Murder in the Morning

 

“HALF A MILE ALONG the main road to Ditchley, and then turn off to the

left at the signpost,” said the Traveller in Mangles; “but I think you’ll be

wasting your time.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Montague Egg cheerfully, “I’ll have a shot at the

old bird. As the Salesman’s Handbook says: ‘Don’t let the smallest chance

slip by; you never know until you try.’ After all, he’s supposed to be rich,

isn’t he?”

“Mattresses stuffed with gold sovereigns, or so the neighbours say,”

acknowledged the Traveller in Mangles with a grin. “But they’d say

anything.”

“Thought you said there weren’t any neighbours.”

“No more they are. Manner of speaking. Well, good luck to it!”

Mr. Egg acknowledged the courtesy with a wave of his smart trilby, and

let his clutch in with quiet determination.

The main road was thronged with the usual traffic of a Saturday

morning in June—worthy holiday-makers bound for Melbury Woods or for

the seashore about Beachampton—but as soon as he turned into the little

narrow lane by the sign-post which said “Hatchford Mill 2 Miles,” he was

plunged into a profound solitude and silence, broken only by the scurry of

an occasional rabbit from the hedgerow and the chug of his own Morris.

Whatever else the mysterious Mr. Pinchbeck might be, he certainly was a

solitary soul, and when, about a mile and a half down the lane, Monty

caught sight of the tiny cottage, set far back in the middle of a neglected-

looking field, he began to think that the Traveller in Mangles had been

right. Rich though he might be, Mr. Pinchbeck was probably not a very likely customer for the wines and spirits supplied by Messrs. Plummet &

Rose of Piccadilly. But, remembering Maxim Five of the Salesman’s

Handbook, “If you’re a salesman worth the name at all, you can sell razors

to a billiard-ball,” Mr. Egg stopped his car at the entrance to the field, lifted

the sagging gate and dragged it open, creaking in every rotten rail, and

drove forward over the rough track, scarred with the ruts left by wet-

weather traffic.

The cottage door was shut. Monty beat a cheerful tattoo upon its

blistered surface, and was not very much surprised to get no answer. He

knocked again, and then, unwilling to abandon his quest now he had come

so far, walked round to the back. Here again he got no answer. Was Mr.

Pinchbeck out? It was said that he never went out. Being by nature

persistent and inquisitive, Mr. Egg stepped up to the window and looked in.

What he saw made him whistle softly. He returned to the back door, pushed

it open and entered.

When you arrive at a person’s house with no intention beyond selling

him a case of whisky or a dozen or so of port, it is disconcerting to find him

stretched on his own kitchen floor, with his head battered to pulp. Mr. Egg

had served two years on the Western Front, but he did not like what he saw.

He put the table-cloth over it. Then, being a methodical sort of person, he

looked at his watch, which marked 10:25. After a minute’s pause for

consideration, he made a rapid tour of the premises, then set off, driving as

fast as he could, to fetch the police.

The inquest upon Mr. Humphrey Pinchbeck took place the following

day, and resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or

persons unknown. During the next fortnight, Mr. Montague Egg, with some

uneasiness, watched the newspapers. The police were following up a clue.

A man was requested to communicate with the police. The man was described—a striking-looking person with a red beard and a check suit,

driving a sports car with the registered number WOE 1313. The man was

found. The man was charged, and Mr. Montague Egg, three hundred miles

away, was informed, to his disgust, that he would be required to give

evidence before the magistrates at Beachampton.

The accused, who gave his name as Theodore Barton, age forty-two,

profession poet (at which Monty stared very hard, never having seen a poet

at such close quarters), was a tall, powerfully built man, dressed in

flamboyant tweeds, and having a certain air of rather disreputable

magnificence about him. One would expect, thought Monty, to find him

hanging about bars in the East Central district of London. His eyes were

bold, and the upper part of his face handsome in its way; the mouth was

hidden by the abundance of his tawny beard. He appeared to be perfectly at

his ease, and was represented by a solicitor.

Montague Egg was called at an early stage to give evidence of the

finding of the body. He mentioned that the time was 10:25 a.m. on

Saturday, June 18th, and that the body was still quite warm when he saw it.

