by Q. Patrick
The private detective was speaking. His cheeks were hollow and his voice lacked its customary self-assurance.
“I was with Mrs. Moss in Blackstone’s meadow, Sir Wilfrid, when the train stopped. I dashed up to the engineer and he told me they’d run over something. I questioned him about it, of course. But it had happened just as they turned a bend. He hadn’t been able to see anything. We hurried round the curve and the body was lying there, stretched across the tracks. The only thing I recognized right away was the Craiglea cap. But one of the arms had fallen backwards and hadn’t been touched. In the clenched fist I found that butterfly.” He pointed to the desk where a battered painted lady lay on a piece of blotting-paper. “It was then that I knew for certain it must be Irving Moss.”
“Dr. Woodhouse is with him now,” put in the headmaster quietly. “We shall know more about the actual facts when he brings his report.”
The Chief Constable had risen and was gazing fiercely from McFee to Mr. Dodd. “It strikes me,” he barked, “that this terrible thing need never have happened if there had been a bit more care. Of course, if we wish to blind ourselves, we can pretend it was nothing more than another accident, but even so the boy had no right to be wandering around on the railway lines at that hour of the morning. With any boy it seems like folly to me, but in this particular case—” He sucked one corner of his moustache into his mouth and blew it out again ferociously.
“I know, I know.” Mr. Dodd threw up his hands. “I can offer no explanation, no apology. The railway lines are out of bounds, of course. As soon as I heard the Moss boys had this habit of getting up before breakfast, I put a stop to it. I most certainly would never have allowed Irving to resume the practice had not Mrs. Bernard-Moss come to me herself.” Mr. Dodd looked down at the faded gray carpet. “I have no desire to transfer the blame to anyone else, but she asked me as a special favor to let the boy take these morning walks. She told me it meant a great deal to him, and promised to be personally responsible. After all, I am nothing more than an employee of the parents. They have the last word. If a mother wants her boy to do a certain thing, I am in no position to stop her.” The headmaster’s eyes were strained. “In this case, however, Irving seems to have gone out alone. If he had been seen, he would have been sent back to the dormitory immediately.”
“Humph.” The Chief Constable turned his bristling gaze upon McFee. “And you,” he snapped, “you, I understand, were supposed to keep an eye on the boy. You let him slip out under your very nose!”
A gleam of anger flickered across McFee’s eyes, but there was no hint of it in his tone. “I don’t think you understand the situation, Sir Wilfrid. I had three jobs on my hands. I had to pretend to be a porter; I had to keep a look out for—strangers; I had to watch the boy. I couldn’t be with him twenty-four hours a day. The early morning was one of the few times when I had to be off duty. Mr. Dodd knows I disapproved of allowing Irving to get up before breakfast, but he let himself be persuaded into thinking it safe. If I’d been given my way—I might have prevented it.”
Sir Wilfrid’s monocle slipped from his eye. “It is all very good to say what might have been done. Nevertheless, this is no time for reprisals. The boy must have got out—or been taken out—while you were at the village. What time did you leave?”
“About a quarter to six.” McFee straightened himself and spoke in a clipped, official tone. “Irving probably slipped out after that. Some of the villagers get up early. You ought to detail a man to cover the neighborhood and find out whether anyone saw him.”
Sir Wilfrid glanced at the Chief Inspector. “That’s being done, isn’t it, Saunders?”
The solid police officer nodded. “Yes, sir, Harrison’s been out for some time. He should be coming back to report soon.”
“Very good. Now, McFee, who’s the most likely person around here to have seen anything?”
“Kettering, I should say. That’s the old porter. He usually arrives about six, but this morning he was earlier. I spoke to him before I left for the village.”
Sir Wilfrid turned to Mr. Dodd and then waved to Inspector Saunders. “Get him in.”
The Inspector called to the constable who was stationed outside the study door and sent him to fetch the porter. In a few moments the old man stood on the threshold. His gnarled, root-like face wore an expression of almost greedy curiosity. He pulled off a dirty old cap.
