Adventures of Martin Hewitt (13 page)

“Well,” Hewitt said, “I think I told you yesterday that I should make an
inquiry or two myself? Yes, I did. I’ve made those inquiries, and now I think
I can give the inspector some help. What is his name, by the way?”

“Truscott. He’s a very good sort of fellow, really.”

“Very well. Shall I find him at the station?”

“Probably, unless he’s off duty; that I don’t know about. But I should
call at the house first, I think, if I were you. That is much nearer than the
station, and he might possibly be there. Even if he isn’t, there will be a
constable, and he can tell you where to find Truscott.”

Hewitt accordingly made for the house, and had the good fortune to
overtake Truscott on his way there. “Good morning, inspector,” he called
cheerily. “I’ve got some information for you, I think.”

“Oh, good morning. What is it?”

“It’s in regard to
that
business,” Hewitt replied, indicating by a
nod the row of houses a hundred yards ahead. “But it will be clearer if we go
over the whole thing together and take what I have found out in its proper
place. You’re not altogether satisfied with your capture of Foster, are
you?”

“Well, I mustn’t say, of course. Perhaps not. We’ve traced his doings
yesterday after he left the house, and
perhaps
it doesn’t help us
much. But what do you know?”

“I’ll tell you. But first can you get hold of such a thing as a boat-hook?
Any long pole with a hook on the end will do.”

“I don’t know that there’s one handy. Perhaps they’ll have a garden rake
at the house, if that’ll do?”

“Excellently, I should thick, if it’s fairly long. We will ask.”

The garden rake was forthcoming at once, and with it Hewitt and the
inspector made their way along the path that led towards the railway station
and stopped where it came by the ditch.

“I’ve brought you here purely on a matter of conjecture,” Hewitt said,
“and there may be nothing in it; but if there is it will help us. This is a
very muddy ditch, with a soft bottom many feet deep probably, judging from
the wet nature of the soil hereabout.”

He took the rake and plunged it deep into the ditch, dragging it slowly
back up the side. It brought up a tangle of duckweed and rushes and slimy
mud, with a stick or two among it.

“Do you think the knife’s been thrown here?” asked the inspector.

“Possibly, and possibly something else. We’ll see.” And Hewitt made
another dive. They went along thus very thoroughly and laboriously, dragging
every part of the ditch as they went, it being frequently necessary for both
to pull together to get the rake through the tangle of weed and rubbish. They
had worked through seven or eight yards from the angle of the path where it
approached the ditch, when Hewitt stopped, with the rake at the bottom.

“Here is something that feels a little different,” he said. “I’ll get as
good a hold as I can and then we’ll drag it up slowly and steadily
together.”

He gave the rake a slight twist and then the two pulled steadily.
Presently the sunken object came away suddenly, as though mud-suction had
kept it under, and rose easily to the surface. It was a muddy mass, and they
had to swill it to and fro a few times in the clearer upper water before it
was seen to be a linen bundle. They drew it ashore and untied the thick knot
at the top. Inside was an Indian shawl, also knotted, and this they opened
also. There within, wet and dirty, lay a sextant, a chronometer in a case, a
gold watch and chain, a handful of coins, a thick gold ring, a ship carved in
ivory, with much of the delicate work broken, a sealskin waistcoat, a door
key, a seamen’s knife, and an iron hook screwed into a wooden stock.

“Lord!” exclaimed Inspector Truscott, “what’s this? It’s a queer place to
hide swag of this sort. Why, that watch and those instruments must be
ruined.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Hewitt answered. “You see the things are wrapped in
the sheets, just as you expected. But those sheets mean something more. There
are
two,
you notice.”

“Yes, of course; but I don’t see what it points to. The whole thing’s most
odd. Foster certainly would have been a fool to hide the things here; he’s a
sailor himself, and knows better than to put away chronometers and sextants
in a wet ditch—unless he got frightened, and put the things there out
of sight because the murder was discovered.”

“But you say you have traced his movements after he left. If he had come
near here while the police were about he would have been seen from the house.
No, you’ve got the wrong prisoner. The person who put those things there
didn’t want them again.”

“Then do you think robbery wasn’t the motive after all?”

“Yes, it was; but not
this
robbery. Conic, we’ll talk it over in
the house, Let us take these things with us.”

Arrived at the house Hewitt immediately locked, bolted and barred the
front door.

Then he very carefully and gently unfastened each lock, bolt and bar in
order, pressing the door with his hand and taking every precaution to avoid
noise. Nevertheless the noise was considerable. There was a sad lack of oil
everywhere, and all the bolts creaked; the lock in particular made a deal of
noise, and when the key was half turned its bolt shot back with a loud
thump.

