by Blake Banner
“Round?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Quite big and round.”
I smiled, moved to the desk and picked up the stapler. I handed it to him and said, “Pretend this is a gun and hold it to your head as though you are about to shoot yourself in the head.”
He looked a bit surprised, glanced at Charles, shrugged and held the stapler to his head. “Like this?”
“Yup.” The door opened. Dehan stepped in and closed it softly behind her. I smiled at her and carried on. “Charles, come here, a bit closer. Now I want you to run a movie in your head, slow motion, OK? Imagine he pulls the trigger. The revolver bucks, a cloud of GSR is instantly ejected by the weapon and covers his hand, his sleeve, his head and his shoulder. A nanosecond later, the slug impacts his temple, on the horizontal plane, kicks his head to the left and draws all the blood and gore into the wound with it, while the burning gases from the muzzle sear the edges of the hole and the skin around it. The slug then erupts from the left side of his head, creating a large exit wound and spraying blood and gore out over his left shoulder, the carpet, et cetera. The next instant, his head kicks back to the right, propelled by the force of the exit would, and simultaneously his hand drops to his side, releasing the gun, and then, after the heart has stopped beating, a small amount of blood will ooze from the wound, down the side of his face.”
Charles was looking at me with some distaste. “I see.”
“Now here’s the problem. With his right hand held up and to the right side of his head, how did he get large blood droplets on his right cuff?”
Charles’ eyebrows shot up and he looked down at the major, who still had the stapler held to his head. I carried on.
“Here’s another small problem. Let’s say that by some freak of physics, some drops of blood were kicked back onto the cuff. Within half a second, his arms had dropped down by his side, these large droplets are fresh, liquid. By the time, Major, you got to see them, they would not have been circular, they would have been tear-shaped, because the arms was hanging down. So how did they come to be circular?”
“My word…!”
I took the stapler from him and set it back on the desk. “But what we have is not a bullet wound on the horizontal plane. We have the bullet entering at an almost forty-five degree angle. So, Major, can I position you like this, reading a book…”
Dehan stepped over to the bookcase, pulled out a large tome, opened it and set it before the major. I took his hands and placed them with his left forearm resting on the desk and his right wrist as though he were ready to turn the page in a moment or two. Then I took the stapler and went and sat in the chesterfield on the left of the fireplace and pointed it at his head, as though it were a gun.
“If I were to shoot you from here, we would have just about the correct angle for the entry wound, you would have no GSR on your hand and cuff, the entry wound would not be scorched and, as you sagged forward, a few droplets of blood might well fall on your cuff. What do you say, Dehan?”
She was nodding as I spoke. “I’d say, given the characteristics of the wound, and the absence of GSR, that is pretty much how it went down. But if that’s correct, you have one hell of a problem. Unless he was shot by someone from the Enterprise who was then beamed up, I don’t know what happened to your shooter.”
I nodded back. “That is, indeed, the problem.” I looked at Charles. “But I have to say, Charles, in my opinion there can be no doubt that your grandfather was shot while he was reading, from over here.”
The major was frowning. “Well that makes perfect sense, but, as um… um…” He squinted at Dehan. “Dianne says, what happened to the blighter who shot him?”
I stood and looked around the room slowly while Dehan spoke. “Right down to basics, Stone, if you kill somebody in a locked room, you have to stay in the locked room with them. That is the whole basis of the locked room problem, right?”
“Right.”
“So, either: one, there is a concealed exit, two, he was killed from outside, or three, the room was locked from outside after the killing. There is no fourth alternative.”
Charles gestured toward the chair where I had been sitting. “Well, we have already seen that the shot came from over there. The only way the shot could have come from outside would have been through the window, in which case the window would have been either open or broken, and the shot would have entered the other side of his head, which it didn’t. So that leaves either a secret exit, or the door being locked from the outside, after the murder.”
