Trial and Error (19 page)

“It will not have escaped your knowledge,” Mr Todhunter went on in tones of the greatest courtesy, “that a woman was shot a few months ago in the garden adjoining yours, and—”

“It will not, and I don't want anyone to be shot in this garden,” interrupted the newcomer grimly. “Are you two members of the police? Because frankly you don't look like it.”

“We are not members of the police force, no, but—”

“Then get out.”

“But neither,” continued Mr Todhunter suavely, “are we mere sensation hunters, as you have every right to think. This gentleman is Mr Ambrose Chitterwick, who has worked with Scotland Yard on several important occasions. My own name is Todhunter. We have every reason to believe, in fact we know, that an innocent man has been arrested for Miss Norwood's murder. We know that the real murderer approached Miss Norwood's garden through this one and through those between here and the little lane. Although the trail is, to speak technically, cold, we have already discovered important evidence to bear this out. We were examining your hedge to find the final proof of his passage into Miss Norwood's garden. Speaking personally, I am glad to see you, because we need an independent witness to the various small points of evidence we have discovered in case these are impugned later by the police, who will be naturally anxious to prove their case against the man they have arrested. We therefore invite you, sir, in the name of justice, to assist us in this and every other respect.”

“Good God!” observed the stout man, while Mr Chitterwick looked with undisguised admiration at his companion and colleague. “You say this fellow Palmer's innocent?”

“I have the very best of reasons for knowing he is.”

“What reason?”

“Because,” said Mr Todhunter simply, “it was I who shot Miss Norwood.”

The stout man stared. “You're mad.”

“So the police say. But I assure you I'm perfectly sane. I shot Miss Norwood, and I can prove it to the satisfaction of any reasonable person; but not, it seems, to that of the police.”

The stout man was still staring. “Well, you don't
sound
mad to me,” he muttered.

“I'm not mad,” repeated Mr Todhunter gently.

“Look here!” The stout man seemed to take a decision. “Look here, come up to the house. I'd like to talk to you about this.”

“With pleasure. But may I have the honour of knowing your name, sir?”

“You may.” The stout man looked at Mr Todhunter narrowly. “My name is Prettiboy. Ernest Prettiboy.”

Mr Todhunter bowed. The name had conveyed nothing to him.

Mr Chitterwick, however, had uttered a slight yelp. “Not—not
Sir
Ernest Pettiboy?”

It was the stout man's turn to bow.

“I've heard of you, Mr Chitterwick,” he added.

“Oh,” cried Mr Chitterwick, “this is a piece of luck. This is a very great piece of luck indeed. Todhunter, this is Sir Ernest Prettiboy—the K.C. I beg you to tell him your story. This may make all the difference.”

3

“This sounds an extraordinary tale,” said Sir Ernest Prettiboy, K.C. He massaged the tight little black curls that covered his large head.

“It
is
an extraordinary story,” Mr Todhunter agreed.

“But I believe it,” pronounced Sir Ernest. His tone gave one to understand that the story was thereby made true.

Mr Todhunter thanked him politely.

“But what do you advise, Sir Ernest?” chirruped Mr Chitterwick anxiously. “I know this is most irregular. There should be a solicitor present. A consultation . . .”

Sir Ernest waved the irregularity aside. “We must consider what it is best to do,” he said, not without weight.

“Yes, yes,” agreed Mr Chitterwick gratefully, “That is just what I should propose myself.”

Sir Ernest looked at Mr Todhunter and grinned. He was not a pompous man by any means, though occasionally the courtroom manner invaded him involuntarily.

“You're in the devil of a dilemma, my friend.”

“I am,” confessed Mr Todhunter. “It seems absurd that I should have so much difficulty in convincing the authorities that I shot this woman.”

“Well, you must put yourself in their position. In the first place, I happen to know that no less than eight different people have already confessed to this murder. You can't be surprised if the authorities are getting a little sceptical.

“Eight?” echoed Mr Chitterwick. “Really! Ah, I see. She was a well-known figure. That would undoubtedly attract those who suffer from this curious kink.”

