Unnatural death
As I said before, all the marks of violence were inflicted post-mortem.”
“Suppose she had been asleep at the time,” suggested Wimsey, “couldn’t
it have been done quietly then?”
“Oh, yes—easily. After a few long breaths of the stuff she would become
semi-conscious and then could be more firmly dealt with. It is quite
possible, I suppose, that she fell asleep in the sunshine, while her
companion wandered off and was kidnapped, and that the kidnappers then
came along and got rid of Miss Findlater.”
“That seems a little unnecessary,” said Parker. “Why come back to her at
all?”
“Do you suggest that they both fell asleep and were both set on and
chloroformed at the same time? It sounds rather unlikely.”
He outlined the history of their suspicions about Mary Whittaker, to
which the doctor listened in horrified amazement.
“What happened,” said Parker, “as we think, is this. We think that for
some reason Miss Whittaker had determined to get rid of this poor girl
who was so devoted to her. She arranged that they should go off for a
picnic and that it should be known where they were going to. Then, when
Vera Findlater was dozing in the sunshine, our theory is that she
murdered her—either with chloroform or—more likely, I fancy—by the same
method that she used upon her other victims, whatever that was. Then she
struck her on the head and produced the other appearances suggestive of
a struggle, and left on the bushes a cap which she had previously
purchased and stained with brilliantine. I am, of course, having the cap
traced. Miss Whittaker is a tall, powerful woman—l don’t think it would
be beyond her strength to inflict that blow on an unresisting body.”
“But how about those footmarks in the wood?”
“I’m coming to that. There are one or two very odd things about them. To
begin with, if this was the work of a secret gang, why should they go
out of their way to pick out the one damp, muddy spot in twenty miles of
country to leave their footprints in, when almost anywhere else they
could have come and gone without leaving any recognisable traces at
all?”
“Good point,” said the doctor. “And I add to that, that they must have
noticed they’d left a cap behind. Why not come back and remove it?”
“Exactly. Then again. Both pairs of shoes left prints entirely free from
the marks left by wear and tear. I mean that there were no signs of the
heels or soles being worn at all, While the rubbers on the larger pair
were obviously just out of the shop. We shall have the photographs here
in a moment, and you will see. Of course, it’s not impossible that both
men should be wearing brand new shoes, but on the whole it’s unlikely.”
“It is,” agreed the doctor.
“And now we come to the most suggestive thing of all. One of the
supposed men had very much bigger feet than the other, from which you
would expect a taller and possibly heavier man with a longer stride. But
on measuring the footprints, what do we find? In all three cases—the big
man, the little man and the woman—we have exactly the same length of
stride. Not only that, but the footprints have sunk into the ground to
precisely the same depth, indicating that all three people were of the
same weight. Now, the other discrepancies might pass, but that is
absolutely beyond the reach of coincidence.”
Dr. Faulkner considered this for a moment.
“You’ve proved your point,” he said at length. “I consider that
absolutely convincing.”
“It struck even Sir Charles Pillington, who is none too bright,” said
Parker. “I had the greatest difficulty in preventing him from blurting
out the extraordinary agreement of the measurements to that _Evening
Views_ man.”
“You think, then, that Miss Whittaker had come provided with these shoes
and produced the tracks herself.”
“Yes, returning each time through the bracken. Cleverly done. She had
made no mistake about superimposing the footprints. It was all worked
out to a nicety—each set over and under the two others, to produce the
impression that three people had been there at the same time. Intensive
study of the works of Mr. Austin Freeman, I should say.”
“And what next?”
“Well, I think we shall find that this Mrs. Forrest, who we think has
been her accomplice all along, had brought her car down—the big car,
that is—and was waiting there for her. Possibly she did the making of
the footprints while Mary Whittaker was staging the assault. Anyhow, she
probably arrived there after Mary Whittaker and Vera Findlater had left
the Austin and departed to the hollow on the downs. When Mary Whittaker
had finished her part of the job, they put the handkerchief and the
magazine called _The Black Mask_ into the Austin and drove off in Mrs.
Forrest’s car. I’m having the movements of the car investigated,
naturally. It’s a dark blue Renault fourseater, with Michelin
balloon-tyres, and the number is X04247. We know that it returned to
Mrs. Forrest’s garage on the Monday night with Mrs. Forrest in it.”
“But where is Miss Whittaker?”
“In hiding somewhere. We shall get her all right. She can’t get money
from her own bank—they’re warned. If Mrs. Forrest tries to get money for
her, she will be followed. So if the worst comes to the worst, we can
starve her out in time with any luck. But we’ve got another clue. There
has been a most determined attempt to throw suspicion on an unfortunate
relative of Miss Whittaker’s—a black Nonconformist parson, with the
remarkable name of Hallelujah Dawson. He has certain pecuniary claims on
Miss Whittaker—not legal claims, but claims which any decent and humane
person should have respected. She didn’t respect them, and the poor old
man might very well have been expected to nurse a grudge against her.
Yesterday morning he tried to cash a Bearer cheque of hers for £10,000,
with a lame-sounding story to the effect that it had arrived by the
first post, without explanation, in an envelope. So, of course, he’s had
to be detained as one of the kidnappers.”
