John Rhode - Invisible Weapons

Dr Thornborough smiled a trifle wanly. ‘Nobody in Adderminster is ever very much surprised at what Alfie does. Besides, he’s a sufferer from claustrophobia, and I happen to know that sometimes he spends his nights in the field adjoining this house.’

‘Do you happen to know whether he spent last Friday night there?’

‘I don’t, for I never look to see whether he’s there or not. Officially I know nothing about it, for I suppose that technically he’s trespassing. But he isn’t doing any harm, and from the medical point of view it’s better for him to sleep out than in.’

‘He was coming out of that field when you saw him, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. He crossed the road into the orchard opposite, and I didn’t see any more of him after that.’

‘You’re perfectly certain that the man you saw was Alfie?’

‘Oh, anyone who knew him would recognise him a mile away. He always wears a filthy old army greatcoat, so ragged that it’s literally dropping off him. And as soon as I caught sight of that coat I knew it must be Alfie.’

‘Where were you coming from when you saw him, doctor?’

‘I’d been to Mark Farm. Mrs Hawksworth, the farmer’s wife is one of my patients. I’d been to Weaver’s Bridge and I drove up to the farm from that direction. I was there about a quarter of an hour, I dare say, and then I came home through the gate at the end of the road.’

‘Did you see anybody else besides Alfie?’

‘Not a soul. It’s a dead end, you know, unless you happen to be going to Mark Farm.’

‘Do you happen to know the tenant of the cottage on the other side of the road?’

‘I can’t say that I know him, but he came here to see me about three weeks ago. He cut his thumb rather badly, chopping wood. I bound it up for him, and wrote him out a prescription for a salve. He told me that his name was Willingdon, and that he only came down here for the weekends. I thought he seemed quite a decent young fellow.’

‘I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time, doctor,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’d like to ask you one or two more questions and then I’ve finished. By the way, do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Not a bit,’ replied Dr Thornborough heartily. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cigarette though, for I never smoke the things myself.’

‘Oh that’s all right, I always carry my own,’ said Jimmy. He produced his cigarette case, opened it and suddenly looked blank. ‘Blest if it isn’t empty!’ he exclaimed. ‘I must have forgotten to fill it.’

‘You cigarette smokers are always doing that,’ the doctor replied. ‘Wait a minute, there are plenty of cigarettes in the drawing-room. I’ll go and get you one.’

Dr Thornborough left the room, to return a few moments later with a silver box which he held out towards Jimmy. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘They’re my wife’s. I don’t know whether you’ll care about them.’

Jimmy took one of the cigarettes and lighted it. ‘Black’s Russian Blend, I see,’ he said. ‘I used to have a fancy for them myself at one time. Does Mrs Thornborough always smoke them?’

‘No, she smokes Player’s as a rule. But her uncle, Mr Fransham, sent her a hundred of these last week. I don’t think she cares about them much, though.’

‘They’re an acquired taste. By the way, doctor, why did you have a brick wall built on one side of your property and not the other?’

Dr Thornborough, as well he might, looked slightly astonished at this question.

‘The reason’s a very simple one,’ he replied. ‘On one side of the house, as you may have noticed, are the public gardens. They will never be built upon. But the land on the other side is for sale in building plots. Sooner or later somebody will put up a house there. Hence the wall, which I had put up in order to avoid being overlooked.’

Jimmy smiled. ‘I might have thought of that for myself,’ he said. ‘There’s just one thing I’d like to mention, doctor. It might be advisable for Mr Fransham’s solicitor to be present at the inquest tomorrow.’

‘The same thing occurred to me. I got on the telephone to him yesterday afternoon, and explained what had happened. He promised to come down by the afternoon train today, and should be here about half-past four. Have you formed any opinion as to how this terrible thing can have happened?’

‘I’ve hardly had time for that yet, doctor. Is Coates, Mr Fransham’s chauffeur, still here?’

‘I sent him down with Fransham’s car to the Red Lion. And told him to stay there till further orders.’

‘That’s just as well, for his evidence will probably be wanted at the inquest. Do you happen to take the British Medical Journal, doctor?’

‘Yes, I do. There’s this week’s issue lying on the table in front of you.’

‘I wonder if you could find me the issue of May 22? There’s an article in that number which I’m particularly anxious to read. We policemen have to try and keep abreast of certain branches of medical knowledge, you know.’

Dr Thornborough went to a bookshelf upon which lay a pile of back numbers. He ran through these twice without finding the one which Jimmy had asked for.

‘That’s queer,’ he said. ‘That particular number must have got mislaid. But I’ll have a hunt for it and send it along to you when I find it.’

‘Oh, please don’t trouble. I’ve wasted enough of your time as it is.’

Jimmy left the house, being escorted to the front door by the doctor. He then crossed the road and knocked at the door of the cottage, which stood by itself in a small garden surrounded by trees. After a few minutes the door was opened by a noticeably pale young man, wearing a tennis shirt and a pair of grey flannel trousers, who remained in the dark background of the hall, from which he peered at his visitor disapprovingly. ‘This isn’t my at home day, you know,’ he said.

‘I hoped it might have been,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Are you Mr Willingdon?’

‘Such is my ancestral name. My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism christened me Francis. To the denizens of the low haunts which I frequent I am known as Frank. And who are you that so blithely disturb my Sabbath rest?’

‘I’m Inspector James Waghorn from Scotland Yard,’ Jimmy replied simply.

‘Be sure your sins will find you out!’ exclaimed the other in a sepulchral tone. ‘Where are the minions of justice? Where are the handcuffs and the gyves? Where, in fact, is the Black Maria?’

‘Sorry, I forgot to bring it. But I’d be very glad if you could spare me five minutes of your time, Mr Willingdon.’

‘He calls me Mr Willingdon! Indeed, my offence must be rank. Wherein have I transgressed the King’s Peace? Have I driven thirty and a half miles an hour in a thirty mile limit? Have I consumed alcohol during the hours when such indulgence is not permitted? Have I been so lost to all sense of decency as to loiter with intent? Come inside, and tell me the worst.’

He led the way into a room furnished as a lounge, with the curtains drawn across all the windows. When his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Jimmy perceived that at one end of this room was a table covered with a newspaper, on which was laid a tin can, a loaf of bread and a bottle of beer. A faint but penetrating smell of perfume pervaded the place.

‘Observe the preparations for my frugal meal,’ said Willingdon. ‘Care to join me? I dare say I could find another bottle of beer in the refrigerator.’

‘I couldn’t think of depriving you of it,’ Jimmy replied. ‘You’ve heard, of course, of what happened at the doctor’s house across the road yesterday afternoon?’

Willingdon shook his head. ‘While I am in this rural retreat, I am a temporary anchorite,’ he said. ‘That’s what I come here for. Life in the giddy world is so hectic that even the most pernicious of us want a rest sometimes. Don’t you find that, inspector? Nothing untoward has befallen the doctor, I hope? He seemed a very good fellow the only time I saw him.’