The Chief Constable outlined the situation and asked him whether he had seen Irving Moss leave the school that morning. The old man scratched the egg-shaped bald spot on the top of his head.
“No, zur. I wur in tool-shed all time sharpening they rape furks. I cuould zee right ovurr Misturr Dodd’s garden towards they tracks. Wurn’t no boy went out. That I can zwurr.”
Sir Wilfrid’s military gaze regarded him as though he were a wandering tribesman on the North-West Border. “Could the boy possibly have got to the railway lines without you seeing him?”
“No, zur. I may be wold man now, zur, but my eyes be as bright as a waggytail’s. Not one boy did I zee till praper time after breakfast.”
The Chief Constable blew his nose on a large bandanna handkerchief. “Well, Kettering, did you see anyone at all?”
“Ah!” The old man twisted his apron. “Furst there wur young McFee there. He came and passed the time o’ day with me. I saw him go off to village wi’ his barrow and sack o’ taties. That wur—”
“Yes, and who else?”
Kettering’s face broke into a shy smile. “The furrin lady,” he murmured, “Mrs. Moss from Goat and Compasses. She wur there as fresh and purty as a periwinkel. I zee’d hur in copse. …”
Sir Wilfrid looked surprised. “What time was this?”
“Just as village clarck struck zeven, zur. She came up to garden and looked ovur they roses as wur she wur searching something.”
The Chief Constable’s gaze met McFee’s. “What did she do?”
“Doan’t know, zur. She slipped by they trees and out of my zight befur you could snap a bramble twig.”
“I see.” Sir Wilfrid glared at the inkpot on the desk. “And you saw no one else until breakfast-time?”
“Oh, yes, zurr.” The old man was nodding his head violently. “Misturr Nettleton wur there, zur. He wur the earliest of all. Up and down among they Emma Polsons in garden—up and down, up and down, puffing at they ciggyrettes and pushing that hair o’ his that looks like a wet otter. He wur up by six.” Kettering’s head was still bobbing up and down. “That wur a purty to do. As white as Farmer Blackstone’s ghost he wur, and flitting to and fro as restless as a tommy-tit.”
Sir Wilfrid’s demeanor had become steadily more official as the porter continued. By now he literally bristled with authority. He ran the old man through a series of rapid and exhaustive questions, and finally, having elicited nothing more of importance, dismissed him. Kettering grinned knowingly at everyone and shuffled away.
The Chief Constable lifted his monocle but let it fall as the door opened swiftly. Dr. Woodhouse entered, his professional eyes gleaming with unwonted agitation.
“Well, Woodhouse, you’ve examined the body, eh?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“What have you to report.”
Dr. Woodhouse moved to the desk and tapped on it with a long finger. “Just that the boy was not killed by that train.”
The atmosphere took on a sudden tension. The four men stared at him incredulously.
“By God, sir!” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid. “You’re absolutely—sure?”
“Absolutely. I could give at least four medical facts which would prove it beyond a shadow of doubt. Irving Moss died about six-thirty. Of course, I can’t say exactly how or where he was killed, but he had been dead a full hour before the train went over him.”
Mr. Dodd bent forward earnestly. “There are other trains. He might have been run over by an earlier one and then—again by the London express.”
“No, sir,” broke in Inspector Saunders, who
at last found himself confronted with a problem which hard facts could solve. “My boy works down at the railway station in Saltmarsh. There are no trains running through Craiglea between the four o’clock goods and the Exeter-London express.”
“I thought as much.” McFee strode forward. “You see, Sir Wilfrid, the whole thing was a frame-up. Of course, we all really knew the boy was murdered even before Dr. Woodhouse came in. We knew he was killed by the same person that killed his brother.”
“But how on earth,” ejaculated Sir Wilfrid, “did he get down to the railway lines without being seen?”
