The Mad Hatter Mystery

by The Mad Hatter Mystery (retail) (epub)

  General Mason took an electric torch from his pocket, snapped it on, and directed the beam towards the ground. A warder had been standing motionless near the fence; and the General gestured with his light.

  “Stand at the gate of the Bloody Tower,” he said, “and don’t let anybody come near. Now, gentlemen. I don’t think we need to climb this fence. I’ve been down once before.”

  Just before the beam of his flashlight moved down the steps, Rampole felt almost a physical nausea. He was holding tightly to the wet iron railing, and he wanted to shut his eyes or turn away. His chest felt tight and empty, and a small hammer pounded there. Then he saw it.

  The thing lay with its head near the foot of the stairs, on its right side, and sprawled as though it had rolled down the entire flight of steps. Philip Driscoll wore a suit of heavy tweed, with plus fours, golf stockings, and thick shoes. Originally the suit must have been of a conspicuous light-brown color, patterned broadly; now it was almost black with wetness. But the watchers scarcely saw these things. As General Mason’s light moved along the body, they saw the dull gleam of several inches of steel projecting from the left breast. Apparently the wound had not bled much.

  The face was flung up towards them, just as the chest was slightly arched to show the bolt in the heart. White and waxy, the face was, with eyelids nearly closed; it had a stupid, sponged expression which would not have been terrifying at all but for the hat.

  The opera hat had not been crushed in the fall. It was much too large for Philip Driscoll; whether it had been jammed on or merely dropped on his head, it came down nearly to his eyes, and flattened out his ears grotesquely. To see the white face turned up, cheek against the stone step, and hat set at a sort of hideous rakish angle over one eye, drew from Sir William a sound which was less a sob than a snarl of fury.

  General Mason switched off his light.

  “You see?” he said out of the dimness. “If that hat hadn’t looked so weird, I shouldn’t have taken it off at all, and seen your name inside it. Mr. Hadley, do you want to make an examination now, or shall you wait for the police surgeon?”

  “Give me your torch, please,” the chief inspector requested, brusquely. He snapped on the light again and swung it round. “How did you happen to find him, General?”

  “There’s more of a story connected with that,” the deputy governor replied, “than I can tell you. The prelude to it you can hear from the people who saw him here when he arrived, earlier in the afternoon.”

  “When was that?”

  “The time he arrived? Somewhere about twenty minutes past one, I believe; I wasn’t here. Dalrye, my secretary, drove me from the middle of town in my car, and we got here at precisely two-thirty. I remember, because I heard the clock at the barracks strike when we were driving under the Byward Tower.” He pointed back along the road. “That’s the Byward Tower, incidentally; the one where I met you.

  “We drove along Water Lane—this road—and Dalrye let me out at the gate of the Bloody Tower, directly opposite us.”

  They peered into the gloom. The gate of the Bloody Tower was in the inner ballium wall, facing them across the road. They could see the teeth of the raised porticullis over it, and, beyond, a graveled road which led up to higher ground.

  “My own quarters are in the King’s House, inside that wall. I was just inside the gate, and Dalrye was driving off down Water Lane to put the car away, when I remembered that I had to speak to Sir Leonard Haldyne.”

  “Sir Leonard Haldyne?”

  “The Keeper of the Jewel House. He lives on the other side of St. Thomas’s Tower. Turn on your light, please; now move it over to the right, just at the side of Traitor’s Gate arch. There.” The misty beam showed a heavy ironbound door sunk in the thick wall. “That leads to a staircase going up to the oratory, and Sir Leonard’s quarters are on the other side.

  “By this time, in addition to the fog, it was raining, and I could barely see. I came across Water Lane, and took hold of the railing here in front of the steps to guide me over to the door. What made me look down I don’t know. This talk about a sixth sense is damned nonsense, of course, but when you’ve seen as much death as I have— Anyhow, I did glance down. I couldn’t see anything clearly, but by what I did see I knew something was wrong. I climbed over the railing, went down cautiously, and struck a match. I found him.”