“Anybody who had once heard that door fastened or unfastened,” said
Hewitt, “would hesitate about opening it in the dead of night after
committing murder. He would remember the noise. Do you mind taking the things
up to the room—the room—upstairs? I will go and ask Mrs Beckle a
question.”

Truscott went upstairs, and presently

Hewitt followed. “I have just asked Mrs. Beckle,” he said, “whether or not
the captain went to the front door for any purpose on the evening before his
death. She says he stood there for some half an hour or so smoking his pipe
before he went to bed. We shall see what that means presently, I. think. Now
we will go into the thing in the light of what I have found out.”

“Yes, tell me that.”

“Very well. I think it will make the thing plainer if I summarise
separately all my conclusions from the evidence as a whole from the
beginning. Perhaps the same ideas struck you, but I’m sure you’ll excuse my
going over them. Now here was a man undoubtedly murdered, and the murderer
was gone from the room. There were two ways by which he could have gone the
door and the window. If he went by the window, then he was somebody who did
not live in the place, since nobody seemed to have been missing when the girl
came down, though, mind you, it was necessary to avoid relying on all she
said, in view of her manner, and her almost acknowledged determination not to
incriminate Foster. It seemed at first sight probable that the murderer had
gone out by the door, because the key was gone entirely, and if he had left
by the window he would probably have left the key in the lock to hinder
anybody who attempted to get in with another key, or to peep. But then the
blind was
up,
and was found so in the morning. It would probably be
pulled down at dark, and the murderer would be unlikely to raise it except to
go out that way. But then the casement was shut and fastened. Just so; but
can’t it be as easily shut and fastened from the outside as from the in? The
catch is very loose, and swings by itself. True, this
prevents
the
casement shutting when it is just carelessly banged to, but see here.” He
rose and went to the window. “Anybody from outside who cared to hold the
catch back with his finger till the casement was shut as far as the frame
could then shut the window completely, and the catch would simply swing into
its appointed groove.

“And now see something more. You and I both looked at the sill outside. It
is a smooth new sill—the house itself is almost new; but probably you
saw in one place a sharply marked pit or depression. Look, it seems to have
been drilled with a sharp steel point. It was absolutely new, for there was
the powder of the stone about the mark. The wind has since blown the powder
away. Now if a man had descended from that sill by means of a rope with a
hook at the end that was just the sort of mark I should expect him to leave
behind. So that at any rate the balance of probability was that the murderer
had left by the window. But there is another thing which confirms this. You
will remember that when Mrs. Beckle mentioned that the sheets were gone from
the bed you concluded that they had been taken to carry the swag.”

“Yes, and so they were, as we have seen here in the bundle.”

“Just so; but why
both
sheets? One would be ample. And since you
allude to the bundle, why both sheets as well as the Indian shawl? This last,
by the way, is a thing Mrs. Beckle seems not to have missed in the confusion,
or perhaps she didn’t know that Pullin possessed it. Why all these wrappings,
and moreover,
why the hook?
The presumption is clear. The bundle was
already made up in the Indian shawl and required no more wrapping. The two
sheets were wanted to tie together to enable the criminal to descend from the
window, and the hook was the very thing to hold this rope with at the top. It
was not necessary to tie it to anything, and it would not prevent the
shutting of the window behind. Moreover, when the descent had been made, a
mere shake of the rope of sheets would dislodge the hook and bring it down,
thus leaving no evidence of the escape—except the mark on the sill,
which was very small.

“Then again, there was no noise or struggle heard. Pullin, as you could
see, was a powerful, hard-set man, not likely to allow his throat to be cut
without a lot of trouble, therefore the murderer must either have entered the
room unknown to him—an unlikely thing, for he had not gone to
bed—or else must have been there with his permission, and must have
taken him by sudden surprise. And now we come to the heart of the thing. Of
the two papers burnt in the grate—you have kept them under the shade I
see—one bore no trace of the writing that had been on it (many inks and
papers do not after having been burnt), but the other bore plain signs of
having been a cheque. Now just let us look at it. The main body of the paper
has burnt to a deep gray ash, nearly black, but the printed parts of the
cheque—those printed in coloured inks, that is—are of a much
paler gray, quite a light ash colour. That is the colour to which most of the
pink
ink used in printing cheques burns, as you may easily test for
yourself with an old cheque of the sort that is printed from a fine plate
with water-solution pink ink. The
black
ink, on the other hand, such
as the number of the cheque is printed in, has charred black, and by sharp
eyes is quite distinguishable against the general dark gray of the paper. The
cinder is unfortunately broken rather badly, and the part containing the
signature is missing altogether. But one can plainly see in large script
letters part of the boldest line of print, the name of the bank. The letters
are
e r n C o n s o,
and this must mean the Eastern Consolidated Bank.
Of course you saw that for yourself.”