Here Comes a Chopper (22 page)

‘Scars, sir. On the posterior, sir. Two. About three inches apart. Shaped like you’d tear your trousers, sir, on barbed wire. Bluish, sir. For a dark-complected man, Mr Lingfield had a very white skin.’

‘Which side were these scars?’

‘On the left, sir. Mr Lingfield was a right-handed gentleman.’

‘What has that to do with it?’

‘If you’ll notice, sir, with very few exceptions a right-handed gentleman will put his left leg through first, sir. Same with getting into his trousers, if you’ll notice.’

‘I hadn’t noticed, but you may be right. You swear to the left buttock?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. And, as I say, sir, the marks had
kind of bluish edges, and was raised a bit. The wire was very rusty, I should fancy. He was lucky not to have blood-poisoning, and so I told him at the time I see them first.’

‘He doesn’t seem to have been very lucky afterwards,’ said the coroner, dismissing the witness, whom he privately classed as a scoundrel, although not, in this instance, a liar. He then called Claudia again.

‘Mrs Den—Vesper, you will understand why I attach so much importance to these scars. We must correctly identify this man. Now, since you came before me at the preliminary enquiry, I have devoted some thought to the matter, and I want you to tell me, if you can, any
other
reason you had for supposing that the dead man was not Mr Lingfield.’

‘I had no other reason. It was just the scars. I’m afraid there was nothing else to go by.’

‘And are you still prepared to hold to your statement in view of what Sim has just said?’

‘Of course I am. If I really thought it was Harry I should have said so.’

‘I am not——’ The coroner stopped, and gazed in exasperated enquiry at Mr MacAdam, who had risen in his place and was elevating a handsome nose (not completely of Scottish extraction) preparatory to offering battle.

‘Sir!’ said Mr MacAdam, in awful tones.

‘If you please,’ said the coroner, waving him back into his seat. ‘I was about to say, Mrs Den—Vesper——’

‘Do call me Denbies. I’m so much more used to it,’ said the witness.

‘Very well, Mrs Denbies. I was about to say that I am not impressed with your evidence of identification. It seems to me much less convincing than that of the valet Sim. Nevertheless, to clear the matter up, as there seems to be this dispute, if you did not believe the dead man to be Mr Lingfield, whom did you suppose it to be?’

‘My husband, Vassily Vesper,’ replied the witness, creating by this statement such a sensation that, as she caught her lawyer’s horrified eye, she involuntarily smiled.

‘But,’ said the coroner, himself completely taken aback by this disclosure, ‘how did you—what made you—why did you not tell me this at the last hearing?’

‘If you did not believe me when I told you I did not think it was Harry Lingfield——’

‘But the scars?’

‘Vassily had similar scars.’

‘That is very curious, surely?’

‘Oh, yes, very.’

‘How do you explain it?’

‘I suppose there was some more barbed wire somewhere.’

‘Were they—was it——?’

‘They were not both climbing under barbed wire at the same time—no. But my husband had his scars first.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘No. You must take my word for it. I am still under oath, you know.’

‘Mrs Denbies, you must please not to appear flippant. This is a serious matter. You now tell me that to the best of your belief the body you were shown in the mortuary was that of Vassily Vesper, your former husband?’

‘Not my former husband. I mean, we were not divorced. The answer to your question is, yes I do. I know quite well that it was.’

‘Although you cannot remember on which side Mr Lingfield had his scars?’

‘I’m no good at right and left, but if you’ll get the clerk or someone to stand and turn round—oh, thank you, Mr MacAdam!—I can assure you that Vassily’s scars were on
this
side.’

She pointed to Mr MacAdam’s perfectly clothed and elegantly rounded posterior.

‘Oh, on the left, were they?’

‘If that’s the left, yes, they were.’

‘I think you know that the scars on the body were also on the left.’

‘Of course I know. That’s what I’m trying to point out. Harry’s were the opposite side.’

‘But Sim disputes that,’ said the coroner.

‘I never knew you were married to Vassily Vesper!’ said Lady Catherine, annoyed that she was disregarded. She remained so, however, except for the coroner’s irritated click of the tongue.

‘You know that for certain?’ he demanded. ‘You seemed very doubtful just now. Was Mr Lingfield
a left-handed man?’ He was still addressing the witness.

‘I can’t remem——Oh, yes, I can, though! I think he must have been right-handed. At least, he used to shoot right-handed. Still, it might be awkward not to, so that wouldn’t prove much, would it?’