  The general’s voice was precise, gruff, and dry. He lifted his heavy shoulders.

  “What did you do then?”

  “It was obviously murder,” the general continued, without seeming to notice the question. “A man who stabs himself can’t drive a steel bolt through his own chest so far that the point comes out under his shoulder blade, certainly not such a small and weak person as young Driscoll. And he had clearly been dead for some time; the body was growing cold.

  “As to his odd behavior— No; you’ll hear that from others. I’ll tell you simply what I did. Young Dalrye was coming back from the garage then, and I hailed him. I didn’t tell him who the dead man was. He’s engaged to Sheila Bitton, and—well, you shall hear. But I told him to send one of the warders for Doctor Benedict.”

  “Who is that?”

  “The chief of staff in charge of the army hospital here. I told Dalrye to go to the White Tower and find Mr. Radburn, the chief warder. He generally finishes his afternoon round at the White Tower at two-thirty. I also told him to leave instructions that nobody was to leave the Tower by any gate. I knew it was a useless precaution, because Driscoll had been dead some time and the murderer had every opportunity for a getaway; but it was the only thing to do.”

  “Just a moment, General Mason,” interposed Hadley. “How many gates are there through the outer walls?”

  “Three, not counting the Queen’s Gate; nobody could get through there. There’s the main gate, under the Middle Tower, through which you came. And two more giving on the wharf. They are both in this lane, by the way, some distance farther down.”

  “Sentries?”

  “Naturally. A Spur Guard at every gate, and a warder, also. But if you’re looking for a description of somebody who went out, I’m afraid it’s useless. Thousands of visitors use those gates every day. Some of the warders have a habit of amusing themselves by watching and cataloguing the people who go in and out, but it’s been foggy all day and the raining part of the time. Unless the murderer is some sort of freak, he had a thousand-to-one chance of having escaped unnoticed.”

  “Damn!” said Hadley, under his breath. “Go on, General.”

  “That’s about all. Doctor Benedict—he’s on his rounds now—confirmed my own diagnosis. He said that Driscoll had been dead at least three-quarters of an hour when I found him, and probably longer. The rest you know.”

  General Mason hesitated.

  “There’s a strange, an incredible story concerned with Driscoll’s activities here this afternoon. Either the boy went mad, or—” Another sharp gesture. “I suggest that you look at him, Mr. Hadley; then we can talk more comfortably in the Warders’ Hall.”

  Hadley nodded. He turned to Dr. Fell. “Can you manage the fence?”

  Dr. Fell’s big bulk had been towering silently in the background, hunched into his cloak like a bandit. Several times General Mason had looked at him sharply. He was obviously wondering about this stout man with the shovel hat and the wheezy walk; wondering who he was and why he was there; wondering about the small shrewd eyes fixed on him behind eyeglasses on a black ribbon.

  “No,” said the doctor. “I’m not so spry as all that. But I don’t think it’s necessary. Carry on; I’ll watch from here.”

  The chief inspector drew on his gloves and climbed the barrier. A luminous circle from his flashlight preceded him down the steps. Again Rampole gripped the rail and watched. Unruffled, sedate in blue overcoat and bowler, Hadley was running his light along the huddled figure.

  First he carefully noted the position of the body, and made some sketches and markings in a notebook, with the tor
ch propped under one arm. He flexed the muscles, rolled the body slightly over, and felt at the base of the skull; Philip Driscoll was rolled about like a tailor’s dummy. Most meticulously he examined the pavement of the area; then he returned to the few inches of steel projecting from the chest. It had been polished steel, rounded and thin, and it was not notched at the end as in the case of an arrow. Now a film of damp overlay the polish.

  Finally Hadley removed the hat. The wet face of the small, dandyish youth was turned full up at them, pitiful and witless. Tight reddish curls were plastered moistly against his forehead. Hadley did not even look at it. But he examined the hat carefully, and brought it up with him as he slowly mounted the stairs.

  “Well?” demanded Sir William, in a harsh, thin voice.