“But that is very clumsy, surely. He’s almost certain to have an alibi.”
“I fancy the story will be that he hired some gangsters to do the job
for him. He belongs to a Mission in Stepney—where that mauve cap came
from—and no doubt there are plenty of tough lads in his neighbourhood.
Of course we shall make close inquiries and publish details broadcast in
all the papers.”
“And then?”
“Well then, I fancy, the idea is that Miss Whittaker will turn up
somewhere in an agitated condition with a story of assault and holding
to ransom made to fit the case. If Cousin Hallelujah has not produced a
satisfactory alibi, we shall learn that he was on the spot directing the
murderers. If he has definitely shown that he wasn’t there, his name
will have been mentioned, or he will have turned up at some time which
the poor dear girl couldn’t exactly ascertain, in some dreadful den to
which she was taken in a place which she won’t be able to identify.”
“What a devilish plot.”
“Yes. Miss Whittaker is a charming young woman. If there’s anything
she’d stop at, I don’t know what it is. And the amiable Mrs. Forrest
appears to be another of the same kidney. Of course, doctor, we’re
taking you into our confidence. You understand that our catching Mary
Whittaker depends on her believing that we’ve swallowed all these false
clues of hers.”
“I’m not a talker,” said the doctor. “Gang you call it, and gang it is,
as far as I’m concerned. And Miss Findlater was hit on the head and died
of it. I only hope my colleague and the Chief Constable will be equally
discreet. I warned them, naturally, after what you said last night.”
“It’s all very well,” said Wimsey, “but what positive evidence have we,
after all, against this woman? A clever defending counsel would tear the
whole thing to rags. The only thing we can absolutely _prove_ her to
have done is the burgling that house on Hampstead Heath and stealing the
coal. The other deaths were returned natural deaths at the inquest. And
as for Miss Findlater—even if we show it to be chloroform—well,
chloroform isn’t difficult stuff to get hold of—it’s not arsenic or
cyanide. And even if there were finger-prints on the spanner—”
“There were not,” said Parker, gloomily. “This girl knows what she’s
about.”
“What did she want to kill Vera Findlater for, anyway?” asked the
doctor, suddenly. “According to you, the girl was the most valuable bit
of evidence she had. She was the one witness who could prove that Miss
Whittaker had an alibi for the other crimes—if they were crimes.”
“She may have found out too much about the connection between Miss
Whittaker and Mrs. Forrest. My impression is that she had served her
turn and become dangerous. What we’re hoping to surprise now is some
communication between Forrest and Whittaker. Once we’ve got that—”
“Humph!” said Dr. Faulkner. He had strolled to the window. “I don’t want
to worry you unduly, but I perceive Sir Charles Pillington in conference
with the Special Correspondent of the _Wire_. The _Yell_ came out with
the gang story all over the front page this morning, and a patriotic
leader about the danger of encouraging coloured aliens. I needn’t remind
you that the _Wire_ would be ready to corrupt the Archangel Gabriel in
order to kill the _Yell’s_ story.”
“Oh, hell!” said Parker, rushing to the window.
“Too late,” said the doctor. “The _Wire_ man has vanished into the post
office. Of course, you can ’phone up and try to stop it.”
Parker did so, and was courteously assured by the editor of the _Wire_
that the story had not reached him, and that if it did, he would bear
Inspector Parker’s instructions in mind.
The editor of the _Wire_ was speaking the exact truth. The story had
been received by the editor of the _Evening Banner_, sister paper to the
_Wire_. In times of crisis, it is sometimes convenient that the left
hand should not know what the right hand does. After all, it was an
exclusive story.
CHAPTER XXII
A Case of Conscience
_“I know thou art religious,_
_And hast a thing within thee called conscience,_
_With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies_
_Which I have seen thee careful to observe.”_
_Titus Andronicus_
Thursday, June 23rd, was the Eve of S. John. The sober green workaday
dress in which the church settles down to her daily duties after the
bridal raptures of Pentecost, had been put away, and the altar was white
and shining once again. Vespers were over in the Lady Chapel at S.
Onesimus—a faint reek of incense hung cloudily under the dim beams of
the roof. A very short acolyte with a very long brass extinguisher
snuffed out the candles, adding the faintly unpleasant yet sanctified
odour of hot wax. The small congregation of elderly ladies rose up
lingeringly from their devotions and slipped away in a series of deep
genuflections. Miss Climpson gathered up a quantity of little manuals,
and groped for her gloves. In doing so, she dropped her office-book. It
fell, annoyingly, behind the long kneeler, scattering as it went a small
pentecostal shower of Easter cards, book-markers, sacred pictures, dried
palms and Ave Marias into the dark corner behind the confessional.
Miss Climpson gave a little exclamation of wrath as she dived after
them—and immediately repented this improper outburst of anger in a
sacred place. “Discipline,” she murmured, retrieving the last lost sheep
from under a hassock, “discipline. I must learn self-control.” She
crammed the papers back into the office-book, grasped her gloves and
handbag, bowed to the Sanctuary, dropped her bag, picked it up this time
in a kind of glow of martyrdom, bustled down the aisle and across the
church to the south door, where the sacristan stood, key in hand,