John Curran - Trent’s Last Case

‘I saw the body before it was removed,’ remarked Mr Cupples. ‘I should not have said there was anything remarkable about it, except that the shot in the eye had scarcely disfigured the face at all, and caused scarcely any effusion of blood, apparently. The wrists were scratched and bruised. I expect that, with your trained faculties, you were able to remark other details of a suggestive nature.’

‘Other details, certainly; but I don’t know that they suggest anything. They are merely odd. Take the wrists, for instance. How was it you could see bruises and scratches on them? I dare say you saw something of Manderson down here before the murder.’

‘Certainly,’ Mr Cupples said.

‘Well, did you ever see his wrists?’

Mr Cupples reflected. ‘No. Now you raise the point, I am reminded that when I interviewed Manderson here he was wearing stiff cuffs, coming well down over his hands.’

‘He always did,’ said Trent. ‘My friend the manager says so. I pointed out to him the fact you didn’t observe, that there were no cuffs visible, and that they had, indeed, been dragged up inside the coat-sleeves, as yours would be if you hurried into a coat without pulling your cuffs down. That was why you saw his wrists.’

‘Well, I call that suggestive,’ observed Mr Cupples mildly. ‘You might infer, perhaps, that when he got up he hurried over his dressing.’

‘Yes, but did he? The manager said just what you say. “He was always a bit of a swell in his dress,” he told me, and he drew the inference that when Manderson got up in that mysterious way, before the house was stirring, and went out into the grounds, he was in a great hurry. “Look at his shoes,” he said to me: “Mr Manderson was always specially neat about his footwear. But those shoe-laces were tied in a hurry.” I agreed. “And he left his false teeth in his room,” said the manager. “Doesn’t that prove he was flustered and hurried?” I allowed that it looked like it. But I said, “Look here: if he was so very much pressed, why did he part his hair so carefully? That parting is a work of art. Why did he put on so much? For he had on a complete outfit of underclothing, studs in his shirt, sock-suspenders, a watch and chain, money and keys and things in his pockets. That’s what I said to the manager. He couldn’t find an explanation. Can you?”

Mr Cupples considered. ‘Those facts might suggest that he was hurried only at the end of his dressing. Coat and shoes would come last.’

‘But not false teeth. You ask anybody who wears them. And besides, I’m told he hadn’t washed at all on getting up, which in a neat man looks like his being in a violent hurry from the beginning. And here’s another thing. One of his waistcoat pockets was lined with wash-leather for the reception of his gold watch. But he had put his watch into the pocket on the other side. Anybody who has settled habits can see how odd that is. The fact is, there are signs of great agitation and haste, and there are signs of exactly the opposite. For the present I am not guessing. I must reconnoitre the ground first, if I can manage to get the right side of the people of the house.’ Trent applied himself again to his breakfast.

Mr Cupples smiled at him benevolently. ‘That is precisely the point,’ he said, ‘on which I can be of some assistance to you.’ Trent glanced up in surprise. ‘I told you I half expected you. I will explain the situation. Mrs Manderson, who is my niece—’

‘What!’ Trent laid down his knife and fork with a clash. ‘Cupples, you are jesting with me.’

‘I am perfectly serious, Trent, really,’ returned Mr Cupples earnestly. ‘Her father, John Peter Domecq, was my wife’s brother. I never mentioned my niece or her marriage to you before, I suppose. To tell the truth, it has always been a painful subject to me, and I have avoided discussing it with anybody. To return to what I was about to say: last night, when I was over at the house—by the way, you can see it from here. You passed it in the car.’ He indicated a red roof among poplars some three hundred yards away, the only building in sight that stood separate from the tiny village in the gap below them.

‘Certainly I did,’ said Trent. ‘The manager told me all about it, among other things, as he drove me in from Bishopsbridge.’

‘Other people here have heard of you and your performances,’ Mr Cupples went on. ‘As I was saying, when I was over there last night, Mr Bunner, who is one of Manderson’s two secretaries, expressed a hope that the Record would send you down to deal with the case, as the police seemed quite at a loss. He mentioned one or two of your past successes, and Mabel—my niece—was interested when I told her afterwards. She is bearing up wonderfully well, Trent; she has remarkable fortitude of character. She said she remembered reading your articles about the Abinger case. She has a great horror of the newspaper side of this sad business, and she had entreated me to do anything I could to keep journalists away from the place—I’m sure you can understand her feeling, Trent; it isn’t really any reflection on that profession. But she said you appeared to have great powers as a detective, and she would not stand in the way of anything that might clear up the crime. Then I told her you were a personal friend of mine, and gave you a good character for tact and consideration of others’ feelings; and it ended in her saying that, if you should come, she would like you to be helped in every way.’

Trent leaned across the table and shook Mr Cupples by the hand in silence. Mr Cupples, much delighted with the way things were turning out, resumed:

‘I spoke to my niece on the telephone only just now, and she is glad you are here. She asks me to say that you may make any enquiries you like, and she puts the house and grounds at your disposal. She had rather not see you herself; she is keeping to her own sitting-room. She has already been interviewed by a detective officer who is there, and she feels unequal to any more. She adds that she does not believe she could say anything that would be of the smallest use. The two secretaries and Martin, the butler (who is a most intelligent man), could tell you all you want to know, she thinks.’

Trent finished his breakfast with a thoughtful brow. He filled a pipe slowly, and seated himself on the rail of the veranda. ‘Cupples,’ he said quietly, ‘is there anything about this business that you know and would rather not tell me?’

Mr Cupples gave a slight start, and turned an astonished gaze on the questioner. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘I mean about the Mandersons. Look here! Shall I tell you a thing that strikes me about this affair at the very beginning? Here’s a man suddenly and violently killed, and nobody’s heart seems to be broken about it, to say the least. The manager of this hotel spoke to me about him as coolly as if he’d never set eyes on him, though I understand they’ve been neighbours every summer for some years. Then you talk about the thing in the coldest of blood. And Mrs Manderson—well, you won’t mind my saying that I have heard of women being more cut up about their husbands being murdered than she seems to be. Is there something in this, Cupples, or is it my fancy? Was there something queer about Manderson? I travelled on the same boat with him once, but never spoke to him. I only know his public character, which was repulsive enough. You see, this may have a bearing on the case; that’s the only reason why I ask.’

Mr Cupples took time for thought. He fingered his sparse beard and looked out over the sea. At last he turned to Trent. ‘I see no reason,’ he said, ‘why I shouldn’t tell you as between ourselves, my dear fellow. I need not say that this must not be referred to, however distantly. The truth is that nobody really liked Manderson; and I think those who were nearest to him liked him least.’