“Exactly, in the second place, your story really has no more support than theirs. You were not able to bring forward one single item of proof to support it. I feel it was a pity that you should have gone to Scotland Yard so impetuously, without taking proper legal advice first. Any solicitor with criminal experience could have forecast the result.”

“Yes, I see that now. I fancy I did think of doing so though my memory is so bad nowadays that I can't say for certain; but in any case my own solicitor, as I've discovered since, is quite useless.”

“I can put you in touch with a good man. And I can tell you this. It was the biggest stroke of luck you've had yet to run into me during your trespassing expedition this morning, because I know something about this case. Living next door to the woman as I did, I had the police on my doorstep every day for a couple of months. And of course they didn't bother keeping any secrets from me. So I can tell you this: they have no doubt at all that they've got the right man.”

“But it's ridiculous! I—”

“It's not at all ridiculous, from their point of view. The circumstantial evidence against this chap Palmer is very nearly as strong as circumstantial evidence can be—and that means wrought iron. Not cast iron; that's brittle.”

“But his solicitor sounded sanguine,” put in Mr Chitterwick.

“Yes. There are loopholes. But motive is covered, opportunity is covered and the means . . . by the way, tell me that bit about the revolvers again.”

“Yes,” nodded Mr Chitterwick, “I found this question of the revolvers a little puzzling.”

“There was no exchange,” mumbled Mr Todhunter with shame and explained his blunder again.

Mr Chitterwick chimed in with a further explanation of Mr Todhunter's error in throwing the fatal bullet away.

“Won't the absence of the bullet leave a gap in the chain of proof?” Mr Todhunter asked. “Without it they can't really prove that it was Palmer's revolver that killed her.”

“There is that small gap, undoubtedly. But its value is nothing compared with the proof which the bullet would have given us that Palmer's revolver definitely did not fire the shot.” Sir Ernest took another gulp from the tankard of beer which he had been holding throughout the interview. Mr Chitterwick also had a tankard. Mr Todhunter held a glass of lemonade.

Sir Ernest leaned back in his chair. The three were sitting in the K.C's study, and the massive legal volumes on the shelves all round them seemed to frown upon this unorthodox conference.

“Well, I think I understand your case. It's not an impossibility at any rate, though I think the police, not being professional psychologists, would find your motive hard to swallow—”

“That's precisely why I told them that I committed the murder out of jealousy,” put in Mr Todhunter.

“Yes. But I feel,” twinkled Sir Ernest, “that they would have even more difficulty in swallowing that. It really is a great pity that you didn't take advice. However, as I was saying, I believe your story, and we must see what can be done.”

“You'll help us?” asked Mr Chitterwick eagerly.

“I couldn't reconcile it even with my professional conscience to stand aside and see what I thought might be injustice done. Besides,” said Sir Ernest with a sudden grin, “it's going to be damned interesting and instructive. Now let me see whether I have any inside knowledge that might help. Yes—did you know that there are witnesses to the fact of a punt being moored at the bottom of Miss Norwood's garden at just about the time of the shooting that night? The police have been unable to trace the occupant.”

Mr Chitterwick nodded. “There was a wireless broadcast for the person or persons to come forward.”

“Was there? Oh yes, I believe there was. Well, anyhow, they haven't come forward. That seems a little odd to me.”

“There might be reasons,” ventured Mr Chitterwick.

Sir Ernest winked. “Oh yes. And I suppose there were. But the really interesting thing is that one witness swears that the punt, when he passed it in a skiff, was empty.”

“Oh!” Mr Chitterwick looked puzzled. “But does this have any bearing on the case?”

“Possibly not. Only . . . supposing there was somebody else in the garden that night. There would be an exceedingly valuable witness, don't you think?”

“Oh, I see. Yes indeed. You think the person—or persons—might have landed?”

“How else could the punt be empty?”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Mr Chitterwick, as if annoyed with his own stupidity. “But how could we trace them if the police have failed?”

“There,” confessed Sir Ernest, “you've got me beat. There was nothing,” he added to Mr Todhunter, “that led you to suspect that anyone else might have been in the garden while you were there?”

