Police at the Funeral (22 page)

There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but it was not in the least disrespectful.

‘I don't see why anyone should bury a hat unless they wanted to hide it,' said the Inspector. ‘But that doesn't signify. I've
never been on the scene of any outdoor crime yet where there wasn't someone's old clothes lying about. Still, as you say, it's funny this thing being buried. It's not much of a hat, anyhow.'

‘You're right.' Mr Bowditch seemed to consider this a moment for laugher. ‘Some lie-about's,' he said. ‘That's what that is. The property of a vagrant, if I might use a contradiction in terms.'

The Inspector silenced him with a look. ‘The gun,' he said. ‘I must have that gun. If it's been thrown away it's got to be found. There's the hat, too. The one the deceased was wearing when he left church. That's not so important, but it's odd that it hasn't turned up. Size seven and three-quarters, new, Henry Heath label on the lining. I'm going down to Socrates Close now if anybody wants me, but if it's the newspaper fellows let 'em look for me. I don't want this hat bellowed all over the place as an important clue. Be mysterious if you like.'

Mr Bowditch winked shamelessly at Campion. ‘I'll keep the hat under me hat,' he said. ‘Well, good afternoon, sir. If the gun's about we'll get it. We've taken about a ton of mud out of that river already, and we'll take another ton if necessary. But it's an unsatisfactory job dragging a stream that's full of weeds.'

‘Do murderers throw away guns near the scene of the crime?' said Mr Campion mildly, as he and the Inspector went on their way together.

Mr Oates paused to knock out his pipe on his shoe before replying.

‘Very often,' he said. ‘That's the funny thing about murder. A man may carry the whole thing through with remarkable ingenuity and then give himself right away immediately afterwards, just as though he had lost interest in the crime. It's queer about guns, too. If a man doesn't carry a gun habitually, and I don't suppose there's one in a thousand in England who does, his tendency is to chuck it away as soon as he has used it. He realizes that it is incriminating if found upon him, but forgets that it can nearly always be traced back to him. I bet the gun we're after is in that river somewhere. But as old Bowditch pointed out, it's a devil of a place to drag.'

Mr Campion appeared satisfied, on this point at least. ‘If I may be permitted to say so,' he ventured, after a pause, ‘the hat
trick excites my curiosity. You are looking for a bowler hat and you find a venerable green felt. To my innocent mind this would suggest a swop. But a murderer would hardly finish off his star turn by coming home in his victim's hat, unless he was reverting to a time-honoured custom in bringing back his enemy's head or the nearest thing to it. On the other hand, if, as seems more probable, some disinterested third party found Andrew Seeley's new hat, and considering it vastly preferable to his own – a point no one can deny – discarded the one for the other, why should he take the trouble to bury his old hat? My experience of lie-abouts, as your happy friend Mr Bowditch so neatly describes them, has taught me that their passion for tidiness is not marked, in fact they are apt to leave any unwanted part of their wardrobe precisely where they discard it.'

The Inspector grunted. ‘Tramps are a law unto themselves,' he said. ‘You never know what they're going to do. But the hat is too slender a clue to worry about yet. It's got to be noted, of course, but we can't waste time thinking about it. It's the lucky fellows on the outside, like yourself, who can enjoy the luxuries of conjecture. It
would
be a bowler hat,' he went on, disobeying his own axiom. ‘The only hat in the world, with the possible exception of a topper, which can look old in five seconds. A spot of dust and a kick make it look like nothing on earth. A good felt is always a good felt, whatever you do to it, but a tramp could have gone off in Andrew Seeley's hat without looking in the least extraordinary.' He sighed. ‘That's the worst of this darned case. For every single thing that's happened there might be half a dozen explanations. I had a report on the angle of the bullet this morning. The experts were hampered, of course, by the fact that the head appears to have been under water for about ten days, but they're smart fellows and they've got me this much. Hastings is appearing at the inquest, so there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you. The bullet entered the head in the very centre of the forehead. It took a slightly upward course, practically lifting the back of the skull off with it. There were powder burns on the skin of the forehead and these were pretty bad or they wouldn't have survived. That means the gun was fired close to, and it also means that the firer of the shot was probably a little shorter than Seeley if the
dead man was standing up when it happened. But as his feet were bound that doesn't seem likely, so we're no better off. The really tantalizing point is that there must have been a lot of blood about directly after the crime. If the man was shot lying down there must have been a pool of it, and if he was standing up the murderer must have been covered with it the moment he started shifting the body. Yet there's no sign, no trace at all of any blood in the vicinity. If he was carried or dragged to the bridge as old Bowditch suggests, and it certainly seems feasible, there must have been a trail of blood. But of course we mustn't forget the rain, and in spite of the fact that this footpath is so near the town it doesn't seem to have been used much at the time of year. Still, there ought to have been traces. Someone ought to have seen something. I'm advertising for witness. Of course the body may have floated right down. We shall follow the river up as far as this Byron's Pool, if need be.' He shook his head. ‘As I said, it's no good conjecturing. We've got to get on with the routine. We'll get out that little car I've hired and go up to the house.'

‘If it isn't rude to ask, in what direction is duty calling you now?' inquired Mr Campion.

The Inspector seemed surprised at the question. ‘That fellow William and his hand, of course,' he said. ‘All new developments must be carefully watched. I think that's about the first rule in the book. We must find out how he hurt himself. There is just a chance that he was attacked, you know, and if so he must be made to talk.'

‘Here, I say, no bullying Uncle William,' said Campion in mild alarm.

‘Bullying?' The Inspector's expression was bitter. ‘It's as much as we're allowed to do to speak to witnesses these days. But if he tells me a cock-and-bull story he can go into the witness-box and tell it to the coroner – and the press.'

‘Ho!' said Mr Campion.

