After dinner that night French settled down in his room at the hotel to bring his notes up to date and to take stock of his position. He always found that the careful revision of his conclusions in the quiet of his office or bedroom, was worth while. Frequently a flaw which he had overlooked in the hurry of the day’s work, or an additional clue or deduction, would then occur to him, perhaps saving him from falling into some serious error or from wasting time in unprofitable inquiry. Even more valuable was the writing down in sequential order of the various points of the case. An argument set out on paper, the logic of which was intrinsically sound and each premise of which had been carefully checked and re-checked, was much more powerful than if it were merely carried in the mind. Moreover, it represented an invaluable preliminary to that concise and convincing report which it was always French’s object to achieve.
His notes of the present case were already growing pretty voluminous, and to them he had added copies of everything that had been put in writing by the police at both Redchurch and Whitness, as well as the depositions of the witnesses at the inquests. Experience had taught him that these apparently irrelative documents were worth studying as a source of fresh ideas. Many a clarifying flash of insight had come to him in just that way.
He finished writing and arranging his notes and then began to read through the other papers. He skimmed the various police reports and the papers relating to the inquest on Ackerley. Finally he took up the records of the Carey inquest, intending when he had run through them to put the case out of his mind and turn to a novel.
Suddenly he stopped reading, and wrinkling his brow, sat gazing in front of him into vacancy. Here was something rather curious.
He was going over the depositions of the witnesses, recalling to himself their appearance and even the tones of their voices. He had reached the evidence of Albert Bradstreet, the assistant storesman, and it was a statement of his which had attracted his attention. This Bradstreet was the man who had found Carey’s body. He had stated that when he had gone into the office the blinds were down as they always were; that he raised them to obtain light to set the fires; and that when he had done so he had seen Carey hanging from the roof.
French put down the papers and lay back in his chair, thinking intently. This certainly was a very surprising statement. How was it possible that no one had noticed its strangeness? How had he missed it himself? The more he now considered it, he more puzzled he became. With some faint dawning of actual excitement, he picked up the dossier again to refresh his memory as to the position in which the body had been found.
Carey was hanging by a rope from one of the beams of the roof, and the office stool, on which he had evidently stood to fix the rope round his neck, was lying kicked aside on the ground at his feet. French pictured the entire scene, then once again he pushed away the papers and sat rapt in profound thought.
Here was something which he certainly ought to have noticed before. Though every moment it seemed to grow more and more important, the whimsical idea shot through French’s mind that it was the kind of point which would have appealed to Sherlock Holmes, as it would have enabled him without leaving his sofa to surprise Watson with a new and startling theory of the crime.
If Bradstreet had raised the blinds in order to obtain light to set the fire, it followed that the electric light was off. French now saw that he should have known this, as, had it been on, the fact would have been mentioned. But, and this was what was giving him so furiously to think, if the electric light was off, how had Carey seen to make those last terrible arrangements with the rope and stool?
Could he have done it in the dark?
Upon this question French pondered. For Carey, the getting of all the details right would have been of the very first importance. He could not afford any bungling. He could not risk merely hurting himself. If he were going to commit suicide, nothing mattered but the encompassing of his death. It was obvious that without light the rope could not have been taken off the bundle of pegs, nor could it have been tied to the beam and the noose made and adjusted to the proper height. It would not have been possible without light to have moved the stool to the exact place required. But would the dreadful final scene have been possible? Would Carey have attempted in the dark to climb the stool, adjust the rope round his neck, and kick away the stool?
French doubted it. He believed that had the extinguishing of the light been vitally important, Carey might have risked it. But in this case there was no object in turning out the light. One or other of the engineers frequently worked late, and a light in the office windows would have attracted no attention; at least, not till hours after Carey’s terrible purpose would have been fulfilled. Nor would a light in the windows have attracted anyone who might not otherwise have gone to the office. No one would see it except the watchman or some person who was going there in any case.
The more French considered it, the more satisfied he became that Carey would never have turned out the light before taking his dreadful step.
But when French thought of the consequences of this conclusion, he became absolutely aghast. If he were right it followed that Carey had not committed suicide, but had been murdered!