The front door was locked; the back door shut, but not locked. The kitchen

was greatly disordered, as though there had been a violent struggle, and a

blood-stained poker lay beside the dead man. He had made a rapid search

before sending for the police. In a bedroom upstairs he had seen a heavy

iron box standing open and empty, with the keys hanging from the lock.

There was no other person in the cottage, nor yet concealed about the little

yard, but there were marks as though a large car had recently stood in a

shed at the back of the house. In the sitting-room were the remains of

breakfast for two persons. He (Mr. Egg) had passed down the lane from the

high-road in his car, and had met nobody at all on the way. He had spent perhaps five or ten minutes in searching the place, and had then driven back

by the way he came.

At this point Detective-Inspector Ramage explained that the lane

leading to the cottage ran on for half a mile or so to pass Hatchford Mill,

and then bent back to enter the main Beachampton road again at a point

three miles nearer Ditchley.

The next witness was a baker named Bowles. He gave evidence that he

had called at the cottage with his van at 10:15, to deliver two loaves of

bread. He had gone to the back door, which had been opened by Mr.

Pinchbeck in person. The old gentleman had appeared to be in perfect

health, but a little flurried and irritable. He had not seen any other person in

the kitchen, but had an impression that before he knocked he had heard two

men’s voices talking loudly and excitedly. The lad who had accompanied

Bowles on his round confirmed this, adding that he fancied he had seen the

outline of a man move across the kitchen window.

Mrs. Chapman, from Hatchford Mill, then came forward to say that she

was accustomed to go in every weekday to Mr. Pinchbeck’s cottage to do a

bit of cleaning. She arrived at 7:30 and left at 9 o’clock. On Saturday 18th

she had come as usual, to find that a visitor had arrived unexpectedly the

night before. She identified the accused, Theodore Barton, as that visitor.

He had apparently slept on the couch in the sitting-room, and was departing

again that morning. She saw his car in the shed; it was a little sports one,

and she had particularly noticed the number, WOE 1313, thinking that there

was an unlucky number and no mistake. The interior of the shed was not

visible from the back door. She had set breakfast for the two of them. The

milkman and the postman had called before she left, and the grocer’s van

must have come soon after, for it was down at the Mill by 9:30. Nobody

else ever called at the cottage, so far as she knew. Mr. Pinchbeck was a vegetarian and grew his own garden-stuff. She had never known him have a

visitor before. She had heard nothing in the nature of “words” between Mr.

Pinchbeck and the accused, but had thought the old man was not in the best

of spirits. “He seemed a bit put out, like.”

Then came another witness from the Mill, who had heard a car with a

powerful engine drive very rapidly past the Mill a little before half-past ten.

He had run out to look, fast cars being a rarity in the lane, but had seen

nothing, on account of the trees which bordered the road at the corner just

beyond the Mill.

At this point the police put in a statement made by the accused on his

arrest. He said that he was the nephew of the deceased, and frankly

admitted that he had spent the night at the cottage. Deceased had seemed

pleased to see him, as they had not met for some time. On hearing that his

nephew was “rather hard up,” deceased had remonstrated with him about

following so ill paid a profession as poetry, but had kindly offered him a

small loan, which he, the accused, had gratefully accepted. Mr. Pinchbeck

had then opened the box in his bedroom and brought out a number of

banknotes, of which he had handed over “ten fivers,” accompanying the gift

by a little sermon on hard work and thrift. This had happened at about 9:45

or a little earlier—at any rate, after Mrs. Chapman was safely off the

premises. The box had appeared to be full of banknotes and securities, and

Mr. Pinchbeck had expressed distrust both of Mrs. Chapman and of the

tradesmen in general. (Here Mrs. Chapman voiced an indignant protest, and

had to be soothed by the Bench.) The statement went on to say that the

accused had had no sort of quarrel with his uncle, and had left the cottage

at, he thought, 10 o’clock or thereabouts, and driven on through Ditchley

and Frogthorpe to Beachampton. There he had left his car with a friend, to

whom it belonged, and had hired a motorboat and gone over to spend a fortnight in Brittany. Here he had heard nothing about his uncle’s death till

the arrival of Detective-Inspector Ramage had informed him of the

suspicion against him. He had, of course, hastened back immediately to

establish his innocence.