  Over the fence again, Hadley was silent for a long time. He stood motionless, his light off, slapping the torch with slow beats against his palm. Rampole could not see him well, but he knew that his eyes were roving about the lane.

  A fog-horn blew one long blast on the river, and there was a rumbling of chains. Rampole shivered.

  Hadley said, “There’s one thing your surgeon overlooked, General. There’s a contusion at the base of the skull. It could have come either from a blow over the head, or—which is more likely—he got it by being tumbled down those stairs after the murderer stabbed him.”

  The chief inspector peered about him slowly.

  “Suppose he were standing at this rail, or near it, when the murderer struck. The rail is more than waist high, and Driscoll is quite small. It’s unlikely that even such a terrific blow with that weapon would have knocked him over the rail. Undoubtedly the murderer pitched him over to put him out of sight.”

  The chief inspector spoke deliberately, and the torch still slapped in measured beats against his palm.

  “Still, we mustn’t overlook the possibility that the bolt might have been fired instead of being used as a dagger. That’s improbable; it’s almost insane, on the face of it. If a crossbow is what I think it is, then it’s highly unlikely that the murderer went wandering about the Tower of London carrying any such complicated apparatus. Why should he?”

  “Well,” said Dr. Fell, musingly, “why should he steal hats, for that matter?”

  Rampole saw another jerk of General Mason’s shoulders, as though he were trying to shake off a cloud of insane contradictions. But he did not speak, and Hadley went on in his imperturbable voice.

  “A knife, or the blow of a blackjack in the fog, would have done just as well. And because of the fog—as you say, General—it’s impossible that a marksman could have seen his target very far: certainly not to put a bolt so cleanly through the heart. Finally, there’s the hat.” He took it from under his arm. “For whatever purpose, the murderer wanted to set his hat on the dead man’s head. I think I may take it for granted that Mr. Driscoll wasn’t wearing it when he came to the Tower?”

  “Naturally not. The Spur Guard and the warder at the Middle Tower, who saw him come in, said he was wearing a cloth cap.”

  “Which isn’t here now,” the chief inspector said, thoughtfully. “But tell me, General. You said that so many people are always passing through here. How did they happen to notice Driscoll?”

  “Because they knew him. At least, that warder had a nodding acquaintance with him; the guard, of course, is always changing. He’s quite a frequent visitor. Dalrye has got him out of so many scrapes in the past that Driscoll came to count on him; that was why he was here today. Besides, the warder will tell you about it. I didn’t see him.”

  “I see. Now, before we go into this matter of the weapon, there’s something I want to know. To begin with, we must admit this: whether he was shot or stabbed, he was killed very close to these steps. The murderer couldn’t walk about here, with all the warders present, carrying a dead body; these steps were made to order for concealment, and they were used. So let’s assume the most improbable course. Let’s assume (a) that he was shot with a crossbow; (b) that the force of the shot—and it was a very powerful one—knocked him over this rail, or that the murderer later pushed him over; and (c) that subsequently the killer decorated him with Sir William’s hat. You see? Then from where about here could that bolt have been fired?”

  General Mason massaged his imperial. They were peering at the wall across the way, at the gate of the Bloody

  Tower just opposite, and the bulk of a higher round tower just beside it. Farther on, straight along the length of Water Lane, Rampole could discern another archway over the continuation of the lane.

  “Well—” said the general. “Damn it all, man, it could have been fired from anywhere. From this lane, east or west, on either side of Traitors’ Gate. From under the gate of the Bloody Tower; that’s the most likely direction—a straight line. But it’s tommyrot. It’s out of the question. You can’t go marching about here with a crossbow, as though it were a rifle. What’s more, just on the other side of that gate is the entrance to the Wakefield Tower. We admit visitors, and there’s always a warder on duty there. Good God! Let’s be sensible. It couldn’t be done.”

  Hadley nodded placidly.

  “I know it couldn’t. But, as you say, that’s the most likely direction. So what about windows, or the top of a wall?”

  “Eh?”

  “I said, what about windows or roofs? Where could you stand and shoot a bolt from some such place? I shouldn’t have asked, but I can’t see anything beyond outlines in this fog.”