He rose and began to pace the room. Carey murdered! Was it possible?
Then it occurred to him that if Carey had been murdered, the turning out of the light by the murderer before leaving the hut would have been a profoundly natural action. A mistaken one, no doubt, but none the less natural for that.
French grew more and more excited. Was this not too revolutionary an idea? Carey’s death had been unhesitatingly accepted as suicide by everyone connected with the case, and this assumption worked in reasonably and naturally with all the other details. The theory of murder would upset everything. It really did seem out of the question.
Then French saw that if it were true it would affect the possibilities in the case of Ackerley’s murder also. If Carey had been murdered it might well turn out that his alibi was good and that some unknown had killed both men.
French whistled softly. If there really were anything in this new idea the entire case that he had so laboriously built up would crash to the ground. All his deductions would be thrown once more into the melting pot and he would have to start again at the very beginning.
Then he pulled himself up sharp. He had been overlooking the fact that murder by hanging was practically unknown except in two cases; firstly, when the odds were several to one, as in the case of lynchings, and second, when the victim had been rendered helpless by sandbagging or drugging or in some other way. For this, of course, there was an excellent reason: it was too difficult. The victim would not submit without a struggle, and in the face of a struggle the physical strength required to carry out the deed would be greater than any ordinary man possessed.
French had brought a copy of Taylor in his suitcase and now he looked it up. His recollection was correct. The thing was put clearly on page 706. It read:
‘10. Difficulties in Homicidal Hangings.—It has been truly observed that of all the forms of committing murder hanging is one of the most difficult, and it is, therefore, but seldom resorted to. In most cases, when a person has been hanged by others, it has been after death, in order to avert a suspicion of homicide. Hence the discovery of a body hanging affords primâ facie evidence of suicide, supposing it to be certain that death has taken place from this cause. We must, however, admit that a man may be murdered by hanging, and that the appearances about his body will not afford evidence of the fact. The circumstances which will justify a medical jurist in making this admission are the following:—1st. When the person hanged is feeble and the assailant a strong, healthy man. Thus a child, a youth, a woman, or a person at any period of life worn out and exhausted by disease or infirmity, may be destroyed by hanging. 2nd. When the person hanged, although usually strong and vigorous, is at the time in a state of intoxication, stupefied by narcotics, or exhausted by his attempts to defend himself. 3rd. In all cases murder may be committed by hanging when many are combined against one person, (e.g., lynching). With these exceptions, then, a practitioner will be correct in deciding, in a suspected case, in favour of the presumption of suicide. Unless the person laboured under stupefaction, intoxication, or great bodily weakness, we must expect to find, in homicidal hanging, marks of violence about the body; for there are few who would allow themselves to be murdered without offering some resistance …’
According to Taylor, then, death by hanging might be taken as suicide, except in one of certain cases. French, having reminded himself that according to the medical evidence death was definitely due to hanging, went through these exceptions one by one. Carey was not feeble nor worn out nor exhausted by disease or infirmity. He was not in a state of intoxication, as had there been evidence of drink, it would have been commented on at the inquest. Nor was he exhausted by his attempts to defend himself, for the simple reason that he had made no such attempts; there were no marks of violence upon the body. Finally, the idea that he had been lynched by a number of persons was too unlikely to be seriously entertained.
There remained then just one possibility that the death had been murder: If Carey had been stupefied by narcotics. So far as the medical evidence was concerned, this might have been the case, as nothing but a post-mortem could demonstrate it, and a post-mortem had not been considered necessary.
As French thought over this possibility he saw that it offered him a definite solution of his problem, one way or another. From Taylor’s Principles, Carey could not have been murdered unless he had first been drugged. French thought he might safely assume the converse also: that if he had been drugged he could not have committed suicide and, therefore, must have been murdered. What it came to then was that if Carey had been drugged, the case was murder, and if he had not been drugged, it was suicide.
French, having grown absorbed in this new possibility, forgot the havoc it might make with his case and became filled with satisfaction. An exhumation and a post-mortem should settle the question. Then it occurred to him that exhumations were not easy to arrange, and he wondered if before applying for one, he could produce some stronger evidence for murder than the point about the turning out of the light.