The police theory was that, as soon as the last tradesman had left the

house, Barton had killed the old man, taken his keys, stolen the money, and

escaped, supposing that the body would not be found till Mrs. Chapman

arrived on the Monday morning.

While Theodore Barton’s solicitor was extracting from Inspector

Ramage the admission that the only money found on the accused at the time

of his arrest was six Bank of England five-pound notes and a few shillings’

worth of French money, Mr. Egg became aware that somebody was

breathing very hard and excitedly down the back of his neck, and, on

turning round, found himself face to face with an elderly woman, whose

rather prominent eyes seemed ready to pop out of her head with agitation.

“Oh!” said the woman, bouncing in her seat. “Oh, dear!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Egg, ever courteous. “Am I in your way,

or anything?”

“Oh! oh, thank you! Oh, do tell me what I ought to do. There’s

something I ought to tell them. Poor man. He isn’t guilty at all. I know he

isn’t. Oh, please do tell me what I ought to do. Do I have to go to the

police? Oh, dear, oh, dear! I thought—I didn’t know—I’ve never been in a

place like this before! Oh, I know they’ll bring him in guilty. Please, please

stop them!”

“They can’t bring him in guilty in this court,” said Monty soothingly.

“They can send him up for trial—”

“Oh, but they mustn’t! He didn’t do it. He wasn’t there. Oh, please do

something about it.”

She appeared so earnest that Mr. Egg, slightly clearing his throat and

settling his tie, rose boldly to his feet and exclaimed in stentorian accents:

“Your Worship!”

The bench stared. The solicitor stared. The accused stared. Everybody

stared.

“There is a lady here,” said Monty, feeling that he must go through with

it, “who tells me she has important evidence to give on behalf of the

accused.”

The staring eyes became focused upon the lady, who instantly started

up, dropping her handbag, and crying: “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry! I’m afraid I

ought to have gone to the police.”

The solicitor, in whose face surprise, annoyance and anticipation

struggled curiously together, at once came forward. The lady was extricated

and short whispered consultation followed, after which the solicitor said:

“Your worship, my client’s instructions were to reserve his defence, but,

since the lady, whom I have never seen until this moment, has so

generously come forward with her statement, which appears to be a

complete answer to the charge, perhaps your worship would prefer to hear

her at this stage.”

After a little discussion, the Bench decided that they would like to hear

the evidence, if the accused was agreeable. Accordingly, the lady was put in

the box, and sworn, in the name of Millicent Adela Queek.

“I am a spinster, and employed as art mistress at Woodbury High School

for Girls. Saturday 18th was a holiday, of course, and I thought I would

have a little picnic, all by my lonesome, in Melbury Woods. I started off in

my own little car just about 9:30. It would take me about half an hour to get

to Ditchley—I never drive very fast, and there was a lot of traffic on the

road—most dangerous. When I got to Ditchley, I turned to the right, along the main road to Beachampton. After a little time I began to wonder

whether I had put in quite enough petrol. My gauge isn’t very reliable, you

know, so I thought I’d better stop and make quite certain. So I pulled up at a

roadside garage. I don’t know exactly where it was, but it was quite a little

way beyond Ditchley—between that and Helpington. It was one of those

dreadfully ugly places, made of corrugated iron painted bright red. I don’t

think they should allow them to put up things like that. I asked the man

there—a most obliging young man—to fill my tank, and while I was there I

saw this gentleman—yes, I mean Mr. Barton, the accused—drive up in his

car. He was coming from the Ditchley direction and driving rather fast. He

pulled up on the left-hand side of the road. The garage is on the right, but I

saw him very distinctly. I couldn’t mistake him—his beard, you know, and

the clothes he was wearing—so distinctive. It was the same suit he is

wearing now. Besides, I noticed the number of his car. Such a curious one,

is it not? WOE 1313. Yes. Well, he opened the bonnet and did something to

his plugs, I think, and then he drove on.”

