Thou Shell of Death (14 page)

That brought him back again to the question of motive. On the whole it was sensible to suppose that Bellamy had been attacked because he knew something about the will which someone wanted hushed up. It was significant that the attack had taken place soon after the superintendent had begun to show an
embarrassing
curiosity about the will. If Bellamy had been a danger to the murderer for some other reason, one would have expected the murderer to have settled him on the same night as he killed O’Brien, not to have waited for fifteen hours or so, giving him plenty of time to make any disclosures and attacking him in the much more hazardous daylight. But this was not really conclusive. Bellamy might have found out something that morning which made him a menace to the murderer; something about aeroplane plans, for instance, or about the erotic tangle which was rendering their search for a motive so complicated. Again, was it not conceivably possible that the attack on Bellamy had no connection at all with O’Brien’s murder? At the thought that there might be two trails to follow Nigel groaned aloud.

‘It’s a teaser, sir, isn’t it?’ said Bleakley. ‘Still, we’ve not been on the job twelve hours yet. There’s plenty of time.’

‘You know,’ said Nigel, ‘I’m more and more convinced that we shan’t get to the bottom of it all until we’ve found out a great deal more about O’Brien. It’s he, and not the murderer, who is the real mystery man. I think I shall concentrate on that myself. We know nothing about his parents, for instance, or what he was doing before the war, or where he got his money from.’

‘We’ll find it, sir, we’ll find it. Slow but sure. I shall send out inquiries as soon as I get to headquarters; and particularly as to who his solicitor is, if he used one
at
all. What’s bothering me most, Mr Strangeways, is that we haven’t really got a good case for murder at all. You and I knows it was. But Treasury counsel must have something more to go on than theories and gossip. Them footprints in the snow, for instance. What jury’s going to believe that they were made by someone walking backwards? They’ll say we’ve been reading too many blood-and-thunders. Without we get proof that O’Brien was in the hut when the snow began to fall, we simply haven’t a case to take to court at all.’

Arrived at headquarters, the superintendent busied himself with a number of reports that had recently come in. First, the post-mortem had only confirmed the doctor’s original conclusion: death had been caused by a bullet entering the heart, and the police expert confirmed that it had been fired from the revolver which had been found in the hut. The post-mortem had also confirmed that O’Brien was suffering from a disease which must have killed him within a couple of years. The doctor was not prepared to narrow down the period within which O’Brien had been killed, though he did not mind venturing unofficially the opinion that death had probably taken place between midnight and two a.m. On the other hand, he admitted that his first explanation of the bruises on the wrist was not satisfactory, and agreed that they might very well have been caused by a struggle for the revolver. The fingerprints on its butt tallied with those of O’Brien; and the other sets found in the hut had
been
demonstrated to belong respectively to Bellamy, Nigel and Cavendish.

The man who had been sent to make inquiries in the village reported that a tramp had turned up at the rectory on Christmas night; he had been given some dinner but had not, oddly enough, asked for anywhere to sleep. He had been seen walking out of the village about eleven p.m. in the direction of Taviston, which would bring him past the gates of Chatcombe Park. The rector had declared that the tramp did not seem quite right in his head; after putting down a good deal of the rector’s port, he had talked vaguely about knowing where he could lay his hands on something worth a great deal of money. Bleakley pricked up his ears at this point, and made arrangements for the man to be brought in for questioning as soon as he could be found. None of the villagers, as far as this constable could learn, had been near the park last night. He had discovered, however, at the post office that a gentleman answering to the description of Knott-Sloman had come in hurriedly that afternoon and bought stamps. The postmistress, who in an English village performs the same news-spreading function as the tom-tom in the jungle, had noticed something bulky in his overcoat pocket; and later, when she was sorting the post, came upon a large, fat envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar hand. With that intelligence, initiative and public spirit which have recently raised the postal service so high in popular favour, she had even noticed the destination of this
package
. It was addressed to Cyril Knott-Sloman, Esq., the Fizz-and-Frolic Club, Nr. Kingston, and marked ‘Not to be sent on’.

The same thought struck Bleakley and Nigel simultaneously. Bleakley reached for the phone and made a trunk call through to New Scotland Yard. He asked that this envelope should be examined before being delivered to its address tomorrow morning, and should be held if found to contain anything resembling plans or formulae.