The major nodded doubtfully. “Houses of this period did have secret passages, often…”
I pointed at the bay window. “That goes straight out onto the drive.” I pointed to the door. “That leads into the hall, so that would make no sense. That wall there,” I pointed at the huge bookcase, “leads out to the steps down to the kitchen, which leaves only that wall there, where the fireplace is…”
I looked at Charles. He shook his head. “That leads onto the ballroom and a brook cupboard, I’m afraid. The police did a very thorough search for secret doors and passages. Your friend, Green, he was convinced, like you, that it was murder. But they never found anything. I’m afraid the secret passage theory is a non-starter. There is simply nowhere to put one.”
Dehan sighed. “Which leaves the theory that the room was locked from the outside after the murder.”
I returned to the chesterfield, sat, and gazed at the major a moment. “What time did Charles Sr. go in to see his father?”
“Mid morning, around eleven o’clock.”
“They talked for over an hour. Then…” I looked at Charles. “your father came out, went running to the kitchen, hugged cook and spread the good news, before leaving to tell Pam about his father’s change of heart. He was gone two hours, which brings us to about two o’clock, when he returns, and as he approaches, through the window he sees Old Man Gordon sitting at his desk…”
Dehan said, “Which gives us a window from 12 o’clock, when Charles Sr. last saw his father, to 2 o’clock, when he returned and saw him through the window.”
I looked at her, thought a moment and then carried on. “He entered the hall and presumably came straight to his father’s study. Did anybody see him?”
The major shook his head. “Not at that stage. I was out on the lawn chatting with Bee. We saw Charles Sr. arrive down the drive and go into the house, and as far as I know the staff were all in the kitchen. First anyone knew about Charles trying to get into the study was when the butler heard him kicking down the door.”
I nodded. “So Charles kicked open the door, rushed in and found his father as you have described him, with his arm hanging down and the revolver on the floor.”
“That’s correct.”
“Was it normal for Charles Sr. to lock the door?”
The major nodded. “Oh yes, he used to have… um…”
He glanced at Charles Jr., who smiled. “It’s all right, Major. My grandfather used to have affairs, and he would often have private conversations with them on the telephone, so it was quite normal for him to have the door locked. Also, when he worked, he didn’t like to be disturbed. However, apparently my father knocked several times and got no reply, and that was when he became alarmed.”
Dehan said, “So he rushed in, found his father, and how long transpired then before you and the staff arrived, Major?”
“Oh, not more than a minute, probably less. When I got here, the butler had already arrived and Charles was just standing there, by the desk, staring down at his father. Terrible thing for a young lad to see. Shocking.”
“And the lock was busted.”
He glanced over at the door, as though to confirm it had been busted, and nodded. “Yes.”
Dehan scratched her head. “So in that scenario, while your father was away talking to Pam, somebody came into the study, took your father’s gun, shot him, arranged it to look like suicide, slipped out and used some thin pliers or a similar tool to tu
rn the key from the outside.”
Charles raised his eyebrows and nodded. “If you’re right, and it was murder, that would seem to be the only way it could be done. I can’t see any other.” He frowned, shook his head and gave an incredulous laugh. “But who on Earth…? It would have to be one of the staff, the major here or Bee!”
The Major goggled in alarm at Charles. I smiled and shook my head. “Not necessarily. There are actually a number of potential candidates for prime suspect. But we can discuss that later if you’re inclined. It’s actually another question that’s playing on my mind.”
Charles looked worried. “What’s that?”
“Did your grandfather keep his revolver in his study?”
He made a face and shook his head, then turned to the major. The major had gone very serious and was staring at the window. “Reggie?”
He shook his head. “No. Kept it in his room.”
I nodded, then looked at Dehan. “It’s not like the States here, Dehan. People don’t keep weapons for self defense or home protection. Especially in a place like this, am I right?”
Charles nodded. “Absolutely. Unheard of.”