“Nothing,” said Mr Todhunter firmly. “It was nearly dark. Besides, I was in a state of considerable agitation.”

“Yes, of course. Well, we must put that point aside for the time being. Now you tell me that you've found some evidence, even after all this time, that somebody did make his way from the lane through these gardens. I think we'd better go out and verify that.”

Not without pride Mr Todhunter and Mr Chitterwick led their new ally down the lane and showed him the mark on the fence where Mr Todhunter had climbed over; and thence, making their way through the other gardens without any more ado than before, the footprint, broken twigs and all the rest of it in the various hedges. This time, however, they did not remain in Sir Ernest's enclosure but pushed through into Miss Norwood's own garden. The house, Sir Ernest was able to tell them, had not yet been let; the police had finished with it, and they had the place to themselves.

“We'd better look at the scene of the crime, I suppose,” Sir Ernest said, “though goodness knows what we can expect to learn from it.”

Mr Todhunter looked about him curiously. It was the first time he had seen the ground in full daylight, and he was surprised to find how short was the distance from the hedge to the converted barn which had seemed so interminable and tortuous that night.

They stood on the banked lawn outside and surveyed the structure, with its grey, weather-beaten uprights and its hint, genuine as it was, of something of “ye olde” type of spuriousness about it.

“It's not so big as I thought,” muttered Mr Todhunter. “It looked enormous that night.”

“Things always look bigger at night,” suggested Mr Chitterwick.

They went on looking at it.

“Well,” said Sir Ernest, “we don't seem to be getting much forrader. Anyone got any suggestions? All right. Let's reconstruct the crime. I see there's a deck chair or two still here. Where exactly was she sitting, Todhunter?”

On Mr Todhunter's directions, so far as he could remember, the scene was set. Sir Ernest Prettiboy, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, then made Mr Todhunter go through the motions of his murder.

“I approached, I think, from this direction,” said Mr Todhunter, not without reluctance, for he found this play-acting rather horrible. “I came within quite a short distance, and—”

“Without her seeing you?” put in Sir Ernest.

“She gave no sign of having seen me,” replied Mr Todhunter drily.

“Yes? And then?”

“And then I fired.”

“And she. . . ?”

“She seemed to—to—no, that wasn't the first shot. It was . . . great heavens!” Mr Todhunter clapped his hand to his forehead. “I think I'm going mad.”

“Tck! Tck!” clucked Mr Chitterwick in distress. But Sir Ernest had been quicker on the point. “What happened?” he shouted, almost dancing with excitement. “Think, man! The
first
shot? Then you fired. . . ?”

“Yes,” said Mr Todhunter in a dazed way. “I fired twice—and I've never remembered it till this minute.”

4

“But you must remember in which direction you fired,” said Sir Ernest Prettiboy despairingly.

“It was in
that
direction,” Mr Todhunter repeated for the tenth time. “But I'm probably not a very good shot,” he added.

Sir Ernest groaned.

It was in the middle of the afternoon. Half an hour had been taken up in the morning, following Mr Todhunter's revelation, in an intensive search for the first bullet, without success. Sir Ernest had then carried them back to his house for lunch, despite their polite protests, and had introduced them to his wife, who appeared to accept their presence with equanimity, and to two small Prettiboys of assorted sexes, who showed themselves quite indifferent to it. Now, replete with roast beef and horse-radish sauce, apple pie and, in Mr Chitterwick's case, a more than passable claret (for those who like details it was a Pontet-Canet, 1925, a light vintage, still quite drinkable but just passing its best), they had applied themselves to the task once more. Bidden to take up the exact position (so far as he could gauge it) in which he had been standing when he fired and point in the direction in which he had aimed, Mr Todhunter had already occupied half a dozen different spots and pointed his finger in a dozen different lines.

“I can't help feeling,” ventured Mr Chitterwick, still a little timid in the presence of this great and self-confident man, “that this score on the brick floor may be significant. If that is where the bullet struck, and it rebounded—”