The phantom pricking of Roger’s mental thumbs had been justified.
Murder had been committed.
FACTS AND FANCIES
Right under the very nose of Roger Sheringham himself murder had been committed.
In spite of the tragedy, Roger could hardly suppress a smile at the audacity of it. He was not unaware of his reputation among the laity; at times, indeed, he was almost childishly pleased about it. Somebody evidently thought it undeserved—somebody, too, who could make such a colossal blunder of his own as to leave that hanging body without the overturned chair which should have been its natural corollary. And Roger had to admit that the unknown might not have made such a mistake in his estimate of Roger Sheringham’s stupidity. It was only by the smallest chance that he had turned round, right in the doorway, for that last look.
Roger smiled again.
Then he turned round, passed through the doorway, and walked downstairs. It was the murderer’s own huge luck which had placed an overturned chair just where an overturned chair ought to be, and Roger was not going to interfere with it. Let the police make anything of it if they could.
Roger was accustomed to look facts in the eye. It was a fact, if a regrettable one, that Mrs. Ena Stratton meant nothing at all to him as a person, dead or alive. It was no less a fact that as a human being she had herself thrown away any sympathy in her fate; more, she had pulled that fate upon her with both hands. Roger could not feel any drivings of conscience to help the police towards avenging her.
But he could, and did feel that a challenge had been thrown down to him personally, and a rush of exhilaration drove the fatigue out of him. No, he would not take that chair away again, any more than he would tell the authorities exactly what he knew. Not yet. This was going to be played out first as a perfectly private battle of brains.
He hurried downstairs. In view of what he had learnt, he must have another look at the body, alone, before the police arrived.
Dr. Chalmers had not quite finished his examination. The stethoscope hanging round his neck, he was bending over the bed when Roger looked in at the doorway.
“No hope, I’m afraid?” Roger asked tentatively.
Dr. Chalmers glanced round, and then straightened up. “None. A dreadful business. What can have possessed her to take her life like that?”
“You think it was suicide, then?”
Dr. Chalmers stared at him, his pleasant face showing his surprise. “Why, what else could it be?”
“Oh, nothing, I suppose,” Roger said airily. “I just wondered if there was any possibility of accident, that’s all. I shouldn’t have said she was a suicidal type at all, you see; at least, on the little I saw of her.”
Dr. Chalmers drew the coverlet carefully over the body before he replied. “Wouldn’t you?” he said slowly. “Well, of course that’s more in your line than mine, but I should certainly have said that Ena’s neurotic, ego-centrical type has a predisposition to suicide. I may be wrong, of course. Morbid psychology doesn’t enter very much into a general practitioner’s work. But though I was very shocked when Ronald told me what had happened, I can’t say I felt much surprise.”
“You’ll be prepared to give evidence at the inquest, then, that in your professional opinion Mrs. Stratton was a suicidal subject?” Roger asked, wishing that Chalmers would go.
“I think so. Unless,” said Dr. Chalmers with interest, “you can convert me to the opposite view?” He looked as if he would like to embark upon such a discussion at once.
“Oh, no,” Roger said firmly. “For all I know, you’re right.” The stage seemed to be setting itself without hesitation for a verdict of suicide, and Roger had no intention of interfering with it at this juncture.
“Well,” he added, “I expect you want to see Ronald. Is he still changing?”
“No, he looked in a minute ago to say he was going upstairs.”
“I think someone ought to stay with the body,” Roger said cunningly. “I’ll take charge if you like, while you go upstairs.”
Dr. Chalmers looked for a moment a little doubtful as to the propriety of this suggestion. Then he nodded.
“Thanks. I don’t suppose it will be for more than a minute or two in any case. The police ought to be here any minute now.”
“You live nearer here than Dr. Mitchell does, I suppose?” Roger asked casually, as the other moved over to the doorway.
“Yes. We both live in Westerford, but Frank’s at the farther end.”
Roger waited until the door was safely closed. Then he hurried over to the bed.
