The Sword in the Stone-Dead, page 13
part #1 of Great Vicari Mystery Series
“Gentlemen, a little respect please; for yourselves if not for anything else,” Vickery said.
“I think I heard a car,” Linette said.
Silence followed as they all strained to listen. Then came the unmistakable thud of a car door. Then another.
“About bloody time!” Fulbright said.
“Only one car,” Kimball said, “that can’t be right.” But no one was listening. They all leaned expectantly towards the open door into the entrance hall.
“Sir Geoffrey?” Vickery indicated that he should go through into the entrance hall. “If everyone else would please wait here,” he said. He followed Sir Geoffrey out and closed the door.
The door into the courtyard was open. Malloy stood in the entrance hall next to a short, stout man who was wearing a brown derby, tweed jacket, and round tortoiseshell glasses. His trousers would have benefited from the application of a flat iron and his bowtie seemed to have been fastened in haste.
“This is Doctor Cole,” Malloy said.
“Doctor, thank you for coming. Sir Geoffrey Atterbury I believe you know. I am Benjamin Vickery.”
The doctor shook hands with them both. He seemed pale and a little breathless.
“And the police?” Vickery asked Malloy.
“They should be along shortly,” Malloy said, with just a hint of a smile. “They were right behind us.”
“Malloy made very good time from Crowman’s Heath,” the doctor said, his colour gradually returning.
There was a crunching of gravel outside, and then a dark blue Wolsley with POLICE above the windscreen drove in under the gatehouse. It shuddered to a stop in the courtyard.
Two large uniformed constables squeezed out of the rear seat of the car. They had been obliged through lack of headroom to sit with their domed helmets in their laps. They hastily donned these and adjusted the chin straps as their superior climbed out of the front passenger seat. The Inspector was an altogether less beefy fellow, and his porkpie hat had remained on his head, though it appeared to have been knocked out of position. He adjusted it as he approached the front door, casting an annoyed glance at his driver, though whether this was because of the jolting he had received, or the fact that they had failed to keep pace with Malloy, wasn’t clear.
The Inspector was a grey man, wearing a grey raincoat and a large ill-advised moustache: because his hair was dark and his sideburns and whiskers almost red, the moustache looked fake.
“I am Inspector Debney: I shall be leading the investigation into the death of Helena Trenton.”
“Eleanor,” Malloy corrected him.
Inspector Debney looked down at the shrouded form on the floor. “The body should not have been moved without proper authority,” he said.
“We lifted my niece out of the pond to see whether she might be revived,” Sir Geoffrey said, “surely you cannot object to that, Inspector?”
“People should not have trampled over the ground by the pond: a herd of elephants couldn’t have done a better job of spoiling the murderer’s footprints,” the Inspector said.
“People walked there before they were aware that a murder had taken place,” Vickery said.
“Valuable evidence gone. It makes my task all the more difficult,” Debney said. “Doctor, I should like you to make a preliminary examination of the body. Bring me your findings as soon as you can.”
“We should move the body out of the entrance hall,” the doctor said.
“A cool room with a large table?” Vickery suggested.
“That would be ideal,” said the doctor. “I shall also need hot water and a towel.”
“There are empty store rooms downstairs near the kitchen,” Sir Geoffrey said. “I’ll have Crawley prepare one.” He rang for the butler.
“Where are the other guests?” Inspector Debney asked.
“I’m surprised they’re not all out here already,” Sir Geoffrey said.
Vickery held up the key to the drawing room door.
“We can’t keep them locked up,” Sir Geoffrey said, “much as we might like to.”
Inspector Debney took the key from Vickery and passed it to one of the constables.
“Go in and keep an eye on them, Crabtree.”
“Sir.” He touched the peak of his helmet and went to unlock the drawing room door. There was a babble of voices, which was cut off when he closed the door behind him.
“I shall want to speak to each of them in turn,” Debney said.
Crawley appeared and under instruction from Sir Geoffrey listened to the doctor’s requirements. He hurried back down the servants’ stairs to make arrangements. He reappeared a few moments later.
“Brierly, fetch Halstead in to help you,” the Inspector said. “Then I want you to take statements from the domestic staff.”
“Yessir.” Constable Brierly hurried out and returned with the driver. Halstead smelled strongly of cigarettes. The two constables wrapped the sheet more tightly around Eleanor Trenton’s body and lifted it from the stone floor. Manoeuvring carefully, they carried it down the narrow stairs, Crawley leading them and the doctor following behind.
“Sir Geoffrey, I should like to speak with you first,” the Inspector said.
“Of course. Let’s go into the library.” Sir Geoffrey led the way.
“Wait here to be called,” the Inspector told Vickery. “I’ll deal with you next.”
Vickery bit his tongue and nodded politely.
“Typical of the species.” Vickery sighed.
“What do we do now?” Malloy asked.
“We submit to their questioning. I suggest you go downstairs: that constable will speak to you along with the other staff. No reason why you should have to put up with any more of the Inspector’s rudeness.”
“I might even get breakfast while I’m down there,” Malloy said. “Shall I ask them to send something up for you?”
