Death Devil's Bridge (27 page)

“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.”

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

—WILLIAM ARABIN, 1773-1841

 

 

 

 

K
ate 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 ointment 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.”

Bess turned her hands over and began intently to examine her fingers.

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Charles said, striding on. “Our single piece of physical evidence is a smudged fingerprint—which, as you say, Ned, a jury would find hard to swallow.” (At this, Bess put her hands in the pockets of her woolen skirt.) “Were we to find traces of the substance—”

“I suppose,” Laken said dryly, “that you want me to return to the inn and examine the clothing which the men were wearing yesterday.”

“And their pocket handkerchiefs,” Kate put in. “I know that if I were to discover Mistress Gurton's ointment on my hands, I should want to remove it as quickly as possible. A pocket handkerchief might well provide evidence.”

“I think it a very good idea to have a look at the clothing,” Charles said, and added, “if it does not strain your ethical principles, Ned.”

“But if I had soiled my clothing in that way,” Laken objected, “I should give it immediately to the laundress to be cleaned.”

“Cleaned?” Bess asked. “An' ‘oo should be doin' the wash of a Sunday, I'd like to know? Sart'nly not our Peg. She's on 'er knees at chapel all the Sabbath.”

“Mistress Gurton is right, Ned,” Kate said. “It is not likely that the clothing has been washed. Your search may prove more fruitful than you expect.”

The constable nodded. “I shall do it.”

“And while you are at it, you might look for the jar,” Kate said. At Charles's quizzical expression, she added, “Well, of course. If
I
had picked up Mistress Gurton's jar of ointment and used some of it, I should certainly put the jar into my pocket. I shouldn't want to leave it lying about as evidence, should I?”

“Very well, then,” Laken said, “I shall look for the jar too. As for fingerprints, however—” He paused and gave Charles a dark look.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Charles said impatiently. “But if you should happen upon an object that bears a clear fingerprint, perhaps you could remove it and—”

“I shall not.” Laken's voice was firm. Nodding to Bess and bowing to Kate, he left the room.

Bess turned to Kate. “Wot,” she asked in a whisper, “about fingerprints?”

So Kate, making as quick a job of it as she could, gave Bess the details as Beryl Bardwell understood them. “With luck,” she concluded, “the fingerprint will identify the person who found your ointment and applied it to the motorcar's brake.”

There was a moment's silence. Then Bess, with a long sigh, said, “Would ye need to take mine?”

“Yours!” Charles exclaimed. “I should be very
pleased
to take yours—for purposes of elimination, of course.”

“Sir Charles means,” Kate interpreted, “that he can then show that
you
are not the guilty person.”

“ 'Lim'nation,” Bess said heavily. “I thought as much.” She screwed her eyes tight shut, turned her head to one side. and held out her hands. “ 'Ere they be, then, yer ladyship. Take 'em. I only ask—” She seemed to choke. “I only ask that ye leave me one er two on each ‘and, if ye please. I makes me livin' wi' baskets, like, an'—”

“Oh, dear, no!” Kate exclaimed. “Your fingers won't be cut off, Bess! They will merely be inked, and their impressions taken.”

Bess's eyes opened and her countenance cleared. “Oh,” she said, quite relieved. “Well, then, ye kin 'ave all ten o' em, if ye like, yer ladyship, an' welcome.”

When the simple procedure was over, Kate thanked Bess warmly. “Please stop by the kitchen and give my compliments to Mrs. Pratt. Perhaps you and she might stop together for a cup of tea.”

At Bess's frown, Kate said, “I know you are upset with her for speaking to me. But I think you will have to agree that things have turned out for the best.”

“That's true enough, yer ladyship,” admitted Bess, “although Sarah do let 'er tongue run on a bit long.”

When Bess had gone, Kate turned to her husband. “What was that business about Ned and the fingerprints?” she asked curiously. “And why did you make that odd remark about ethics?”

“Ned has a particular antipathy to taking the fingerprints of a person who has not yet been accused of a crime,” Charles replied, with some irony. “He argues that it is an invasion of privacy.”

“But a crime cannot be solved without evidence,” Kate objected. “Is not the detective obligated to use every available piece of evidence he is able to discover? Or
she,”
she corrected herself, thinking of the latest adventure of Beryl Bardwell's female detective.

“It is a vexed question,” Charles said. “Suppose that science should somehow permit us to see into your mind, Kate, and determine whether you are telling the truth or a lie. Should the scientist be permitted to intrude on your privacy—even if you are suspected of murder?”

“But if I am guilty—”

“Just so. But what if you are entirely innocent? And who is to know until the scientist completes his probe of your thoughts, thereby violating your privacy? And what if the scientist's instruments are in error, or his conclusions wrong? Who should be the final arbitrator of such methods?”

“A jury, perhaps?” Kate offered tentatively.

“A jury?” Charles chuckled without mirth. “Would you care to put
your
life into the hands of twelve jurors who may be good men and true, but may also be incapable of weighing such delicate evidence?”

Kate searched for an answer, but realized, uncomfortably, that she could find none.

“Ned, and many others, for that matter,” Charles went on, “question the propriety of obtaining and using evidence such as a man's fingerprints on the grounds that to do so is an invasion of privacy. The issue is one that is likely to see much debate over the next few years, and I myself have not determined where I stand on such matters.” He paused. “But I am particularly distressed in this case, for there
is
a fingerprint on that fender, and without Ned's help, I see no easy way of matching it against the fingerprints of the suspects.”

Kate stared at him for a moment, comprehension beginning to dawn. “And the suspects are—”

“The three surviving drivers, of course, as well as Harry Dunstable, Charles Rolls, and Roger Thornton. And, for the sake of completeness, I suppose I should include Bradford Marsden.”

“Not
Bradford!”

“Why not? He has as much reason to hate Harry Dunstable as the next man, perhaps more. No, if only to eliminate him, I should obtain his prints, as I have already obtained those of Lawrence and Mistress Gurton. But I cannot do that easily, for he has gone off to London.”