Джорджетт Хейер - A Blunt Instrument

"Is it so certain that the same weapon was used?" asked Glass in his painstaking way.

"It seems extremely probable, from the surgeon's reports on the injuries in each case."

"What of the man whom I saw? He was not Neville Fletcher."

"Perhaps Carpenter."

Glass frowned. "Who then was the man seen by Mrs. North?"

"I can't tell you, unless again it was Carpenter."

"You would say that he returned, having been sent away? For what purpose?"

"Only he could have answered that, I'm afraid."

"But it seems to me that the matter is thus made darker. Why should he return, unless to do Fletcher a mischief? Yet, since he himself is dead, that was not so. I think the man Fletcher had many enemies."

"That theory is not borne out by what we know of him. There was always the possibility that North might have been the murderer, but no one else, except Budd, who does not correspond with the description of the man in evening dress seen last night, has come into the case. And we've been into Fletcher's past fairly thoroughly. A nasty case. The Sergeant said so at the start."

"The unholy," said Glass, his eye kindling, "are like the chaff which the wind driveth away!"

"That'll do," said Hannasyde coldly, terminating the conversation.

When the Sergeant heard, later, that North's innocence was established, he spoke bitterly of resigning from the Force. "The hottest suspect we had, and he must needs go and clear himself !" he said. "I suppose there's no chance his alibis were faked?"

"I'm afraid not, Skipper. They're sound enough. I've been into them. We seem to be left with Neville Fletcher only. He has no alibi for last night. He admits, in fact, that he was in London."

"Well," said the Sergeant judicially, "if it weren't for his work on Ichabod, I'd as soon pinch him as anybody."

"I know you would, but unfortunately there's a snag - two snags. He stated, quite frankly, that he was wearing a dinner jacket suit last night. But he also said that his hat was a black felt. The man we want wore an opera hat."

"That's nothing," said the Sergeant. "He probably made that up."

"I don't think so. No flies on that young man. He said it was the only hat he possessed. I could so easily disprove that, if it weren't true, that I haven't even tried to. What is more, he is either a magnificent actor, or he really didn't know what I was driving at when I questioned him on his movements last night."

"All the same," said the Sergeant, "if North's out, young Neville's the only one who could have done it in the time."

"What time?"

The Sergeant answered with a touch of impatience: "Why, between Mrs. North's leaving and Ichabod's arrival, Chief!"

"Less time than that," corrected Hannasyde. "The murder must have been committed after 10.01 and before 10.02."

"Well, if that's so there hasn't been a murder," said the Sergeant despairingly. "It isn't possible."

"But there has been a murder. Two of them."

The Sergeant scratched his chin. "It's my belief Carpenter didn't see it done. If he left at 10.02, he couldn't have. Stands to reason."

"Then why was he killed too?"

"That's what I haven't worked out yet," admitted the Sergeant. "But it seems to me as though he knew something which would have told him who must have committed the murder. Wonder if Angela Angel had any other boy-friends?" He paused, his intelligent eyes more bird-like than ever. "Suppose he was shown out at 9.58? And suppose, when he was walking off, he caught sight of a chap he knew, sneaking in at that side gate? Think that might put ideas into his head? Seems to me he'd add two and two together and make 'em four when he read about the late Ernie's being found with his head bashed in."

"Yes, quite reasonable except for one detail you've forgotten. You're assuming that the man Glass saw at 10.02 was not Carpenter, but the murderer, and we're agreed that whenever that man may have entered the garden he cannot have murdered Fletcher until after 10.01. And that won't do."

"Nor it will," said the Sergeant, discomfited. After a moment's thought, he perked up again. "All right! Say Carpenter went back, to see what this other chap was up to. He saw the murder done, and he legged it for the gate as hard as he could."

"And the other man?"

"Like I said before. He heard Ichabod's fairy footfall, and hid himself in the garden, and slipped out as soon as Ichabod reached the study. The more I think of it, Chief, the more I see it must have been like that."

"It does sound plausible," Hannasyde conceded. "What was the unknown man's motive? Angela?"

"Yes, I think we'll have to say it was Angela, on account of Charlie's being linked up with him."

"Yet her friend - what was her name? Lily! - whom you questioned didn't mention any man but Carpenter and Fletcher in connection with Angela, did she?"

"Not what you might call specifically. She said there were plenty hanging round the poor girl."

"Doesn't seem likely that an apparently unsuccessful admirer would go to the lengths of killing Fletcher, does it?"

"If it comes to that, nothing seems likely about this case, except that we'll never get to the bottom of it!" said the Sergeant crossly.

Hannasyde smiled. "Cheer up! We've not done with it yet. What did you manage to find out today?"

"Nothing that looks like being of any use," the Sergeant replied. "We've got hold of one of Carpenter's relations, but he couldn't tell us much. Wait a bit: I've got it all here, for what it's worth." He picked up a folder, and opened it. "Carpenter, Alfred. Occupation, Clerk. Aged 34 years. Brother to the deceased. Has not set eyes on deceased since 1935."

"Did he know anything about Angela Angel?"

"No, only hearsay. According to him, Charlie was never what you'd call the hope of the family. Sort of kid who pinched the other kids' belongings at school. He started life in the drapery business, and got the sack for putting the petty cash in the wrong place. No prosecution; old Carpenter - he's dead now - paid up. After that, our hero joined a concert-party. Seems he could sing a bit, as well as look pansy. He stuck to that for a bit, and then he got a job on the stage proper - male chorus. By that time what with one thing and another, his family had got a bit tired of him, and they gave him order of the boot from home, and no mistake. Then he went and got married to an actress. Name of Peggy Robinson. The next thing the family knew was that he'd waltzed off into the blue, and his wife was on their doorstep, calling out for his blood. Alfred didn't take to her. Said that was one thing he didn't blame brother Charlie for, leaving a wife that was more like a raging tigress than a decent woman. They managed to get rid of her, but not for long. Oh no!! She went off on tour, and though Alfred says they had news that she was properly off with another fellow, that didn't stop her coming back to tell Charlie's people how she'd heard that he was in town again, and living with a girl he'd picked up somewhere in the Midlands. Seems he'd been on tour likewise. What the rights of it was I don't know, and nor does Alfred, but there doesn't seem to be much doubt about it that the girl was none other than Angela Angel."

"Where is the wife now?" interrupted Hannasyde.

"Pushing up daisies," replied the Sergeant. "Died of pneumonia following influenza, a couple of years ago. Alfred knew Charlie had been to gaol, but he hadn't had word of him since he came out, and didn't want to. He never saw Angela, but he says he was pretty sure she wasn't on the stage when Charlie picked her up. From what the wife told him, he gathered it was a regular village-maiden story. You know the sort of thing. Romantic girl, brought up very strict, falls for wavy-haired tenor, and elopes with him. Well, poor soul, she paid for it in the end, didn't she?"