Vickery looked at his pocket watch: it was a little after three in the morning. “No, thank you, I shall wait until I have spoken to the Inpsector.”
Vickery paced the entrance hall. It was after a quarter-to when Sir Geoffrey came out of the library and closed the door behind him. He looked mildly annoyed.
“That young man has the manners of an ox,” Sir Geoffrey said. “Sat himself behind my desk without so much as a by-your-leave; fired questions at me, cutting off my answers as if he couldn’t be bothered to listen, and then ushered me out of my own library when he’d had his fill of me. Quite intolerable. I shall speak to the Chief Constable.”
“We must make allowances, Sir Geoffrey,” Vickery said. “He has the task of investigating a murder, an unpleasant undertaking in itself. And his first priority must be to bring the killer to justice. I’m sure he wished to complete your interview as quickly as possible, so as not to intrude on your grief any more than he had to.”
“‘Spose you’re right, Vickery. But a little courtesy wouldn’t go amiss. I’ll get Crawley to bring tea and breakfast things up to the drawing room. No one’s going to want to stand on ceremony this morning. Then I’m going to check on Timothy. If anyone wants me, send Crawley up, I’ll be resting in my room.”
Sir Geoffrey went to summon the butler.
Doctor Cole came up the stairs in his shirt sleeves, a sheet of paper in his hand with a few notes written on it.
“Debney?” The doctor asked.
Vickery nodded towards the library door.
The doctor knocked and went inside. He re-emerged after ten minutes. “He wants you in there now,” the doctor said. He sounded as though Debney had rather offended him.
Vickery tapped on the library door and entered. He sat down opposite the Inspector and waited for him to speak. Debney was reviewing the notes he’d taken while speaking to Sir Geoffrey.
“I know about you, Mr. Vickery,” the Inspector said, without looking up. He didn’t sound impressed.
Vickery chose not to respond. He’d sat opposite policemen before, and was accustomed to their tactics. Debney looked at him, brow furrowed. “I’m aware of the Alhambra incident. And that you have subsequently assisted the police in a minor way in several investigations.”
“I am always happy to help, Inspector,” Vickery said.
“I want to make it very clear that I will not be requiring your assistance here. There is no place for an amateur sleuth in a murder investigation. Leave it to the professionals, Mr. Vickery.”
“I would not dream of intruding,” Vickery said.
“Sir Geoffrey has indicated that only four of the guests were not within his sight at the time of the murder,” Debney said.
“Leo Fulbright, his wife Margot McCrae, Artie Delancey, and myself,” Vickery said.
“Where were you at midnight, Mr. Vickery?”
“I was taking the air, out on the terrace. I am not aware that anyone saw me there, so doubt if anyone can corroborate my alibi.”
“Why did you not watch the performance inside with the others?”
“I have spent too much of my time around theatres and theatrical types. Since my retirement, I try to limit myself to only a couple of hours a day in their company.”
“Do you recognise this, Mr. Vickery?” The Inspector held up a piece of gold chain, about four inches in length.
“May I?” Vickery took the chain and examined it closely. “A piece cut from a watch chain.”
“Do you own more than one watch chain, Mr. Vickery?”
“I own several, but I only ever wear this one.” He indicated the chain he currently wore. “For reasons of sentiment.”
“A family piece?”
“From someone close to me, yes.”
“You said the piece was cut, not torn?” Debney asked.
“Gold is malleable, if you pull it, it stretches—like toffee. None of the links appear deformed, so it is more likely to have been cut from the whole, rather than torn from it.”
“Can you be certain?”
“Not unless you have the fragments of the broken links of the chain,” Vickery said.
“We do not,” Debney said.
“The chain was found where?” Vickery asked, handing it back.
Inspector Debney looked as though he was considering withholding this information. Then said:
“It was found clutched in the hand of the victim.”
“A very convenient clue,” Vickery said.
“The killer was careless.”
“Or perhaps the opposite,” Vickery suggested.
“Meaning?”
“I don’t want to suggest theories when I have nothing with which to back them up,” Vickery said. “As to the owner of the watch chain, I would suggest asking Leo Fulbright: he wears a watch chain of this type.”
“How well did you know Eleanor Trenton?” Inspector Debney asked.
“Not at all. I met her for the first time this weekend.”
“Any other connections to her?”
“She is, as I am sure you know, Sir Geoffrey’s niece. I knew of him, but had not met him until yesterday. She worked for Leo Fulbright, and there was a rumour that they had begun a relationship, though I very much doubt it. I have known Leo and Margot for twenty years.”
“Tell me about these poison pen letters Leo Fulbright has been receiving.”
“Mr. Fulbright asked me to come down and look into it,” Vickery said.
“Have you discovered who is sending them?”
“Not yet. A curious thing is that Leo Fulbright refuses to share the full contents of the letters with anyone. I suspect that the writer of the letters believes that Fulbright is guilty of something.”
“He’s being blackmailed?” Debney asked.
“Possibly. Or someone is seeking revenge. Perhaps he will be less reticent in revealing the contents of the letters to a professional detective.”
Debney wrote Fulbright – Letters? in his notebook.