“That’s obvious. If he wasn’t going out with his mother, he’d have taken darn good care not to be seen, for, after all, he was breaking the school rules.” McFee pushed a hand through his tangled hair. “We’re up against diabolical cleverness, Sir Wilfrid. The person that killed Irving Moss knows all about the school routine; he knows I have to go to the village on Fridays; he even knows about the express from Exeter. But there’s one thing he doesn’t know. He thought he could fool us into believing the boy was really killed by the train. In other words, he’s pretty dumb about medical facts.”
“I don’t see that that’s going to help us much,” snapped the Chief Constable. “This is what happens when things are carried out irregularly. I should never have consented to this mamby-pamby business or arranged for inquests and private detectives. Direct action, sir. That’s the way to clear up crime. None of this hushing up.”
“Well, Sir Wilfrid”—McFee’s tone was slightly sarcastic—“as you remarked yourself, it’s no use saying what might have been done. God knows, we all acted for what we thought was the best.”
“At any rate,” broke in the headmaster, who had crossed to the window, “one thing is obvious. If this terrible matter is not cleared up immediately, I shall have to close the school. I’m sorry, Sir Wilfrid, that you regret your kindness to me in keeping the circumstances of Eric’s death from the public. I shall always be grateful, although I realize now that more straightforwardness might have prevented this second tragedy.” His voice was hollow. “It is fortunate that term is so nearly over. Perhaps by the end of the summer holidays all this will be forgotten.”
“Cleared up and forgotten it shall be,” said Sir Wilfrid gruffly. “Now, let’s get down to it.”
XV
TRANSATLANTIC TANGLE
After Mr. Dodd’s departure, Sir Wilfrid settled down to an hour of direct action. Frightened housemaids were rigorously cross-examined and sent away, wide-eyed with excitement. The cook and Mrs. Blouser were interviewed also, but had nothing productive to say. Mr. Heath was called again, and once more affirmed that he had been asleep until eight o’clock. The same story was elicited from Mlle. Santais, who swore with Gallic fervor that she had not left her bed till the first bell rang for breakfast. Her protestations must have been too much for her, for she fainted as soon as she left the room.
“Well, gentlemen, we’ve done all in our power, but we’re no nearer a solution than we were a month ago.” Sir Wilfrid glanced at the three men in front of him. “You, McFee, have been on the spot all the time. You, Dodd, know the personnel intimately. Saunders and I have been kept informed of all the official findings. We know for certain that the murderer is, or has been, a member of this household, but we don’t begin to know who he is. We’ve still that Nettleton fellah to question, but if we can’t get anything from him, I shall have to admit we’re up against a blank wall.”
“It’s not as bad as that, Sir Wilfrid,” put in McFee. “Of course it’s terrible that we were unable to prevent this second tragedy; but at least it’s given us a better idea of our murderer’s personality.”
The Chief Constable grunted despondently.
“He’s very ingenious, Sir Wilfrid—but he’s rather dumb, too. In both cases he tried to make the death look like an accident. In neither case has he done it very well. Today, for example, he wanted us to believe Irving was killed by the train. He overlooked the fact that medical evidence could show he died before the express touched him. He overlooked the fact that we would be able to tell that butterfly was not newly caught and that, consequently, we’d realize the whole picture of the boy being killed by the Exter Express was a faked one. Now that’s a lot of mistakes to make. And it should give us some idea of the type of mind that would make those mistakes.”
“We’ve got pretty low if we have to fall back on psychology,” snapped Sir Wilfrid. “It’s something tangible we need!”
“Very well,” McFee smiled. “If you’re going to stick to hard facts, why not try Mr. Nettleton? I think he might have something interesting to tell you.”
“I was purposely keeping him to the last.” Sir Wilfrid nodded to Inspector Saunders, who sent a constable for the English master.
Harvey Nettleton’s face was pale but determined. He seemed to sense an antagonism in the atmosphere, for his jaw was thrust forward and his blue eyes, despite circles of weariness, were alert. He sat down and produced a cigarette-case.
The Chief Constable regarded him warily. “I don’t know whether or not it is news to you, but Irving Moss was murdered this morning. What’s more, we have every reason to believe that his brother, Eric, was also deliberately killed when he was found in the linen-cupboard outside your room four weeks ago.”