Turning back the coverlet, he stood for a moment looking down at Ena Stratton’s body. She was still dressed exactly as she had been, even to the misshapen hat on her head, and Roger could not see that her dress had been torn or damaged in any way. If violence had been used, it must have been a tidy violence. He would have liked very much to know whether there were any marks or bruises on the trunk, but that was impossible; forcing himself to look calmly at her face, he could detect none there. With careful fingers he felt gingerly round the back of her head, sliding his hand underneath the hat, but no lump or swelling rewarded his search.
He lifted her hands, and scrutinised in turn the space beneath each nail.
So far as he could make out without a magnifying-glass, nothing was to be seen there except a few tiny strands belonging obviously to the cord that had hanged her, and some fragments of skin. On either side of her neck, as Roger had expected, was a number of long, deep scratches. Before losing consciousness, Ena Stratton must have scrabbled desperately at the cord that was choking her. The palms of her hands showed distinct signs of excoriation.
But that did not of necessity say that all of the little lumps of skin under her nails came from her own neck. Had the murderer succeeded in removing himself quickly enough out of the range of those clawing hands? Or was there anyone in the party who carried a brand-new scratch on his or her own hands or face?
Roger could not go and look for the answer to that interesting question until the police arrived to set him free from his vigil.
Ronald Stratton’s house, Sedge Park, lay three miles or so outside the fair-sized town of Westerford. The constable who had been on duty in Westerford police-station had to cover them on his push-cycle. He arrived just thirteen minutes after Ronald had telephoned, which in view of the number of things the man himself had had to do before he could leave the station, was not too bad. Ronald, who was perfectly well known to all the members of the Westerford police and himself knew most of them, brought him up to the bedroom, where he at once began asking his routine questions.
Perfectly unnecessary, thought Roger as he left them to it, because the inspector will ask exactly the same ones all over again as soon as he arrives; but they always do it.
He went upstairs once more.
Most of the party were collected now in the big room with the side open to the head of the well-staircase, where the bar had been set up. Nearly everyone was extremely tired and conversation was only spasmodic, but bed was out of the question. Ronald had already warned them that the police would almost certainly want to question each person. Standing about, or thrown into the big leather arm-chairs, they stared moodily into the still glowing fire.
At Roger’s arrival, a flicker of interest went round and Dr. Chalmers asked whether Frank Mitchell had yet arrived.
“No,” Roger explained, “but the police have. A constable. He says the inspector will be here in five or ten minutes.”
He looked round the room. There was no scratch visible on any face. He had hardly expected that there would be.
He joined Dr. Chalmers by the fire-place, and opened a low-toned conversation.
“Did you arrive at any conclusion as to how long she’d been dead?” he asked.
Dr. Chalmers looked at him inquiringly. “How long?” he repeated.
“Yes. I was just wondering whether she did it immediately after she rushed out of the ballroom, or whether she brooded about it first.”
“Oh, I see. Well, it’s difficult to say to a few minutes, you know. I took the temperature of the body, and from that, and certain other indications, I should say that, allowing for the temperature of the outside air, she must have been dead at least two hours.”
“Two hours,” Roger said thoughtfully. “Then she probably did it at once.”
“Oh, I think so, undoubtedly. She made the scene, my wife told me, just after I was called out?”
“Yes?” said Roger inattentively. “Yes. By the way, what’s the local police-inspector like?”
“A very good fellow. Not a fusser, but quite thorough. He’ll go into all details of course, but in such a straightforward case there’s not very much he can do, is there?”
“No,” said Roger. “I suppose there isn’t.”
His eyes were on the top of the staircase, perfectly visible through the low balustrade which had replaced the wall on that side of the room. The staircase ended in a small landing, off which the ballroom opened. The landing ran on for a few yards past the ballroom door, and at the end on the left there rose the short flight of stairs which led up on to the roof. This flight pierced through one of the remaining gables, so that its upper half was concealed from the bar-room; but the lower half, and the whole of the landing, was perfectly visible. Anyone mounting to the roof would therefore be under the observation of anyone standing at the bar.
The conversation with Dr. Chalmers petered out as Roger pondered over his very meagre two and two, and tried to make them into a robust four.