‘Eh?'

‘I said “ho”,' repeated the young man. ‘A vulgar expression meaning “indeed”. Oh, well, I'm sorry about all this. I'll come with you. By the way, I swore Joyce to secrecy.'

‘Good,' conceded the Inspector. ‘I'm sorry the girl was in it.
Still, I quite see you couldn't go ferreting about the house on your own. I left the package for the analysts and the photographers. We shall have a report in twenty-four hours if we're lucky. Of course,' he went on, ‘William is the straight line to follow. He was the only member of the household out of doors at the time of the first murder, with the exception of one of the servants. You can't get away from that.'

‘Which one of the servants?' said Campion, conscious of an unwonted feeling of apprehension.

‘The big red-faced woman,' said the Inspector. ‘I've got her name down. The housemaid. Been with 'em for thirty years, just like the story books. She had the day off to go over to her married sister, who lives at Waterbeach, a mile or two out. Half a moment – I've got it. Nuddington. Alice Nuddington. She left the house at nine in the morning and got back at ten at night. We can verify her statement easily. All these things have got to be attended to.'

Mr Campion did not speak for some moments. The rain was driving in his face and the wet streets, with their urban drabness even more pronounced by their comparative desertion, gave the tragedy an air of sordidness which it did not really possess. The thought of Uncle William, that bewildered and floundering old reprobate, stirred a sense of compassion within him, however, and he plodded along by the Inspector's side.

‘I must see the clothes that William wore to church,' the Inspector remarked, more to himself than to his friend. ‘A dull routine job, this tracking of criminals. Murderers are the most unsatisfactory of the lot. Nine times out of ten you've got no past record to go on. What's the good of your beautiful filing system then? What's the good of your organization? This is going to be a darned bad inconclusive business, you mark my words.'

The Inspector's gloom, which increased even when they climbed into the two-seater Rover, was in such direct opposition to Mr Bowditch's homeric cheerfulness that Mr Campion felt called upon to comment upon it.

‘I like your friend Bowditch,' he said. ‘A happy man, I deduced.'

Mr Oates snorted. ‘Bowditch!' he said. ‘A nice chap and a
good man. But that smile of his gets on my nerves. I feel I'm wandering about with an advertisement for fruit salts. I told him this was a murder and not a music-hall show, and he laughed till he was nearly sick. You can't do anything with a fellow like that.'

He relapsed into thought, and it was not until they were in sight of the house that he spoke again.

‘There you are,' he said, jerking his hand in the direction of the creeper-covered building, ‘that's where our solution lies. It's someone underneath that roof. They all know more than they've said, and William Faraday comes in for special mention. Here we are.'

However, the stolid gloom of Socrates Close, which seemed to be about to settle upon them once more as they stepped out of the car, was shattered for once. They entered the porch, the Inspector pulled the bell, and as the hollow peal sounded within the depths of the domestic quarters a loud feminine shriek, followed by a burst of hysterical laughter, came out to them quite clearly from the breakfast-room.

The front door was thrown open to them almost immediately by Marcus Featherstone, considerably paler than usual, his reddish hair standing almost upright. Behind him, in the hall near the service corridor, a little group of excited servants clung together, while the distressing sounds from the breakfast-room continued.

Marcus seized upon them. ‘Come in,' he said. ‘I've been trying to phone you.'

Stanislaus Oates was slightly surprised for once in his life. He stepped heavily into the hall, Campion following.

‘What's the matter?' he demanded.

Marcus shot a harassed glance around him. ‘That awful noise in there is Kitty,' he murmured. ‘Joyce is with her, but I'm afraid she's rather bad. You go back to the kitchen, will you, please, cook,' he added, turning to the maids. ‘There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of – absolutely nothing. Look here, Inspector, would you mind coming into the library? You, too, Campion, of course. The fact is, the household has had a bit of a scare.'

The servants trailed off down the corridor, and Campion and
the Inspector, their curiosity thoroughly aroused, followed Marcus into the great book-lined room in which poor Uncle William had never seen his father at his best.

It was a gloomy but imposing apartment, furnished principally by the enormous carved oak desk set facing the door and a high-backed yellow brocade chair, which stood behind it. The holland blinds were drawn, and as they entered Marcus switched on the lights.

When he turned to them he seemed more himself, and, if anything, a trifle shamefaced. He laughed awkwardly.

‘Now I come to show you what has scared the whole household and driven poor Kitty into screaming hysteria, I feel a bit of a fool,' he said. ‘It just goes to show how jumpy everyone is in the house. I pulled the blinds down again because the maids kept coming in to stare at the thing. There doesn't seem to be any key to this room.'

As he spoke he moved over to the long narrow window directly behind the yellow chair and twitched the spring blind, which immediately shot up to the lintel, revealing a view of the bowling-green and the phenomenon which had come like a bombshell into the startled household.

In the centre of one of the large panes was a boldly drawn sign in crimson, simple, entirely inexplicable and certainly presenting a somewhat startling appearance. It consisted of two small circles one above the other, followed by a stroke, with an outer circle round the whole thing, thus:

The Inspector stared at it. ‘When did this appear?' he demanded.

‘I don't know,' said Marcus. ‘But they say it wasn't here
yesterday, and it was discovered about fifteen minutes ago by Kitty, who has taken over Julia's duty of dusting her father's room. The blinds in this room were not drawn until after you left last night, Inspector, and it was not entered this morning as far as anyone remembers. Kitty came here with the duster just now, not having had time before. She pulled up the blind and discovered it. The unexpected sight frightened her – she seems to have been on edge anyhow. Her screams brought the household and myself. I came back from the inquest with William to lunch and – well, there you are. Everybody is very frightened. ‘It's a queer thing to happen, and I am afraid they are all very jumpy.'