His mind full of repressed excitement, he went down next morning to Whitness to investigate the scene of the tragedy. There he found Lowell alone in the technical office, Pole and Templeton having gone out along the Widening.
‘In the making up of my report on these tragedies, Mr Lowell,’ he explained, ‘I’ve got as far as Mr Carey’s suicide. I hope you won’t object to my having a look over the office in that connection?’
‘Of course not,’ Lowell returned. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m just going down to the viaduct, so you can have the place to yourself. You don’t want me?’
‘Not at present at all events, sir. If I find anything that I don’t understand I may want to ask a question or two.’
‘Well, I’ll be back in an hour and if you want me before that I’ll be at Pier IV.’
This was just what French wanted, but had scarcely dared to hope for. He began by checking over the statements in the dossier, and Lowell presently took his leave.
An examination of the office confirmed French’s idea of the previous evening. The preparations for the deed certainly could not have been done without light, and he felt his opinion strengthened that neither could the actual deed itself.
In the first place, the stool was not at all easy to climb upon. It was high and its base was small and the effort of mounting tended to overturn it. French indeed made three attempts before succeeding. In the dark he did not believe he could have done it.
Then the noose on the rope was all important. There must be no risk of its tangling or being improperly adjusted. Here again light seemed essential. Nor was there any way in which, after Carey had reached the top of the stool and adjusted the rope, he could have turned off the light. The switch was out of reach, and had he tried to use some cord or other apparatus, this would have been found and commented on.
Systematically French continued his researches, examining the stool, the switch and other objects in the room on the chance of finding something helpful. But nowhere did he see anything. Finally, as a last resource he thought he would have a look at the beam to which the rope had been fastened. Piling some books on the stool, with a good deal of difficulty he climbed up.
At once he became keenly interested. As he flashed his electric torch on the top of the beam, he felt he had obtained the proof he required.
The tie beam, part of a small kingpost truss, was planed smooth and was thick with dust, and it was the marks in this dust which had attracted his attention. It was at once evident that the rope had not simply been thrown over the beam and made secure. It had been drawn over it while supporting a weight, and while thus being drawn, had slid sideways along the beam for over a foot. That the pressure had been very great was shown by the fact that the wood itself was marked.
So far as French could see, there was only one way in which that marking could have been made. Suppose Carey had been drugged and rendered unconscious. The murderer must then have lifted the inanimate body beneath the beam, fixed the rope round its neck, and raising the body with one arm, pulled down the rope with the other. It was the easiest, if indeed not the only way in which the deed could have been done. And it would have produced just those marks on the beam. The stool would, of course, have been afterwards laid on the floor as a blind.
On the other hand a suicide would have tied the rope to the beam in the first instance, and that mark of heavy dragging would not be there.
French was overwhelmed with delight. Neat, very neat, this demonstration of his! It was certainly a score off these local men. He would have bet a tidy sum that Emery had never looked at that beam, or if he had, he had missed its lesson. And both he and Rhode and the chief constable knew about the light, but none of them had had the wit to see its significance. No imagination, that what was wrong with these local police! It was no wonder they had to send for help to the Yard.
All the same French realised that he must not make the mistake of building too much on his own cleverness and neglecting detailed work. He must continue his search of the office in the hope of finding some further clue. It was surprising how often murderers dropped some small object or in some way impressed their personality on the scene of their crime. French looked very thoroughly everywhere, without, however, finding anything which pointed to the criminal.
He did not wait for Lowell’s return, but made his way back to Redchurch. This was a matter of such importance that Rhode must be told of it forthwith. Besides an exhumation was now obviously necessary and Rhode was the man to make the arrangements.
Rhode, however, was from home and could not see him till the evening. Then he listened to French’s story in his accustomed silence, though as the details revealed themselves amazement struggled with dismay on his heavy features. Only when French had finished did he speak. His comment took the form of a somewhat lurid oath.
