Case for Three Detectives (20 page)

“Why, we had the man round with the voters' list only last week,” the woman said. “It's my belief you're a fraud.”

“Madame,
would you please tell me whether you noticed a blue car stop in this road on Friday afternoon?” He brought out his question in one breath, frightened that he would be interrupted again before it was finished.

The woman seemed to be impressed. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and took a step nearer to us. “Friday? That's the day Mrs. Thurston was murdered, isn't it?”

She could not yet believe that such good fortune as this had come to her—to be a person actually questioned in connection with a matter so topical, so stirring and so famous as a local murder.

“Yes,” said Picon patiently.

“Have you got anything to do with it?” asked the woman eagerly. “Is it something of that that brings you here asking questions off of me?”

“Yes.”

“Well!” She was spellbound. It was a great moment for her. She looked from one to the other of us. “Fancy that!” she said.

“And now perhaps you could tell me about the motorcar?” insisted Picon gently.

“Motor-car. Motor-car.” She was driving her brain to its
utmost. Even now this glorious moment of importance might escape her. But her eyes lit up. “Yes!” she said shrilly, “there was a motor-car stop outside of ‘ere!” Then her voice dropped. “But then it's the one that often does.”

“What is it like?”

“Dark blue. Driven by a chauffeur.”

“And you say it often stops here?”

“Well, yes. Pretty often. Several of them do, you know. They leave their cars here while they go for a walk through the woods. Especially when the primroses is out. We get quite a lot then. My ‘usband always says he's going to put a notice ‘ N
O
P
ARKING
' on our gate, but he never does. We don't get so many this time of year, of course. But this blue one's been more than once lately. You see”—she became conspiratorial—“you see, the young fellow what drives it brings ‘is young lady, and off they goes for a walk through the woods. Well, it's famous, that footpath.”

“And on Friday?” said M. Picon, not so much prompting her as keeping her relevant.

“Oh yes, they was here on Friday, because that's the afternoon I does my washing, and I remember seeing the car in the road while I was hanging it out. There was a nice breeze, too, I was thankful for, seeing that I had more than usual …”

“And you say they both came? The chauffeur and his girl?”

“Yes, they was both there because I'eard' emquarrelling.”

Picon started. “You heard them quarrelling?”

“Yes, cat and dog they was when they got out of the car. Only not like anyone as is married—that's different.”

“Did you hear what they said?”

“No, I didn't. And shouldn't like to of, neither. I never believe in listening to what doesn't concern me. All I know is they was on about something, and ‘ard at it till they went down the footpath. I don't know what happened after that, though I can well guess.”

“No doubt,” said M. Picon dryly. “And when they returned?”

“Oh, it was all over then. Sunshine after the storm, as you might say. I saw them coming up the road together, arm-in-arm they was.”

“And you heard nothing, absolutely nothing that passed between them?”

“Not a word. Well, I'd never listen to other people's conversation.”

“What did they look like?”

The woman gave an incoherent but sufficient description of Fellowes and Enid, and M. Picon, by asking a few questions, confirmed their identity with the two whom the woman had seen.

“Eh,
bien,
I thank you,
madame.
You have been of the very greatest assistance to me.”

“That's all right,” said the woman. “Do you think I shall be wanted at the trial?”

“I can't tell you, I'm afraid.”

“I suppose I shall ‘ave my photo took, won't I?”

“That is for the newspapers to decide. But at all events you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have materially assisted me in my search for truth.”

This did not seem to please the woman very much, but when M. Picon once more elaborately raised his hat sne managed to smile.

“Au revoir, madame”
said M. Picon, and we left her gazing after us.

“But, Picon,” I began, scarcely able to wait until we were out of earshot of the cottage, “how did you know that you would get your information there, of all places?”

“Mon ami,
are you really so short-sighted? Could you not see that it is the only house near a point from which one would notice that the flag on the tower was at half-mast?”

“Picon! You're a genius!” I exclaimed, and did not
grumble at the long walk home.

“And now,” said Picon, “for a little I must think, and then, perhaps, all is complete.
Voyons.
Amer Picon will not be so far behind, after all. There is light now. Oh yes, my friend, plenty of light. A little thought, and I see all. A most ingenious crime. A most ingenious crime.”

“Well, I wish I could see anything at all. If this visit of Fellowes and Enid's means so much, what was Fellowes doing with that other pair this morning? Perhaps it was a murder by a sort of committee, Picon?” I suggested, conscious that my guesses were getting wilder and wilder, as the evidence grew more confused. “Perhaps they were
all
in it.”

M. Picon smiled. “No. I do not think they were all in it,” he said.

“Then … but hang it all, Picon, I don't believe you've solved it after all. You may have discovered who had the best motives, but what none of you seem to think about is that room. It was bolted, I tell you, and I never moved from the door while Williams searched it. How are you going to explain that? You may have proved that Fellowes was lying when he said he never took Enid that afternoon, but how will that help you? You've got to explain a miracle.”

“No,
mon ami.
The miracle would be if Madame Thurston lived, not that she is dead. This scheme was irresistible, and it seemed undiscoverable. But it was worked out without remembering Amer Picon—the great Amer Picon. For your police—pah! It would never have been discovered. But to-night you shall see. I will tell you all you want to know. Everything shall be made plain to you. I promise.”

“If you do that you're a wonder. Do you know sometimes lately I have almost begun to agree with Williams, that there was something sinister, something occult?”

“Sinister, yes. But there was no magic here,” said M. Picon, as we reached the outskirts of our own village.