I went on. “If you held on to a weapon like that, you’d have it as a souvenir, and you’d keep it unloaded. You wouldn’t have it lying around in a drawer in your study.”
“But the old man wasn’t British. He was from Boston.”
I nodded and smiled. “Not Texas. In any case, the weapon was in his bedroom. So whoever brought it down and shot him with it knew where to look for it.”
Suddenly the major stood. He was scowling and his face had gone scarlet. “Look here!” he said. “This has got a bit out of hand, hasn’t it? Next thing we’ll be accusing…” He stammered a moment, then changed tack. “The case was closed and the coroner found it was suicide. They must have known what they were talking about!” Now he met my eye. “No disrespect or anything, but we don’t need you Americans coming over and telling us how to investigate a… a… suicide!”
And with that, he marched across the room, wrenched open the door and stormed out.
Charles’ cheeks were flushed. “I am so sorry. You must think us awfully rude. I can’t apologize enough…”
I shook my head. “No need, I assure you.”
“I can’t think what came over him. He’s normally such a…”
I interrupted him. “I met Robert Armstrong. He drove us back from the pub, as far as the gate.”
He looked confused. “As far as the gate…?”
“He said he wouldn’t set foot in here, and he might have a surprise for you. How serious do you think he might be?”
He laughed. “Old Bobby? That’s ridiculous! He’s been our gardener for donkey’s years!”
“How long, exactly?”
“Oh, exactly? Um, over thirty years. Since before my grandfather died. My grandfather adored him, cared for him and his mother like family. Well, he thought they were family. Got a temper mind, like most Scotsmen, but I wouldn’t pay too much attention to him. Probably just in a huff.” He hesitated. “Well, I have a few things to attend to before dinner, so… Thank you so much, it has been most, um…instructive…”
TEN
We left him in his study and stood a moment in the darkened hallway. Outside, the sky had grown dark and a wild wind was making the house groan and the doors and windows creak and bang. Brown, the butler, emerged from the drawing room and made his way silently toward the kitchen with a tray of dirty cups and plates. We had missed tea. I looked at Dehan. She was staring across the hall at the glass panes in the door. Through them you could see the tall pines bowing and tossing under the gunmetal clouds.
I turned away and looked behind me. Under the arch where the staircase divided to climb toward the east wing of the house were the broad, double doors that led into the ballroom, and just before them there was a smaller, single door in the wall. I moved over to it and opened it. It was six or seven feet across and a good twelve feet deep. It held buckets and mops, brooms, a couple of vacuum cleaners and a floor polisher, and along the back wall and all along the right-hand wall there were shelves holding refuse sacks, cloth dusters, cans of polish, feather dusters and myriad other things you need to keep an old castle looking neat. Behind me I heard Brown’s voice.
“Can I help you, sir?”
I nodded, then turned to look at him. “These shelves, the ones along the side here, how long have they been up?”
He looked startled. “For as long as I can remember, sir!”
I smiled. “And how long would that be?”
His eyes seemed to glaze, “I am sixty-two, sir, and my mother worked at the Castle before the first Mr. Gordon bought it. The shelves were there when I was a small boy, so well over fifty years.”
“Do you mind if I have a closer look at them?”
He frowned but said, “Not in the least, sir. The light switch is there, on the left. Can I help in any way?”
“I don’t think so.” I snapped on the light and made a careful examination of the fell length of the bottom shelf, and then the middle shelf. When I’d finished, I emerged, closed the cupboard and gave him another smile. “You’ve already been very helpful. Thank you. I think we’d like to see the ballroom, if that’s OK.”
“By all means, sir. It’s through there.”