“What time was this?”

“I was just going to tell you. When I came to look at my watch I found

it had stopped. Most vexatious. I think it was due to the vibration of the

steering-wheel. But I looked up at the garage clock—there was one just

over the door—and it said 10:20. So I set my watch by that. Then I went on

to Melbury Woods and had my little picnic. So fortunate, wasn’t it? that I

looked at the clock then. Because my watch stopped again later on. But I do

know that it was 10:20 when this gentleman stopped at the garage, so I

don’t see how he could have been doing a murder at that poor man’s cottage

between 10:15 and 10:25, because it must be well over twenty miles away

—more, I should think.”

Miss Queek ended her statement with a little gasp, and looked round

triumphantly.

Detective-Inspector Ramage’s face was a study. Miss Queek went on to

explain why she had not come forward earlier with her story.

“When I read the description in the papers I thought it must be the same

car I had seen, because of the number—but of course I couldn’t be sure it

was the same man, could I? Descriptions are so misleading. And naturally I

didn’t want to be mixed up with a police case. The school, you know—

parents don’t like it. But I thought, if I came and saw this gentleman for

myself, then I should be quite certain. And Miss Wagstaffe—our head-

mistress—so kindly gave me leave to come, though to-day is very

inconvenient, being my busiest afternoon. But I said it might be a matter of

life and death, and so it is, isn’t it?”

The magistrate thanked Miss Queek for her public-spirited intervention,

and then, at the urgent request of both parties, adjourned the court for

further inquiry into the new evidence.

Since it was extremely important that Miss Queek should identify the

garage in question as soon as possible, it was arranged that she should set

out at once in search of it, accompanied by Inspector Ramage and his

sergeant, Mr. Barton’s solicitor going with them to see fair play for his

client. A slight difficulty arose, however. It appeared that the police car was

not quite big enough to take the whole party comfortably, and Mr.

Montague Egg, climbing into his own Morris, found himself hailed by the

inspector with the request for a lift.

“By all means,” said Monty; “a pleasure. Besides, you’ll be able to keep

your eye on me. Because, if that chap didn’t do it, it looks to me as though I

must be the guilty party.”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said the inspector, obviously taken aback by

this bit of thought-reading.

“I couldn’t blame you if you did,” said Monty. He smiled, remembering

his favourite motto for salesmen: “A cheerful voice and cheerful look put

orders in the order-book,” and buzzed merrily away in the wake of the

police car along the road from Beachampton to Ditchley.

“We ought to be getting near it now,” remarked Ramage when they had

left Helpington behind them. “We’re ten miles from Ditchley and about

twenty-five from Pinchbeck’s cottage. Let’s see—it’ll be the left-hand side

of the road, going in this direction. Hullo! this looks rather like it,” he added

presently. “They’re pulling up.”

The police car had stopped before an ugly corrugated-iron structure,

standing rather isolated on the near side of the road, and adorned with a

miscellaneous collection of enamelled advertisement-boards and a lot of

petrol pumps. Mr. Egg brought the Morris alongside.

“Is this the place, Miss Queek?”

“Well, I don’t know. It was like this, and it was about here. But I can’t

be sure. All these dreadful little places are so much alike, but—Well, there!

how stupid of me! Of course this isn’t it. There’s no clock. There ought to

be a clock just over the door. So sorry to have made such a silly mistake.

We must go on a little farther. It must be quite near here.”

The little procession moved forward again, and five miles farther on

came once more to a halt. This time there could surely be no mistake.

Another hideous red corrugated garage, more boards, more petrol pumps,

and a clock, whose hands pointed (correctly, as the inspector ascertained by

reference to his watch) to 7:15.

“I’m sure this must be it,” said Miss Queek. “Yes—I recognise the

man,” she added, as the garage proprietor came out to see what was wanted.

The proprietor, when questioned, was not able to swear with any

certainty to having filled Miss Queek’s tank on June 18th. He had filled so

many tanks before and since. But in the matter of the clock he was definite.