Sir Wilfrid paused, as though making up his mind how much of the truth should be told to this composed, expressionless young man.
“Now, Mr. Nettleton, will you give me your undivided attention? This is a very serious matter. Between six and seven this morning, young Moss either walked or was carried to the railway lines half a mile from the school building. It is virtually impossible for him to have got there without being seen. I understand that you were in the headmaster’s garden between those hours. I want to know whether you saw the boy himself or any person who could be regarded as suspicious.”
Mr. Nettleton exhaled a spiral of smoke. “It’s quite true I was in the garden, and I have a hazy recollection of seeing Kettering and McFee, but I’m afraid I didn’t see anything of the boy. If I had, naturally I’d have sent him back to the dormitory. But then, he might have deliberately avoided me. Any boy would know he was breaking the rules by leaving the school before breakfast.”
“You’re positive you didn’t see him?”
“Well, I must admit I wasn’t any too wide-awake. You see, I hadn’t been to bed all night.”
“Good heavens, sir, is that a habit of yours?”
“It has been lately.” The young man crossed one carefully pressed trouser-leg over the other. “I’ve had a lot of work to do. I finished this morning about six o’clock. I couldn’t sleep so I went out for a breath of fresh air.”
“Then you got on your bicycle and rode into Craiglea?”
“That was later—about seven. I had something I particularly wanted to post.”
“The village post office doesn’t open till nine,” put in McFee, who had been standing by the window watching the English master with inscrutable eyes.
Nettleton returned his gaze quizzically. “A point to the portah,” he murmured. “You’re quite right. I didn’t take it to the post office. I knew I was going to be on duty after breakfast, so I left it with a boy at the Goat and Compasses and gave him sixpence to take it round as soon as the place opened.”
“You took it to the Goat and Compasses,” repeated McFee quietly. “That’s where Mrs. Bernard-Moss is staying.”
“Right again.”
“You didn’t see her when you were in the garden this morning?”
“No. I didn’t see her until I was cycling home from the village. I’d just reached the bend in the lane when the express stopped. I hurried over a field and saw Mrs. Bernard-Moss running along the tracks. I called, but she didn’t hear me.” The lines round Nettleton’s mouth deepened. “If I remember correctly, I was the only person who looked after her when she fainted.”
“This is all very well,” put in Sir Wilfrid, �
�but what were you taking to the post office?”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t interest you.” Nettleton’s eyes were still on McFee, as though he had already guessed where his most formidable opposition lay. “It had no connection with this business, of course.”
“Well, why not be more definite?” asked McFee, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Surely it’s nothing you’re ashamed of?”
“On the contrary, it’s something I’m rather proud of. It was a novel I’d just finished writing.”
“And you were in a violent hurry to send it to somebody?”
“Yes.” Nettleton fingered his immaculate blond hair. “I’ve been writing it ever since I came to Craiglea—working every evening in my room. I finished the first draft some time ago and sent it off to a publisher.” He smiled a trifle self-consciously. “They accepted it, subject to a few minor corrections. I was working on those corrections last night. Finally I got them done, and decided to get the manuscript off as quickly as possible.”
“There was no other reason for the hurry?” McFee raised an eyebrow.
“As a matter of fact, there was, but it’s rather a personal one.”
McFee moved a little closer. “It’d be interesting to see a copy of that novel. You have one handy?”
“No, not at the moment. Silly of me. I only made one version.”
“You’re sure it was a novel you sent off this morning?”
“Why, of course.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t a letter to America?” McFee sprang forward and produced from his pocket the newspaper clipping which Lucas had given him the day before. “You’re sure it wasn’t a letter to St. Paul which you signed Dave Harvey?”
For a moment the English master looked astonished, then, as he glanced at the photograph, his face broke into a smile. “Where did you unearth that old thing?” He regarded the rather youthful picture of himself more closely. “Clever of you to recognize it, McFee. Pop and all the gang. … Really, how crudely they put things in the American newspapers!”