CHAPTER IX.SilenceThinking over his interview with Ryland Fratten, Poole felt rather uncertain as to what deduction to draw from it as to his character. Undoubtedly he was a much more intelligent—and consequently a potentially more dangerous—man than he had expected to find. On the other hand, without any practical justification, Poole realized that he rather liked what he had seen of him. Obviously, he must not build on such slender material and he cast about in his mind for the best means of studying Fratten’s character more closely. His sister, Inez, was out of the question; Mangane was possible, but Poole did not quite like the idea of pumping him. Finally it occurred to him that his own past history might provide a key to the problem.In his undergraduate days, and to a lesser extent as a young barrister, he had not been above a little mild stage-door flirtation, during which he had made the acquaintance of various stage-door keepers, and especially that of Mr. Gabb of the “Inanity.” It was probable that Mr. Gabb knew the life-stories of more lights of the musical-comedy stage, together with their attendant moths, than any man in London. It was more than probable that he would know Ryland Fratten, and quite likely the history of his entanglement. Anyhow it was worth trying.Returning quickly to his lodgings, Poole invested himself in the suit of immaculate evening clothes, the light black overcoat, and “stouted” top-hat, which were the carefully preserved relics of his less sombre past. There had always seemed a possibility of their coming in useful, and now Poole was glad of his foresight in keeping them by him and in good order. After standing himself a good, though light, dinner and a half-bottle of Cliquot at the Savoy Grill, with the object of imbibing the necessary “atmosphere,” Poole strolled round to the stage-door of the “Inanity” a little before nine. He knew that the interval would not take place before a quarter past at the earliest, so that he had plenty of time for a heart-to-heart with Mr. Gabb.The result more than fulfilled his expectations. Gabb knew Ryland Fratten well, and all about his various affairs of the heart. He liked him, but he clearly felt a certain contempt for a man who, no longer a callow boy, wasted his life in fluttering about these tinsel attractions. Fratten’s latest flame was Miss Julie Vermont; she had a small speaking part in the piece now on. The affair had lasted about six months—longer than usual—and more serious than usual, though there had been a hitch in it lately.At this moment, the swing-door leading into the theatre was pushed open and a girl in the exaggerated dress of a parlour-maid so popular on the lighter stage, stood for a moment in the doorway. She was extremely pretty, in a rather hard way, with closely-shingled auburn hair; Poole noticed a diamond and platinum ring on the third finger of the well-manicured hand that held open the door.“Oh, Gabb,” she said, “if Mr. Gossington comes round tell him I can’t come out tonight, will you?”Gabb made an inarticulate grunt and scribbled upon a pad in front of him. With a quick glance at the attractive figure of the detective, the girl vanished.“ ‘Talk of the devil,’ ” said Gabb; “that’s his girl—Mr. Fratten’s that is—Miss Vermont. At least she was, but it’s cooled off a bit lately, I think, diamond ring and all. Maybe something to do with his father’s death. Anyway he hasn’t been round lately and she’s been going out with this young Gossington—Porky Gossington’s boy in the Blues, he is. Here’s the interval now, sir.”Poole drew back as a trickle of young men in evening clothes, mostly bareheaded, came round from the main entrance. Poole watched with sympathetic amusement the well-remembered and unchanging scene: the confident assurance of the accepted cavalier, chaffing Gabb and exchanging pleasantries with the little cluster of girls who occasionally poked their heads through the swing-door; the shy diffidence of the fledgling presenting his first note, his blush of delight when it returned to him with an evidently favourable answer, his crestfallen retreat at the verbal message: “Miss Flitterling is sorry she’s engaged,” or, worse still: “No answer, sir.” It was all very laughable, and very pathetic, thought the emancipated Poole.Feeling that, for the moment, the stage-door keeper had yielded as much information as could be extracted without arousing suspicion, Poole said good-night and walked out into the Aldwych. He had not gone far when he felt a touch on his arm and, looking down, saw a small and shabby individual ambling along beside him.“Beg pardon, guv’nor,” said his new acquaintance, “but if yer wants hinformation abaht the Honerable Fratten, I’m the chap with the goods.”Wondering how this seedy creature could know of his question, the detective looked at him more closely and presently remembered that he had seen him come in with a note for Gabb when he and the latter had been talking together. Probably the man had picked up the name then; possibly he had hung about outside and caught a bit more—and was now out to take advantage of his eaves-dropping. Probably whatever information he proffered would be worthless, if not purely imaginary, but it was never safe to turn one’s back upon the most unlikely source of news.“Well, what is it?” he asked carelessly.The man smiled. “It’s sumfing worf ’aving, sir,” he said. “ ’Arf a Fisher’d do it.”Poole, of course, in his official capacity, had no need to pay for information, but he did not wish yet to reveal himself as a police-officer. His informant probably took him for a jealous rival—if not an injured husband.“How am I to know it’s worth paying for?” he asked.“Dahtin’ Thomas, ain’t yer? S’posin’ I tells yer one bit an’ keeps the other up me sleeve till yer pays? Then yer’ll know what quality yer buyin’.”“All right,” said Poole, “fire away.”His companion leant closer to him and said in a husky whisper.“E’s paid ’er off!”“Paid her off? Who? What d’you mean?”“Fratten. E’s paid off that Vermint gurl—blood-money, breach-o’-prom., alimony—whatever yer calls it. Five bob a week she’d ’a bin lucky to git if she’d moved in my circles—at theworst,” he added with a leer.“How do you know?” asked Poole, who was now definitely interested.“ ’Eard ’er buckin’ about it to ’er pals. Not much I don’t see an’ ’ear rahnd the ‘Hinanity’—worf sumfin’ sometimes. That’s the first part, mister—the rest’s better.” He held out his hand.With some repugnance Poole slipped a ten-shilling note into the grimy palm. The man spat on it and tucked it into his belt.