Peter Lovesey - Mad Hatter

‘Protecting his own reputation too. Yes, he lied, of course, when he told me that his wife had returned to Dorking with Jason and Bridget. I repeated the question to be quite sure about it.’

‘Was that what first made you suspect Guy, Sarge?’

‘Well, it was obvious enough that the Protheros were lying. Their stories were full of inconsistencies. I suppose they hadn’t had time to think the thing out and rehearse what they were going to say. There was one point when Prothero was ready to say that his wife was asleep on the night of the murder and Guy was trying to convince me she was awake. There wasn’t the trust between the members of the family that a strong united alibi demands. They were all suspicious of each other in their various ways. Prothero was determined not to let Guy know what he was planning for him when the holiday was over.’

‘An asylum, Sarge?’

‘Something of the sort, I suspect. But Zena Prothero knew nothing of this. I’m convinced that the doctor regarded the boy as his responsibility-he wasn’t Zena’s child, after all-and was determined that she should not become involved. Possibly Guy confessed to him, or he caught the boy coming home in the small hours. At any rate, Prothero knew by Sunday morning that Guy had murdered Bridget. He arranged at once for Zena to return to Dorking-probably dosed Jason with something to make him feverish-telling her that Bridget was unaccountably missing. Later she must have read in the newspaper about the human remains found on the beach, and the sealskin jacket. She believed-and still believes-that Bridget went out that night wearing her jacket and was killed by some stranger. She telegraphed Prothero from Dorking saying she must meet him urgently at the Devil’s Dyke. She wanted to tell him what she feared, you see. He met her, listened to her story, and gave her the knapsack containing some of Bridget’s clothes to carry away, impressing upon her that if it were known that their servant had been murdered, the Dorking practice would be in ruins. The Worthing police picked up the knapsack this morning. It contained a pair of shoes, stays, stockings, a camisole and a bonnet-the missing clothes Bridget was wearing when she was murdered, complete with fish-scales adhering to ’em.’

‘From the arch where the body was dismembered? Did Prothero do that, do you think?’

‘Difficult to say. It didn’t look like a doctor’s handiwork, but then Prothero ain’t fool enough to give himself away like that. I’m inclined to think he must have supervised the disposing of the body. We’re examining their clothes for bloodstains, of course.’

Thackeray started in surprise. ‘Do you mean that you’ve got their clothes already, Sarge? Is the boy in custody?’

‘The answer to your first question is yes. To your second, no. Guy and his father left Brighton this morning on horseback. It’s all right, Constable! No panic! The police all the way from here to Dorking have been alerted and there’s a plain-clothes man following them. They left a trunk at the Albemarle to be called for, and Inspector Pink and his men have very obligingly picked it up. It surprises me that Prothero stayed so long in Brighton. It was two weeks yesterday that Bridget was killed. It’s a cool customer that can sit it out as long as that when an investigation’s afoot. Ah!’

The interruption was from P.C. Thomas, bearing a telegram.

‘As I expected,’ said Cribb. ‘They stopped at Horsham for lunch. The Fortune of War. I suggest that we-Good God!’ He put the telegram down and pressed his hand to his forehead.

‘What is it, Sarge? What on earth’s the matter?’

‘The matter is, Constable,’ said Cribb in a strange voice, ‘that I’ve made a fatal error of judgement. According to this telegram, our suspect died shortly after one o’clock.’

‘Died?’ repeated Thackeray. ‘It must be a mistake, Sarge. They mean “dined”.’

‘I’d believe you,’ said Cribb, ‘if it didn’t go on to ask for my instructions regarding the post mortem.’

The drive to Horsham by police-van was distinguished by a total absence of conversation, Cribb hunched in the corner seat, eyes fixed on the window but seeing nothing of the passing countryside, Thackeray busying himself wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, straightening his necktie and retying his boot-laces. After a little over an hour the driver reined outside The Fortune of War, a small hotel on the Guildford Road, some three-quarters of a mile beyond the town. Cribb’s brown study came to a decisive end. ‘Come, Thackeray! We’re late enough on the scene as it is.’

The constable on duty in the foyer, not having seen the police-van’s arrival, raised a cautionary hand, which snaked resourcefully into a salute as Thackeray muttered, ‘The Yard,’ and Cribb stalked past. Ahead, a white card was suspended from the door-knob of one of the two lounges. It announced with apologies that patrons were temporarily requested to refrain from using the room. Cribb advanced on the door as if this were an invitation, opened it, and found a police inspector, a manifestly disconcerted hotel manager and Dr. Prothero.

‘Scotland Yard?’ echoed the inspector, after Cribb had explained who he was. ‘It was you that asked us to have men available, then. A notable feat of anticipation, Sergeant. I only wish that you had warned us to expect something as sanguinary as this. Had we known-‘ ‘Had I known, I’d have prevented the boy from leaving Brighton,’ said Cribb. ‘You’ve established the circumstances surrounding his death, I expect, sir?’

‘I have indeed. The facts are these, Sergeant. This gentleman, Dr. Prothero, and his son arrived here at about ten minutes after twelve o’clock and arranged for their horses to be watered. They then ordered lunch and had glasses of sherry in the ante-room while it was being prepared. At a quarter to one they took their places in the dining-room, which was otherwise empty. They were served the following-and I shall now refer to my notebook, because the details may well be important- tomato soup, followed by roast beef, with roast potatoes, buttered parsnips, Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and horse-radish sauce, followed by apple charlotte with cream, followed by coffee. It was some twenty minutes after the coffee was served that the boy displayed symptoms of unease-not indigestion, as one might suppose after a substantial meal, but shortness of breath. This seemed at first to be the consequence of an over-enthusiastic inhalation of snuff, but it soon became apparent that something much worse was the matter. Within ten minutes he was dead. There was nothing that Dr. Prothero or Mr. Wood, here, the manager, could do to save him. The doctor, I think, can best describe the nature of the collapse-if that is not too distressing, sir.’

Certainly the strain of a severe shock showed in Prothero’s face. He looked at no one, and addressed his account of his son’s death to the back of his hand, which he turned in several positions as he was talking, as if it held some clue to the tragedy. ‘Guy died of an acute attack of asthma. The onset was very sudden: a short period of restlessness, then accelerated breathing accompanied by coughing and retching. We supported him and loosened his clothing and endeavoured to calm him, but the respiration became progressively slower and more laboured, with severe broncho-spasms. Within minutes there were several convulsions and he stopped breathing.’

There was a pause before Cribb asked, ‘Were the first symptoms you described consistent with other attacks of asthma Guy had experienced?’

Prothero replied in the same automatic way, without a glance in Cribb’s direction. ‘Generally similar, yes. There had been nothing so severe before. On previous occasions I have injected atropine to prevent constriction of the bronchioles, but on this occasion I had none of my equipment with me.’