M. P
ICON
left me on the village, where he was staying, and I hurried on towards the house alone. It was dusk now and in the autumn breeze, which had risen with the evening, the trees cracked and swayed. I was thinking how pleasant it would be to warm my hands over a fire and drink some hot tea, when I noticed something in the road before me which at first seemed too shapeless for a human being, as though a sack of coals had become animated and was moving forward between the hedges. As I came nearer I recognized Mgr. Smith.

1 had noticed that people who had not the advantage of a long acquaintance with him, often expressed a wholly superfluous pity for the little man who had the trick of appearing vague and ineffectual. So I was determined not to sympathize with him over the fact that both Lord Simon and M. Picon had got ahead of him, lest I should find myself looking foolish when he revealed that he had solved the problem long ago.

Besides, Dr. Tate, the local G.P., was with him, and addressed me at once. “I have been telling our friend here.” he said, “of a rather curious legend connected with this village. I thought it might be rather in his line.”

I could see that Mgr. Smith was smiling at that, but he made no reply and Dr. Tate continued. “The archaeologists call it the story of the Angel of Death,” he said, “but I don't know how that name was first used. It seems that the story itself had been handed down from mediæval times, when the house that is now called Tipton Farm House was the only habitation of any size about here, and must have been something like a small castle. It was in ruins for
centuries, and rebuilt in Georgian times. If you go there any time you can see that some of the walls are three feet thick. What those walls could tell!”

“Why?” asked Mgr. Smith innocently. “Does their thickness mean that they are the kind of walls which have ears?”

Dr. Tate continued. “I forget the name of the family,” he admitted, “but they were, of course, Catholics, and had all the faith of people of your religion in bogeys, and what not.”

“Bogeys?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“Well, you know the sort of thing.”

“I'm afraid I don't,” said Mgr. Smith.

“Well, hang it, do you believe in devils?” challenged Dr. Tate.

“Do you believe in germs?” retorted Mgr. Smith.

Dr. Tate decided to leave this treacherous ground. “At all events, the members of this family were superstitious. And the head of it, Sir Giles something or other, was the most superstitious of all. For years before he finally died, he claimed to have visions of the death that awaited him. It was no ordinary death …”

“What is an ordinary death?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“Well—death from some illness … death in bed.”

“I see. An ordinary death is one in which the deceased was attended by a doctor, perhaps?”

“Yes. No. I mean … well, whatever an ordinary death may be, the death visualized for himself by Sir Giles was very far from ordinary. He said he could see him coming—the Angel of Death himself. He came through the air on great black wings. He was clad in black from head to foot, and he held a sword in his hand.

“What was the sword for?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“To strike with.”

“I see. I thought its use might be to perform an operation.”

“Sir Giles saw this a number of times—always the same.
The Angel of Death eame winging through the air from a great distance, and came to avenge himself on the unfortunate Sir Giles.”

“To avenge himself? What had Sir Giles done to him, then?” asked Mgr. Smith.

“He was a very loose-living old fellow. And these visions were a good deal a source of repentance. He seemed to think that the Angel of Death would strike him for his sins. Mind you, I'm only telling you the local story.”

“I know. I hope it has a happy ending.”

“At last, it seemed, the Angel of Death struck. The old man had been behaving outrageously, even according to the standards of those days. And he seemed to expect that he would suffer for it. He said that he had seen the black wings beating their way nearer several times. And at last one evening he went up into a tower of his castle alone, and did not reappear for some houfs. The household grew anxious, and presently one of his sons went up to look for him. He found the old man lying in his own blood on the floor of the topmost room, not quite dead, but on the point of expiry.”

“And what were his last words?” asked Mgr. Smith, who seemed to be enjoying the whole story in a chuckling bort of way.

“The son raised his father's head, and the old man nodded to the window, or port-hole, or whatever they had in castles then. ‘Death came on wings!' he whispered, and then expired.”

“And how had he died?”

“That is the interesting part of the story,” said Dr. Tate. “It was never known how he died. There had been a sentry at the foot of the stairs all the time the old man was up in his tower, and a thorough search was made of the whole building without any success. The room in which he was found was thirty feet from the ground, and no weapon was discovered. So the people in the house, being as I said, superstitious

“Oh, they were all superstitious. You did not tell us that.”

“Well, what can you expect they were in those dark ages? Anyhow, they believed of course that the vision of the old man had come to pass, and the Angel of Death had struck him at last.”

“I see. So his murderer was never discovered?”

“No. What do you think of the story?”

“I think that like many good stories it is a lie”

“Oh.”

“But you are quite right in thinking that I should be interested in the story. Is it well known about here?”

“Very. It would be difficult for anyone to live in the parish long without hearing it. Why, I believe that our crazy Vicar even used it in one of his sermons the other day. Sort of warning to people who misbehaved themselves. But then he's an unaccountable chap. Well, I turn in here. Little girl with whooping cough. I hope you clear up this rather more urgent mystery of ours. Terrible business. I'm not an advocate of capital punishment myself, but I think that the man who killed Mary Thurston ought to be hanged. Good night to you both. Good night.”

Dr. Tate turned into a narrow drive and left us to complete our walk alone. I was thinking quickly. Something in the story had caught my imagination. The idea of death coming on wings. The mystery of Mary Thurston's death was to me so baffling that nothing seemed too far-fetched. Suppose—of course I knew it was fantastic—but suppose that someone could fly like that? Even if it was only from a first-floor window to a point on the ground far enough away from the walls to leave no sign of landing. Was it, after all, so impossible? I remembered, as a boy, experimenting in jumps from the roof of a shed with an open umbrella in my hand to break the fall. The experiments had not been very successful, but still…

After all, it was not as though the murderer would have
had to fly
in
at the window. It was only
out
of it. Surely some contrivance, perhaps in the nature of a parachute, would have been possible. Or wings of some kind. There were such things as gliders. Was I really a fool to wonder about such possibilities?