“Do you believe the letters are connected to the murder?” The Inspector asked.
“Lacking knowledge of the content, I have not formed a definite opinion.”
“Thank you Mr. Vickery. I may have more questions for you. Please do not attempt to leave without seeking my approval.” Debney looked down at his notebook, effectively dismissing Vickery.
“Perhaps I might propose a couple of lines of enquiry that you may wish to pursue,” Vickery said. “Not that I wish to tell you your business, but I have observed a great deal this weekend.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I would suggest sending one of your constables to the inn in the village: at least one of the guests has had meetings with someone there. Talking to the landlord may help to identify an additional suspect, or perhaps prove an alibi. Or disprove one.”
“You are not going to tell me who I should look for there?”
“I think it will become clear to you when you interview the other guests.”
Vickery rose and moved towards the library door. He turned as he was leaving. “Have you located the murder weapon yet?”
“My men are searching. It is only a matter of time before it is recovered.”
“I would advise searching the pond. Someone, probably the murderer, has already used it as a hiding place—for components taken from the guests’ vehicles to render them unusable.”
He gave the smallest of bows and exited.
Vickery located Doctor Cole in his make-shift examining room, a low-ceilinged space with a stone floor off a corridor near the kitchen. It was empty except for a large wooden table, on which the shrouded corpse now lay.
“We’re not used to this sort of thing here, you know.” He nodded towards the body under the sheet. “Murder is most uncommon, despite what you might read in those mystery novels.”
“You are not an aficionado, doctor?”
“They often contain interesting details about poisons, but what they suggest about the evidence revealed by a brief examination of a body, well...” He shook his head. “I’m sure you are expecting me to be able to tell you that this poor woman died between, say, 11pm and 11.10, so that you will then be able to test everyone’s alibi for that precise window of time, and so identify the murderer as being the butler. But it is not possible for me to provide such a neat approximation. The temperature of the body gives us an idea, but this poor girl was submerged in cold water, which affects the accuracy of the calculation.”
“She died a minute or two after midnight,” Vickery said. “A scream was heard. And the sound of her apparently falling into the pond.”
“Midnight is consistent with my initial examination,” the doctor said. “But I cannot give you an absolute confirmation: she might have been killed an hour before that, perhaps more. As I told the Inspector, that is our margin of error, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you, doctor, I understand. Are you able to tell if water was taken into her lungs?” Vickery asked.
“You are asking if she was dead before the body entered the water? I may be able to confirm if water is present in the lungs, but couldn’t be sure of its absence without a more intrusive examination.”
“I should also like to know if this button came from her dress. It was found close by, but I do not believe it came from her.” He held up the red cloth-covered button.
“It did not. Her dress was fastened by a zipper and a hook-and-eye,” the doctor said, without needing to check under the sheet.
“What can you tell me about the injuries to the body?” Vickery asked.
“A single stab wound,” the doctor said. “The entry point is here, just below the rib-cage.” He indicated on his own chest. “And the exit wound was just below the scapula—the shoulder-blade. The blade ruptured the heart, and death would have been almost immediate.”
“Then the weapon used was—”
“At least twenty inches long, probably longer, with a double-edged blade, approximately an inch-and-a-half wide at the broadest point, tapering to a point.”
“A sword, then. A two-handed longsword?”
“Something of that nature,” the doctor said.
“And she was stabbed once, from a low angle and upwards?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you again, doctor. I think we may be able to identify the murder weapon shortly. Do you know where Malloy went?”
“Right here,” Malloy said from behind them. He was holding a thick bacon sandwich.
“You heard what the doctor said?”
“Did he just describe Excalibur?” Malloy asked.
“Excalibur?” The doctor frowned.
“A replica,” Vickery said, “a prop for a motion picture.”
“Is it missing from the stone?” Malloy asked, pushing the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth.
Vickery nodded.
“The stone? From which the sword was drawn?” The doctor asked.
“We even have a Merlin upstairs,” Malloy said, mouth full. “And another magician right here.”
“Don’t mind Mr. Malloy,” Vickery said, “he suffered a blow to the head in the recent past.”
“I noticed the bruise.”
“There’s another young man upstairs you ought to take a look at,” Vickery said. “Mr. Garvin has also suffered a blow to the head, though rather more recently.”
“What sort of place is this?” The doctor asked.
“Technically, it is a Victorian folly,” Vickery said, then added in a conspiratorial tone: “And most of the folk upstairs—are actors!”
“How are the staff taking it?” Vickery asked, after they had left the doctor.
“They’re upset that a young woman has been murdered,” Malloy said, “but they didn’t know her, so I think they’re more upset about their daily routines being interrupted. And they don’t much like the idea that there is a killer in the house. Mrs. B had to speak sharply to one of the maids who was threatening to leave.”
“The police constable questioned you all?”
“Yes. The butler, Crawley, seemed most put out at being questioned by a uniformed officer: he felt he should have been spoken to by the Inspector himself. How was your interview with the Great Detective?”
“He was rude and arrogant, as expected,” Vickery said. “I rather feel that he will be no match for the subtlety of our murderer.”