‘That’s the second time we’ve been and gone and done it,’ he observed bitterly. ‘We let the Ackerley inquest go through with its suicide verdict, and it was murder. Then we let the Carey inquest go through the same way, and again we’re wrong. I should congratulate you and all that, inspector, but that doesn’t help us.’
‘I’m afraid, sir, I’m in the same boat as your men,’ French said tactfully. ‘I was present at the second inquest and it wasn’t till last night that the point about the light occurred to me.’
Rhode made a gesture as if dismissing compliments. ‘What do you propose now?’ he asked.
‘There’s another point to be considered,’ French answered. ‘I suggest that we say nothing about this till it’s been gone into. It’s this,’ and he repeated the argument about the dope, which with the aid of Taylor’s Principles and Practice of Medical Jurisprudence he had elaborated. Rhode immediately grew less sympathetic.
‘I suppose all that means you want an autopsy?’ he grumbled.
‘Well, what do you think, sir?’
‘Have you seen the doctor about it?’ Rhode went on after a pause.
‘No, but I question if he can help us much. He didn’t notice dope or he’d have said so. And, of course, if he wasn’t asked to make a post-mortem, you can’t blame him. There was nothing to suggest murder.’
‘I’m not so sure about not blaming the doctor. However, only a fool is wise after the event.’
French, having satisfactorily interpreted this somewhat cryptic utterance, tactfully agreed.
‘I’ll have a word with the chief constable,’ Rhode said at length. ‘If he agrees, we’ll apply for an order to exhume the body.’ He sat silently, staring before him. ‘This is going to mean an upset for your theory, inspector?’
French nodded. ‘Complete. I’ve got to start from the beginning again.’
‘Is it as bad as all that?’
‘I think so, sir, though I’ve not considered it enough to say definitely. This murder of Carey makes it unlikely that he killed Ackerley, and if he didn’t kill Ackerley, the whole of my theory goes west.’
‘Well you know, French,’ the superintendent leaned forward confidentially over his desk, ‘I was never very satisfied about that alibi of Carey’s being a fake. You realised the difficulties?’
‘I think so, sir. What do you include?’
‘Just that if Carey wrote that letter he showed himself a bigger fool than one would have expected. In the first place, if the man was really in love with this girl, Brenda Vane, and I take it there’s no doubt about that, would he have chosen the particular reason for the meeting given in the letter: that the girl was in trouble through one of his assistants? I scarcely see him doing that. Then for the same reason he wouldn’t want to bring her into court, even to testify on his behalf. Besides, if they were believed to be in love, he would know that her evidence would be discredited. It would be argued that she was lying to save him. You thought of these points?’
‘Yes, I thought of them.’
‘And considered them unimportant?’
French shook his head. ‘No, I shouldn’t say that. I thought them important enough. But on the balance I thought they weighed less than the arguments for Carey’s guilt.’
‘You may be right,’ Rhode admitted. ‘Carey may have murdered Ackerley and someone else may have murdered Carey. But it isn’t likely.’
‘No, sir, it isn’t likely. Someone has done both jobs. Probably there was someone in the fraud with Carey and they’ve had a row. That for a guess at all events.’
‘I should say you were on to it, French. What are you going to do next?’
‘I’ve not decided yet, sir. I’ll go and get some dinner and then have another look over the thing and fix up a programme.’
The fixing up of the programme turned out more difficult than French had anticipated. Indeed he was surprised to find that the more he thought over the case, the more puzzled he grew. He had imagined that his new discoveries would clear the affair up, but they did not after all do so. On the contrary, they seemed to have left things in a worse tangle. They certainly offered no suggestion as to the identity of the guilty man. Feeling a trifle up against it, French turned back to his earlier solace, the dossier, and began to consider from the new viewpoint what he read.
First as to what had actually taken place, or was alleged to have taken place, on the night of Carey’s death. Just before the usual closing time, 5.30, all the members of the staff happened to be in the office. About 5.30 Carey left. He said he was going over to the railway hut and that no one need wait for his return. The other three men then left, Templeton about 5.40, Lowell about 5.45, and Pole about 5.50. The clerical staff having already gone, Pole turned out the lights and locked up. None of these persons, either clerical or technical, had returned to the office that night.