  The general stared at him. Then he nodded curtly. There was a hard, jealous, angry parade-ground ring in his voice when he spoke; it made Rampole jump.

  “I see. If you’re suggesting, Mr. Hadley, that any member of this garrison—”

  “I didn’t say that, my dear sir,” Hadley answered, mildly. “I asked you a perfectly ordinary question.”

  The general jammed his hands deeper in the pockets of his water-proof. After a moment he turned sharply and pointed to the opposite wall.

  “Up there on your left,” he said, “in that block of buildings jutting up above the wall proper, you may be able to make out some windows. They are the windows of the King’s House. It is occupied by some of the Yeomen Warders and their families—and by myself, I might add. Then the ramparts of the wall overlooking us run straight along to the Bloody Tower. That space is called Raleigh’s Walk, and only a rather tall man can see over the rampart at all. Raleigh’s Walk joins the Bloody Tower, in which there are some windows looking down at us. Next to the Bloody Tower on the right, and joined to it, you see that large round tower? That’s the Wakefield Tower, where the Crown Jewels are kept. You will find some windows there. You will also—not unnaturally—find two warders on guard. Does that answer your question, sir?”

  “Thanks,” said the chief inspector; “I’ll look into it when the mist clears a bit. If you’re ready, gentlemen, I think we can return to the Warders’ Hall.”

  IV

  Inquisition

  GENTLY GENERAL Mason touched Sir William’s arm as they turned away. The latter had not spoken for a long time; he had remained holding to the rail and staring into the dimness of the area; and he did not speak now. He walked quietly at the general’s side as they returned.

  Still holding the hat under his arm, and propping flashlight against notebook, Hadley made several notations. His heavy, quiet face, with the expressionless dark eyes, was bent close over it in the torch-gleam.

  He nodded, and shut up the book.

  “To continue, General. About that crossbow bolt. Does it belong here?”

  “I have been wondering how long you would take to get to that,” the other answered, sharply. “I don’t know. I am inquiring. There is a collection of crossbows and a few bolts here; it is in a glass case in the armory on the second floor of the White Tower. But I am perfectly certain nothing has been stolen from there. However, we have a workshop in the Brick Tower, on the other side of the parade-ground, which we use for cleaning and repairing the armor and weapon
s on display. I’ve sent for the warder in charge; he should be here now. And he will be able to tell you.”

  “But could one of your display crossbows have been used?”

  “Oh yes. They are kept in as careful repair as though we meant to use them as weapons ourselves.”

  Hadley fell to whistling between his teeth. Then he turned to Dr. Fell.

  “For a person who enjoys talking as much as you do, Doctor,” he said, “you have been incredibly silent. Have you any ideas?”

  A long sniff rumbled in the doctor’s nose. “Yes,” he returned, “yes, I have. But they don’t concern windows or crossbows. They concern hats. Let me have that topper, will you? I shall want to look at it when we get a good light.”

  Hadley handed it over without a word.

  “This,” General Mason explained, as they turned to the left at the Byward Tower, “is the smaller Warders’ Hall; we have our enforced guests in the other.” He pushed open a door under the arch, and motioned to them to pass.

  It was not until Rampole entered the warmth of the room that he realized how chilled and stiff he was. A large coal fire crackled under a hooded fireplace. The room was circular and comfortable, with a groined roof from which hung a cluster of electric lights, and cross-slits of windows high up in the wall. There were chairs of hard leather, and bookshelves. Behind a large flat desk, his hands folded upon it, sat a straight-backed elderly man, regarding them from under tufted white eyebrows. He wore the costume of the Yeomen Warders, but his was much more elaborate than those Rampole had seen. Beside him a tall, thin young man with a stoop was making notes on a slip of paper.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” said General Mason. “This is Mr. Radburn, the chief warder; and Mr. Dalrye, my secretary.”

  He waved his guests to chairs after he had performed the introductions, and produced a cigar case. “What have you got now?”

  The chief warder shook his head. He pushed out the chair in which he had been sitting for General Mason.