‘It would depend upon what you wanted to prove,’ said the coroner. ‘Call Inspector Lucas, again.’

The inspector made way for Claudia, and the sergeant gallantly handed her a chair.

‘A bow and arrow?’ said the coroner, when the inspector had answered his first question. ‘Oh, I see. That’s the kind of shooting Mrs Denbies had in mind. I suppose that makes rather a difference.’

‘Our submission, sir,’ continued the inspector, ‘is that the deceased was killed by being shot through the throat or the jugular vein by an arrow, his head being afterwards removed.’

‘But it’s only a theory?’

‘Nothing but a theory, sir, of course. And, at that, we owe it to Doctor Lestrange Bradley, sir,’ he added handsomely, ‘who was the first to make the suggestion. We thought of a gun.’

‘I see. That was why the head was cut off?’

‘That again is only theory, sir, of course, but there would be need to disguise the actual means of causing death.’

‘It might be worth your while to look into it. I can see that. But why a bow and arrow? I believe that was mentioned before. Ah, yes! I have it here
in my notes about using the right and left hand.’

‘The house-party were apt to practise archery, sir. It was one of the pastimes provided for the guests by Mr Lingfield. I believe he was himself a good archer.’

‘Call Hector MacIver,’ said the coroner.

MacIver was short and squat. He had a small scrubby beard which made him look a good deal older than he was, and the childishly candid eyes which are not often set in brachycephalic skulls. He was sworn with a solemnity and a frightening importance which he himself involuntarily created by calling for the Roman Catholic instead of the Authorized Version.

‘Your name?’ asked the coroner.

‘Hector James Andrew MacIver.’

‘You are an engine-driver?’

‘I am so.’

‘Will you describe your experiences on the night of Thursday, the 29th of March?’

‘I will do that. We were a wee thing late, ye ken, and I was not just easy in my mind that we would run to time. There is being just a bit anxious I was, but not greatly.’

‘There was nothing else troubling you, Mr MacIver, except that the train might be late?’

‘Och, now, no, there was not anything troubling me at all, at all but that same. I will be a man wi’a record, ye ken.’

‘No domestic worries?’

‘Och, that!’

‘Your wife was expecting a baby.’

‘Och, aye. And we have him, aye, and he’s bonny!’

‘I’m glad to hear it. You were naturally a little anxious about your wife on that particular night?’

‘Och, aye. She’s no very bonny at siccan times, ye ken. But a’s well. Aye, and the wean’s fine!’

‘I congratulate you. But—well, never mind, Mr MacIver. Go on with your story.’

‘Aye. Well, we would have been running up the gradient before ye win to the level crossing we ca’ Stump’s Gallows, and I was thinking I could see a body across the line. So I put on the brakes and pulled up, and then I was thinking the body had nae heid on him. It was an awfu’ thing, that. Man, man, but that was a gey awfu’ thing! I will have seen it several times in the war, and I dinna wish to see it again. Guid sakes, but I couldna thole it!’

‘You had a bad shock?’

‘I did, so. But I needna hae fashed mysel’ at that, for there was naething across the line at a’.’

‘You believe that?’ asked the coroner, very sharply. ‘You did not believe it at the time! Do you really believe it now?’

‘Och, aye.’ The childlike gaze was rested on his. ‘Och, aye. Why for should I not be believing it? Isn’t it myself has the gift, bad luck to it for a mournful thing and a black handicap to a man’s peace, so it is, so it is!’

‘The gift?’

‘Och, aye. Hae ye never heard tell of the gift?’

‘You mean, I take it, that you suffered from a—from a hallucination?’

‘Ye may ca’ it that!’

‘But haven’t you ever been medically treated?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, what did the doctor say to you?’

‘He said, “Ye’re fine. Dinna do it ony mair, ye gowk!” ’

‘He said——?’

‘I had drink taken, ye ken,’ explained Mr MacIver with the flicker of a smile. ‘Hooch. I was very ba-ad. Very ba-ad, so I was, indeed. That was in Germany I was, I was so ba-ad.’

There was a rustle. The coroner quelled it with a glare which he then switched on to the witness, only to find its fierceness rendered impotent. Mr MacIver clearly expected sympathy and not censure. The coroner gave in.

‘The—this experience left you, no doubt, with some—er—after-effects, Mr MacIver?’ he suggested, abandoning his attempt to discredit the witness’s sanity.

‘I dinna ken,’ replied MacIver, very gravely.