Anyone going up on to the roof could be seen by anyone in the bar-room. But nobody knew where Ena Stratton had gone; therefore nobody had been in the bar-room just then, because the most absorbed toper could not have remained oblivious of her exit and passage. Therefore, if her murderer followed her almost at once on to the roof, again nobody was in the bar-room, or in all probability nobody, to mark his passage either. But, of course, one must not forget that the murderer might have been on the roof already, and met her there.
Anyhow, the obvious question was: who was in the ballroom just then, and stayed there? It was possible at any rate to eliminate, if one could not construct.
Quite unconscious of the fact that to Dr. Chalmers his conduct might appear extremely rude, Roger pushed his hands in his pockets, turned his back on the other man and wandered, absorbed in his thoughts, on to the landing, where he propped his back against the stalwart pillar which ended the balustrade, and frowned ferociously as he tried to throw his memory back over the last two hours.
First of all Dr. Chalmers himself was eliminated, as he had not been on the premises at all. Then, Ronald, Mrs. Lefroy, Celia Stratton and Mrs. Williamson had been with himself in the group which had tried to be kind to David Stratton. Yes, and Margot Stratton and Mike Armstrong. So they were all cleared. Whom did that leave? Williamson, Colin Nicolson, Mrs. Chalmers, Dr. and Mrs. Mitchell— but the last two had been the first to begin the dancing again (Roger distinctly remembered that), just before he himself had led David Stratton—why, dash it all, he himself had been at the bar within a few minutes of Mrs. Stratton’s disappearance! He himself had been mounting guard over the only way of access to the roof. And had anyone passed along the landing and gone up there? Roger smiled to himself with exasperation. For the life of him he could not say. Of so much value is the evidence of the man on the spot. Roger Sheringham himself simply had not the faintest idea whether anyone had slipped out of the ballroom or not.
Nevertheless, this line of inquiry had not been quite fruitless. One thing at any rate was certain. David Stratton, who after all might be said to have a greater motive than anyone else, could not possibly have murdered his wife. During the really critical period he had been in Roger’s own company.
Well, that was one step, and a big one.
Roger looked up to find Colin Nicolson talking to him.
“ …thought about?” said Colin.
“Do you mind saying that again, Colin?” said Roger politely.
“I said, well, what’s the great man plunged in thought about? Not very well put, perhaps, but that’s what I said.” Nicolson lifted a hand and felt, in the eternal gesture of the dinner-jacketed male, the sit of his tie.
Roger looked at the hand with interest. Just above the knuckles ran a long new scratch.
It was impossible, of course, that Colin Nicolson could be the murderer of Mrs. Stratton. Absolutely and entirely out of the question. For one thing Colin would no more commit a murder than rob a blind widow, and for another he scarcely knew Mrs. Stratton at all—possibly had not spoken to her the whole evening. It was quite out of the question that Colin could have done such an incredible thing.
Nevertheless, Roger had been looking for someone who bore a nice new scratch somewhere visible, and here was a nice new scratch on Colin. Colin, at any rate, must account for the scratch.
“What was I thinking about?” Roger repeated vaguely. “Ah!”
“Very interesting, no doubt. Well, this is a nice business, I must say. How long do you think the police are going to keep us hanging about?”
“Oh, most of the night, I expect. You seem to have scratched your hand, Colin,” Roger said mildly.
“Ach, yes. A nasty jab.”
“Yes. Come up on the roof.”
“On the roof?”
“I want a mouthful of fresh air.”
“It’ll be deuced parky fresh air. Besides, we’ve only just come down. No, no. If you want more fresh air, you can go up there alone.”
“As a matter of fact, I want to speak to you rather particularly, Colin. Away from these people.”
“Ach, you’re a nuisance, Roger. All right, I suppose you’ll give me no peace till I do.”
Roger led an unwilling Colin out on the roof.
“Ah, that’s better. You ought to do something about that scratch, Colin. How did you get it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Do you expect me to faint at every wee scratch I get? Well, what do you want to say, now you’ve got me here?” asked Colin, turning up the collar of his coat. “For pity’s sake, hurry up and get it over.”