‘He knew we would be making a thorough search as soon as we suspected murder, Mr Strangeways, so he’d naturally want to get rid of them as soon as he could.’

‘We can take that a step further. Knott-Sloman went into the village to post that package before it had been suggested that we even suspected murder. Why, unless he knew that murder had been committed and a search might begin any moment, should he be in such a hurry to get rid of it? And how could he know it was murder, unless—?’

‘By gum, sir, that’s good reasoning, that is. But wasn’t it taking a big risk sending them by post?’

‘We don’t know what is in the envelope. It may be an embroidered bed-jacket for his Aunt Amelia’s canary. But you must remember he had no reason to suppose, when he sent off the package, that we knew anything about O’Brien’s invention or a possible attempt on it; therefore we would not be likely to examine anything he sent off by post.’

‘But if he was the murderer, it must have been him as sent those threatening letters. He must’ve allowed that O’Brien might show them to the police, and the police would be bound to ask him what reasons anyone might have for wanting to get rid of him; the fact O’Brien was working on those plans would come out then.’

‘I don’t believe that, if he was after the plans, he wrote those letters. It would have been crazy to put O’Brien on his guard, even in such an indirect way. And I don’t believe either that if his object was to steal the plans, he would premeditate murder. There
is
a possibility, though, that O’Brien caught him stealing them, held him up with his revolver, somehow let Knott-Sloman get too near him, and was shot in the ensuing struggle.’

‘Yes, that might have been the way of it,’ said Bleakley. ‘Well, I’m due at the chief constable’s in five minutes. If you’d care to come along …?’

The chief constable greeted them with geniality and a cloud of cigar-smoke. He was a large, untidy, dog-and-gun-looking man, with country squire written all over him: his heavy white moustache was stained with nicotine and his fingers might have been cleaner; but there was a kind of easy, paternal competence about him which was reassuring. He was very popular with all ranks of the force under his control, for he never fussed the superior officers or browbeat the rank-and-file. He soon had his visitors settled with cigars in their mouths and drinks at their elbows.

‘It’s very good of you and the superintendent to let me in on this,’ said Nigel.

‘Not a bit of it, Strangeways; you were in it already; on the ground floor, as they say. We wouldn’t have got as far as we have without you. Though I don’t mind telling you I rang up the Assistant Commissioner – just to make certain you were your uncle’s nephew, and
compos mentis
and free from foot-and-mouth, and so on, what?’ Major Stanley laughed heartily and took a prodigious gulp at his whisky-and-soda. ‘Well now, Bleakley, if you’ll tell me just where we stand, like a good fellow.’

The superintendent twirled his moustache (‘I wonder does he keep it in a plaster mold at night,’ speculated Nigel dreamily) and launched forth into a detailed statement of the case. He concerned himself mainly with ascertained facts, only bringing in theories when they were necessary for the explanation of some action of his own. It was easy to see, though, from his treatment of the facts, which way his suspicions tended.

‘H’m,’ said Major Stanley, when the superintendent had finished, ‘expect you wish you’d stuck to crossword puzzles, eh, Bleakley? Still, I think you’ve done very well. Can’t see any further lines we ought to open up just at present. Things’ll sort themselves out by degrees. As I see it, Miss Thrale and what’s-’is-name—Knott-Sloman—are the most likely suspects, with Edward Cavendish keepin’ well in the picture. Trouble is, we haven’t got sufficient proof yet that O’Brien was
murdered
at all. Bleakley told me over the phone your case against suicide, Strangeways, and damn’ clever it was, too. Mind you, I think you’re right; but it’s too clever for the average jury to swallow. They can’t follow anything but a stinkin’ aniseed sort of trail. Comes of givin’ a vote to every hayseed and short-weight grocer in the—However; hrrumph, where was I? Ah, yes. Apart from the fact that murder has not been sufficiently proved, I don’t think we can take any action yet. That note Miss Thrale wrote is pretty damning at first sight—a queer set of crooks you seem to have up at the Dower House, Strangeways—but counsel for the defence is goin’ to say: “Would a woman who proposed to murder a fellow write a note like that, which would give her away completely unless it was destroyed, when she could just as well have made the assignation by word of mouth?” ’

‘About the note: there seem to me two possibilities,’ Nigel struck in, smoothing his sandy hair. ‘Either he received it before dinner, and the conversation I heard between her and O’Brien was his answer to it—you remember, he said “Not tonight”—in which case he folded it up absent-mindedly and stuck it in his window frame. I can’t quite believe that: anyone might have found it, and O’Brien was not the sort of chap to let a woman expose herself in that way. Or else he put it in his pocket; the murderer discovered it there and half-hid it later, hoping that—if murder was suspected—it would be found and throw suspicion on
to
Lucilla. Guh! What a mouthful. It’s made my mouth dry as ginger. Sorry to interrupt you, Stanley.’