‘Did you know the dead man, this Mr Lingfield?’

‘Sir,’ said the witness mildly, ‘I put it to ye with a’ possible respect, but ye should pay mair attention to the leddy.’

‘To the——?’

‘To Mrs Denbies,’ said MacIver quietly. ‘She tellt ye ye’re chasing after the wrong deer, and
ye dinna care to heed her. It’s an awfu’ mistake. Och, aye!’

‘Answer the question!’ said the coroner wrathfully. ‘You are not here to direct me what to do.’

‘I kent Mr Lingfield verra well, och, but verra well. A’ that I am after telling ye the now is that the leddy is right, and Mr Lingfield, in
my
opinion, isna deid.’

‘Oh, you think that, do you?’ said the coroner. ‘Well, I don’t think we need that opinion. You had better stand down. Call Mr Hoskyn again.’

Roger, looking bored and feeling empty, went back to the chair which served as a seat for the witness giving evidence.

‘Now,’ said the coroner, ‘take your time, Mr Hoskyn. On the day of the deceased’s death you saw him alive at some time during the afternoon.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But I understand from the report that you saw him!’

‘I don’t know, really. You see, I’ve never met Mr Lingfield, so I don’t know whether the man I saw——’

‘Oh, you
did
see somebody? Who was with him?’

‘The word is “were”,’ said Roger. ‘The man I saw was accompanied by Mrs Denbies and by a boy, George Merrow, Mr Lingfield’s nephew, I believe.’

‘The man
was
Mr Lingfield,’ said Claudia’s solicitor. ‘There is no argument against that, sir.
My client admits that she was with him. She even admits she quarrelled with him.’

‘Thank you, Mr MacAdam,’ said the coroner. ‘No more of your shuffling, young man!’ he added, addressing Roger ill-temperedly. ‘Now then! You saw these three people together?’

‘Yes.’

‘At what time?’

‘I don’t know. Half-past five, I should say.’

‘Then you saw one of them alone?’

‘Yes, the boy, George Merrow.’

‘What did you conclude from that?’

Roger involuntarily grinned.

‘Oh, that they’d managed to get rid of the kid,’ he answered, ‘and go off riding by themselves.’

‘After you had seen this boy ride past, it appears that you went to Whiteledge, the dead man’s home. What made you think of going there?’

‘Oh, I didn’t
think
of it at all. The house happened to be a sort of outpost of civilization, and we’d lost our way, so we went and knocked to see whether they could tell us where we’d got to.’

‘And in this house you saw Mrs Denbies and the boy, but not the man you had seen with them on the common. Did that not strike you as odd?’

‘No. And even if it had, it needn’t have. It was all explained very soon.’

‘I should think so, too,’ said Lady Catherine, who was tired of being ignored. ‘Thirteen at table, of all unconscionable things! That’s what Harry had done for George’s party! But Harry never did have the very slightest thought for other people! I have
often told him so myself. I was never afraid of Harry, no matter what people have told you!’

‘Ah, yes, Lady Catherine,’ said the coroner. ‘You were responsible for inviting Mr Hoskyn and his fiancée to your—to this house. Now, if I might just finish first with Mr Hoskyn——’

‘I don’t know any Mr Hoskyn,’ protested Lady Catherine. ‘There would never have been any question of Mr Hoskyn but for Harry’s ridiculous behaviour. And it’s all nonsense for Claudia to tell you that he rode away and left her like that. They
couldn’t
have quarrelled! I don’t believe a word of it! They were head over heels in love, and who can blame them? Do you blame them? You may not look intelligent, but I cannot think you would blame them. I did not.’

‘In just a minute, please, Lady Catherine!’

‘Nonsense! It doesn’t need swearing on a Bible that Claudia met him after midnight. Everyone knows that she did. Bugle knows, Sim knows, I know. Even Mrs Bradley knows, although I swear on the Bible I did not tell her.’

‘Oh, hell!’ said Roger, under his breath. There was another stir in the courtroom, and the reporter in the back corner scribbled vigorously, his tongue at the corner of his mouth.

‘Really, Lady Catherine, you must not interrupt me or the witness,’ said the coroner, very severely. ‘Now, Mr Hoskyn, please attend to me closely. You were in the train, I understand, driven by the witness MacIver on the night of Thursday, March 29th, when the train was stopped near—er—he
consulted his notes—near the level crossing at Stumps Gallows. Is that so?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Roger. ‘I was on the train all right.’