Carey, after leaving his own office at 5.30, had visited that of the railway engineers’ and had waited there to see Bragg. He had left about 5.55, and where he had gone was not known. No one appeared to have seen him either leave or return to the yard, if indeed he had done so. He might, of course, have used the engineers’ gate. He frequently entered and left by this route, walking across the railway to the sea front. At all events he had presumably returned to his office by 6.15, when Parry saw the light in the window.
The doctor had given it as his opinion that Carey had been dead for many hours when found. Probably, therefore, the murder had been committed on the previous evening, perhaps comparatively early.
All these circumstances, French saw, gave a new value to the episode of the silhouetted man. It certainly looked as if this man might be the murderer. French read up the details of Parry’s statement. On his way from his own office he had passed within some forty yards of the contractors’ hut. As he did so he saw a figure approaching the hut. It passed between him and the lighted windows of Carey’s office, and he saw the silhouette of a man’s head and soft hat. The man had knocked at the door, but as it was not opened to him, he had presently opened it himself with a key.
Parry had been unable to suggest the identity of this man or indeed to describe him otherwise than as tall. He was sure, however, about the knocking at the door, the waiting for a moment and entering with a key. These points struck French as important. They were certainly unusual actions. If one has a key for a door one doesn’t knock, or at all events one only gives a short knock as a warning of one’s approach. One opens the door and walks in. But this man knocked and waited. It was only when he found that the door was not going to be opened for him that he opened it for himself.
For some minutes French puzzled over the point, then suddenly he saw a possible explanation. This man whom Parry had seen was the murderer. At the time of his visit Carey had already been doped, either by this man himself or by some confederate. On reaching the hut the murderer did not know whether or not the dope had taken effect. He perhaps did not want Carey to recognise him, lest Carey might have realised his danger and called for help. He therefore knocked. If Carey had been able to open the door, the murderer, on hearing his footsteps, would have slipped away and returned later. As Carey did not open, the murderer assumed he was helpless from the drug, and entered.
This, French saw, was pure speculation, but it did at least cover the facts. It also indicated a necessary item for French’s programme, the finding of this mysterious visitor.
Temporarily dismissing this particular problem, French took a clean sheet of paper and began to work on another line. A complete list of all the persons who might be guilty, so far as he could make it, would probably be useful.
There were in the case as a whole, three separate episodes: the fraud, the murder of Ackerley and the murder of Carey. It was not definitely known that these were connected, but the probability of their being so was very great. Assume they were and see where it led.
First then the fraud.
Here the questions he had to answer were two in number:
(a) Who would have gained by the fraud? and (b) Who could have changed the sections?
French saw that in order to answer the first question he must interview the contractors, as he had already intended. This had now become a vital matter and he noted to ring them up in the morning and fix up a meeting. In the meantime he could only assume that Carey alone had benefited. Carey, however, might have passed on part of his illicit gains to some other person.
As to the changing of the sections, he realised that practically anyone could have done it. Carey, Lowell, Pole, Bragg, Ackerley, Parry and Templeton: anyone of them could be guilty. In fact, anyone, whether he could have changed the sections or not, might have been Carey’s accomplice.
Secondly, Ackerley’s murder.
Into this French had already gone, though he was not sure that he would not have to reopen the question. His preliminary inquiries had led him to the conclusion that only Carey could have been guilty. He had reached this conclusion because every other possible—so far as he knew who were possibles—either had an alibi or failed to comply with the boy, Langton’s, description.
There remained the third episode, the murder of Carey. The problem here was simple. Who of the possibles had no alibi for the period in question?
French had to admit that he had not sufficient information to enable him to reach a conclusion. Whether Lowell, Pole and Templeton had alibis, he didn’t know. Parry and Bragg had each a tentative alibi—one was supposed to be busy at a plan and the other to have gone to Drychester—but it was, of course, possible that investigation might break these down.
French was becoming rather appalled at the amount of work which was stretching out before him as he added these items to his programme. However, it was at least good to have a programme, and somewhat more hopeful than when he began his review, French had a drink and went up to bed.