He indicated the door. I opened it and followed Dehan in, closing the door behind me. It wasn’t palatial, but it was big and largely empty. The floor, like the entrance hall, was black and white checkerboard. It was roughly thirty feet across and a good forty or forty-five deep. The ceiling was high and domed, with a spectacular crystal chandelier suspended from the center, A small dais against the right wall allowed for an orchestra or a band, and the far wall was taken up by two sets of broad French windows that gave access to a rear stone terrace with steps down to the gardens. Gardens which a couple of hours earlier had been bathed in warm sunshine, but were now engulfed in shadow while a dark, North Atlantic gale moaned among the chimneystacks and gables. Dehan sighed loudly.
“You have all this, and you still find reasons to kill people.”
I smiled and turned my back to the French windows. As I spoke my voice came back at me with a hollow echo. “Enough of this weather might drive me to murder.” I started pacing slowly across the room, studying the wall. “Sidartha, Gotama Buddha, said that everything in this world is always unsatisfactory.”
Dehan crossed the floor to look out the windows. Her voice reverberated down at me out of the dome. “I bet he was invited to all the parties. Didn’t they cast him as Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh?”
I kept smiling to myself and nodded. “Yup!”
We both turned. She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. The silver, pre-storm light lay silvery blue across the planes of her face, making her look oddly like a Norse daemon. “They did?”
“No.” There was a small couch beside a potted palm up against the wall. I sat on it and considered her where she stood, half in shadow, half ghostly silver-blue. “He said that we are driven by craving and aversion. We perpetually either need something we haven’t got: a wife, a husband, a castle, a fortune, freedom… Or we want to be free of something we have but don’t want: a wife, a husband, a father, a mother, a prison, poverty… You know. All those things people kill for. He called it ‘dukkha’ and said it was the source of all pain and suffering in the world. It was one of his four basic truths.”
She made a face, then shoved her hands in her pockets, turned her back to the windows and fell into darkness.
“So if you want to be happy, all you have to do is stop wanting good stuff and stop caring about the bad shit that happens in life. Good luck with that.”
“There is something wrong here, Dehan.”
Her disembodied voice said, “What do you mean?”
I chewed my lip and shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Cool.”
“Walk through it with me.”
“Weren’t yo
u the one saying we were on honeymoon?”
“Mm-hm…” I nodded absently, not really listening. “Who gained from his death?”
She paced away from the window, deeper into shadow, looking down at her feet. “The obvious prime suspect is Charles Gordon Sr. He had the most to gain. Freedom to marry the girl he loved and inheritance of a major fortune.”
“But?”
She stopped, still staring at her feet, and nodded slowly, then shrugged. “But he didn’t really love her, though he married her anyway, and by all accounts he had resolved his conflict with his father. He was still the heir.”
“Who else?”
She turned and paced back toward the silver-blue glow from the French windows. She said simply, “Pam.”
I nodded. “She stood to gain a lot from marrying Charles Sr.”
She glanced at me, then back at her feet. “But I think it’s a bit more complex than that.”
I smiled. “You picked up on that, huh?”
“She was playing them both. While Charles Sr. was away at college in Boston, she was playing Laird and Lady with the old man. I figure she was thinking that if the son was only along for the ride, if you’ll excuse the pun, daddy, with his love of all things Scottish, might just jump at the chance of a young, beautiful wife. But then Charles graduates, comes back to the castle and his daddy tells him she is the wrong class and not from one of the great clans. Bombshell. So she decides to eliminate the old man.”
“Hmm…”
“And there’s another thing.” She pointed at me. “If she was a frequent visitor to the master bedroom, she might well have known where he kept the revolver.”
“It’s a nice theory, but there is one flaw in it.”
“What?”
“Charles had just told her that the old man had given him the green light to marry her.”
She nodded. “That is not such a big flaw, Stone. In the first place, by now she knows what a temperamental son of a bitch the old man can be. There is no telling when he’ll change his mind again. Add to that the fact that she must have known, as everybody did, about the old man’s love affair with the Armstrong family, and you have two powerful motives for murder: one, that he might at any time disinherit Charles and her with him, and two, jealous anger. Two gets you twenty that the old man was involved with Mama Armstrong, and as you have said more than once, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”