as the garage proprietor came in with the blue licence book in his hand.
“It is, sir,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“It’s a lie,” screamed Denne. “He’s making a mistake. How could he remember a man after all this time?”
“Surely you forget, Mr Denne,” said Ronald, “one essential feature of an international licence. Your photograph is pasted in it.”
For a tense five seconds there was dead silence; then George Denne crumpled up and collapsed.
“I did it, God damn you,” he croaked. “I did it.”
“Smart of you, Standish,” said Sir Kenneth a few moments later when Denne had been removed by the inspector. “I still don’t quite see the whole thing.”
“From the word ‘go,’ Sir Kenneth, it was obvious that Mr George Denne was what might be described as an interested party. Of all the people we knew about he stood to benefit most. With Sir Peter dead and Charles hanged, he became the baronet. But since, in my fatuous stupidity, I thought he couldn’t have done it owing to his being in the train, I dismissed him from my mind. When I realised that he could I set to work to review the whole thing from that angle. And at once everything began to fit in.
“He knew of the bad feeling between his cousin and uncle. He could easily have obtained one of Charles’ handkerchiefs when staying with him. He knew that Charles’ servants were always out on Wednesday night. He, more than anyone else, would have been likely to make that remark to Dillon; and his voice is not unlike his cousin’s.
“So far so good, but we weren’t over even the first hurdle, yet. If he’d done it, how had he done it? There were two methods: by train entirely, or by train and car. He buys a first return to York some time on Wednesday; at another pigeon-hole he gets a third to Grantham. Then he goes to Grantham by an earlier train; murders Sir Peter, and joins up on the eight o’clock express for York. Now I said by train entirely; I must amend that a little. Horsham Grange is ten miles from Grantham; therefore, he would have had to hire a car. Wou
ld he have dared risk it? In addition to that he would have been carrying a gun. Further, he would have had to tell the driver to stop somewhere while he killed the old man. No; that method was impossible.
“So I come to number two: train and car. He still buys his first return from London to York; then he motors up to Horsham Grange, and leaves his car hidden in some safe spot. Don’t forget he knows the country. Then having shot Sir Peter, he goes on to Grantham and buys a return ticket to York. Then he catches the express; arrives in York, and goes out of his way to draw attention to himself with the ticket collector, whilst handing him the London ticket. Next day, having concluded his business, he catches the noon express and, utilising the return half of the ticket he bought at Grantham, he gets off there and picks up his car. Then he disappears into the blue until it is time for him to appear at Horsham Grange, having ostensibly motored up from London. That method was possible, but – and it was the hell of a but – could it be proved?
“It was obvious he would have to drive his own car up; no one else must know anything about it. Equally it was obvious he must garage it somewhere in Grantham. Could I find the garage, and if I did would there be any record? For if I couldn’t check in on that point we were no better off. My theory was purely academic, and would be torn to shreds by a clever lawyer.
“As luck would have it, Mr George Denne had garaged at Jacobson’s, near the station. And they keep counterfoil tallies of every car that comes in. There was the entry as large as life; my theory had ceased to be academic.”
“For all that,” said Sir Kenneth, rising, “it’s fortunate for us he dropped that international driving pass. Otherwise identification after such a long gap of time would have been a ticklish affair. Admittedly, if it hadn’t been Denne driving the coincidence would have been remarkable; but once again it would have been the old question of the difference between knowing and proving.”
“Or confessing,” remarked Ronald thoughtfully, after Sir Kenneth had gone and we were alone. “I must say Jacobson played up splendidly.”