‘Not a bit of it. I think that second theory of yours is very sound, Strangeways; even if it turns out wrong, it would obviously be premature to take any action against Miss Thrale at present, don’t you agree, Bleakley?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Then we’ve got a goodish case against Edward Cavendish as far as motive goes, but not a shred of evidence. What size shoes does he take, by the way?’ the chief constable added lazily, his face almost invisible in cigar smoke.

‘Same as Mr O’Brien. Knott-Sloman takes a size smaller; Starling a size and a half; and the ladies, of course, smaller still,’ replied Bleakley, not without complacence. ‘Mr O’Brien had large feet and hands for his height.’

‘Aha,’ said Major Stanley jovially, ‘can’t catch you nappin’. So any of ’em might have worn his shoes and made those footprints. Still, I should concentrate on them: try to find out who could have put ’em back in the hut next morning, and so on. Feller looks a bit conspicuous totin’ a pair of shoes about. Of course, the prints may not have been made in O’Brien’s shoes. If they weren’t, Cavendish must be our man. Then this Knott-Sloman: sounds a nasty piece of work; might have been caught by O’Brien pinchin’ his plans, or if there’s anything in what Cavendish said about blackmail—he and Miss Thrale might have been tryin’
it
on with O’Brien; O’Brien determines to finish him off or give him a bad fright, threatens him with the revolver, but Knott-Sloman pounces on him and the thing goes off. However, I don’t want to put ideas into your head. What I’m just wonderin’ is—have another drink, Bleakley—seein’ that most of the people in the case are not locals, whether we oughtn’t to call in the Yard. I’m not questioning your ability, but I think it’s a pretty big mouthful for us to chew, and the papers are goin’ to make a hell of a shindy about it—it’s their last chance to cash in on the O’Brien legend. What do you feel about it, Bleakley?’

The superintendent seemed relieved rather than offended by the suggestion, and it was arranged that Major Stanley should ring up the Assistant Commissioner at once. Bleakley and Nigel now took their leave. Bleakley wished to call in at his home to collect a few things for the night. While he was doing this, Nigel was engaged in conversation by Mrs Bleakley, a lady whose figure resembled nothing so much as a succession of built-up areas. She produced an equally massive teapot and a flow of sombre statistics about road casualties occasioned by fog. When the superintendent came down in mufti with his bag, she said in her rich, chesty voice:

‘Bleakley, you’re a fool to go out on a night like this. I’ve just been telling Mr Er about that chara that went over the edge at Follisham Corner—only last month, it was, and a fog just like this. Tempting Providence is what I call it, and me just buying two
lengths
of flannel at the sales to make you up some new nightdresses. You’ll back me up, Mr Er, won’t you?’

‘That’s all right, mother. Don’t be a fidge-fadge. I know the road like the back of my hand,’ interposed Bleakley. He gave his spouse a resounding kiss, and led the way out to the car. The constable who had driven them in had been left at the station; for Bleakley proposed to drive back himself. The fog was certainly much thicker, though after leaving the town they found sections of the road where visibility was comparatively good. Nigel sat back in a kind of trance, watching the trees and hedges that seemed to pounce at them out of nothingness, like spirits out of a magician’s incantations. The beams of the headlamps thrust feebly up into the fog, wavered and fell back, like fountains of light playing at half-pressure. Every now and then a yellow tinge crept into the greyness ahead, and Bleakley drew in to the side to let another car pass. After a while they left the main road and began to climb. The air was clearer here and they could make better speed, though Bleakley still seemed to take the corners more by second sight than by calculation. Nigel was no driver, and therefore able to close his eyes, oblivious of the hazards they might be passing through. He felt tired as death, but he was not to get any sleep for the present. A muffled oath from the superintendent and the dead check of brakes brought him wide awake. In the deflected haze of the
headlights
a body could be seen lying half on the bank and half on the road.