It kept, and always had kept, perfect time, and it had never stopped or been

out of order since it was first installed. If his clock had pointed to 10:20,

then 10:20 was the time, and he would testify as much in any court in the

kingdom. He could not remember having seen the car with the registered

number WOE 1313, but there was no reason why he should, since it had not

come in for attention. Motorists who wanted to do a spot of inspection often

pulled up near his garage, in case they should find some trouble that needed

expert assistance, but such incidents were so usual that he would pay no

heed to them, especially on a busy morning.

Miss Queek, however, felt quite certain. She recognised the man, the

garage and the clock. As a further precaution, the party went on as far as

Ditchley, but, though the roadside was peppered the whole way with

garages, there was no other exactly corresponding to the description. Either

they were the wrong colour, or built of the wrong materials, or they had no

clock.

“Well,” said the inspector, rather ruefully, “unless we can prove

collusion (which doesn’t seem likely, seeing the kind of woman she is), that

washes that out. That garage where she saw Barton is eighteen miles from

Pinchbeck’s cottage, and since we know the old man was alive at 10:15,

Barton can’t have killed him—not unless he was averaging 200 miles an

hour or so, which can’t be done yet awhile. Well, we’ve got to start all over

again.”

“It looks a bit awkward for me,” said Monty pleasantly.

“I don’t know about that. There’s the voices that baker fellow heard in

the kitchen. I know that couldn’t have been you, because I’ve checked up your times.” Mr. Ramage grinned. “Perhaps the rest of the money may turn

up somewhere. It’s all in the day’s work. We’d better be getting back

again.”

Monty drove the first eighteen miles in thoughtful silence. They had just

passed the garage with the clock (at which the inspector shook a mortified

fist in passing), when Mr. Egg uttered an exclamation and pulled up.

“Hullo!” said the inspector.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Monty. He pulled out a pocket-diary and

consulted it. “Yes—I thought so. I’ve discovered a coincidence. Let’s check

up on it. Do you mind? ‘Don’t trust to luck, but be exact and verify the

smallest fact.’” He replaced the diary and drove on, overhauling the police

car. In process of time they came to the garage which had first attracted

their attention—the one which conformed to specification, except in the

particular that it displayed no clock. Here he stopped, and the police car,

following in their tracks, stopped also.

The proprietor emerged expectantly, and the first thing that struck one

about him was his resemblance to the man they had interviewed at the other

garage. Monty commented politely on the fact.

“Quite right,” said the man. “He’s my brother.”

“Your garages are alike, too,” said Monty.

“Bought off the same firm,” said the man. “Supplied in parts. Mass-

production. Readily erected overnight by any handy man.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Mr. Egg approvingly. “Standardisation means

immense saving in labour, time, expense. You haven’t got a clock, though.”

“Not yet. I’ve got one on order.”

“Never had one?”

“Never.”

“Ever seen this lady before?”

The man looked Miss Queek carefully over from head to foot.

“Yes, I fancy I have. Came in one morning for petrol, didn’t you, miss?

Saturday fortnight or thereabouts. I’ve a good memory for faces.”

“What time would that be?”

“Ten to eleven, or a few minutes after. I remember I was just boiling up

a kettle for my elevenses. I generally take a cup of tea about then.”

“Ten-fifty,” said the inspector eagerly. “And this is—” he made a rapid

calculation—“just on twenty-two miles from the cottage. Say half an hour

from the time of the murder. Forty-four miles an hour—he could do that on

his head in a fast sports car.”

“Yes, but—” interrupted the solicitor.

“Just a minute,” said Monty. “Didn’t you,” he went on, addressing the

proprietor, “once have one of those clock-faces with movable hands to

show lighting-up time?”

“Yes, I did. I’ve still got it, as a matter of fact. It used to hang over the

door. But I took it down last Sunday. People found it rather a nuisance; they

were always mistaking it for a real clock.”

“And lighting-up time on June 18th,” said Monty softly, “was 10:20,

according to my diary.”

“Well there,” said Inspector Ramage, smiting his thigh. “Now, that’s

really clever of you, Mr. Egg.”

“A brain-wave, a brain-wave,” admitted Monty. ‘“The salesman who

will use his brains will spare himself a world of pains’—or so the

Handbook says.”

 

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