“I knows where ’e got it from—the spondulics to pay ’er with.” He paused for encouragement, but receiving none, continued: “I ’eard ’im this time, it was, arstin’ a pal where ’e could raise the wind—said ’e’d tried all the usual—father, ‘uncles,’ Jews, Turks an’ other infidelities—nuthin’ doin’—’ad enough of ’im. This pal put ’im on to a new squeezer—chap called ‘Silence’ in Lemon Street, back o’ the Lyceum. Seen ’is place meself—neat an’ unpretenshus. That’s the chap. That’s worf anover, ain’t it?”Poole shook his head.“We’ll stick to our bargain for the moment,” he said. “What’s your name, in case I want you again?”But that was asking too much.“That ain’t part o’ the bargain,” he said. “If yer wants me, yer can alwys find me—round the ‘Hinanity’—Mr. Gabb’ll give yer a reference.”And with a peck at his cap the man was gone.Poole felt that this might well be a useful line of inquiry; he turned his steps automatically towards the Lyceum—of course, it was long past business hours but he might as well have a look at the place.Lemon Street proved to be a very short and very dark alley that ran out of Wellington Street almost immediately behind the Lyceum Theatre. There were not more than half a dozen houses in it, all gloomy and nondescript. On the third of them, Poole descried a small black plate over an electric door-bell, inscribed in white with the one word:Silence. It looked more like an injunction than a name. The detective was conscious of being intrigued. Stepping back across the street to get a better view of the house he became aware of a glimmer of light over the fanlight of the door—it appeared to come from a room at the back—possibly in this queer neighbourhood and with an unusual clientele, office hours might be so unconventional as to include ten o’clock at night. Deciding to put this theory to the test, Poole went back to the door and touched the bell. He heard no answering trill; but in a moment or two the door opened silently and at the same time a light, shaded so as to throw its beam upon anyone on the doorstep while leaving the passage in darkness, was switched on.Poole could just make out a dim figure beyond the door, then the light was switched off, and a hand beckoned to him to enter. He did so and the door closed quietly behind him whilst the figure led the way down the passage to a room at the back. Poole could see now that the man who had admitted him was short and slightly hunchbacked, and, when he turned to motion Poole to a chair in the inner room, that his face was sallow and covered with faint pockmarks, whilst his hair was black and meagre. Truly a figure worthy of its setting.“Silence?” said Poole, by way of opening the interview. The man bowed but did not speak.Feeling that this was an occasion when his diplomacy would probably be outmatched, the detective produced his official card.“I am Inspector Poole, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard,” he said in a crisp voice. “I have come to ask you for information regarding a sum of money advanced by you to Mr. Ryland Fratten.”This was banking rather heavily upon the slender framework of his late informant’s credibility. Poole was relieved to see an unmistakable flutter of apprehension pass over the otherwise inscrutable features in front of him. Following up his advantage, Poole assumed his most official manner.“You will probably realize,” he said, “that you will be well advised not to attempt to conceal any phase of this transaction. The consequences of any deception would be very serious for you.”He paused to let these words sink in.“What precisely do you want to know?” Silence asked, in a low but curiously refined voice.“I want to know how much you lent Mr. Fratten, on what security, and at what rate of interest?”The man remained silent, his fingers beating a tattoo, his eyes cast down upon the writing-pad before him.“My business is supposed to be confidential,” he said at last.“I realize that, but if the police require information it will be advisable for you not to withhold it.”Poole knew that this was a delicate point as between police and public, but a man engaged in such a business as this probably was, could afford to run no risks. He was not mistaken.“I lent Mr. Fratten £15,000 for three months only, at 10% per month. The rate of interest is high but Mr. Fratten’s reputation is not good. I know well what trouble others in my profession have had to recover their advances. I could only do business on very special terms.”“And the security?”“A note of hand only.”“Surely something more? If Mr. Fratten’s reputation is so bad, what expectation could you have had of being repaid within three months?”The moneylender fidgeted uneasily.“He showed me a letter,” he said at last, “a letter from his father’s (Sir Garth Fratten’s) doctor. I gathered from it that Sir Garth’s expectation of life was very short; Mr. Fratten was his heir. I took a risk; it came off.”A shadow of a smile crossed the pale face. Poole felt a shudder of repugnance—this gambling upon a man’s life was an ugly business. Ugly enough, from the moneylender’s point of view—hideous when applied to father and son.He learnt nothing more of interest from the rather melodramatic moneylender, except the significant fact that the transaction was affected on 17th October, exactly half-way between the date of Ryland Fratten’s threatened disinheritance by his father and the latter’s death. After a thoroughly blank and unpromising beginning, Poole felt that the day had ended well. He went home to bed, carefully folding his evening clothes before putting them away until next time.The following day was a Sunday, but on Monday morning Poole reported again to Sir Leward and the latter, after hearing what he had to say, decided that the time had come to call Chief Inspector Barrod into their councils. Barrod listened with attention to the précis of the case given by Poole, but showed no sign of making any amends for his former scepticism.“Yes, sir,” he said, “you’ve got the motive all right; you’ve probably got the murderer; but have you got the murder?”Sir Leward looked at Poole. The latter nodded.“I agree,” he said, “that’s the missing link up to date. So far there is nothing to prove that a murder has been committed.”“And how are you going to prove it?”“In the first place, we ought to have a look at the body.”“Exhumation?”“That’s it, sir.”“Do you agree, Barrod?” asked Sir Leward, turning to the Chief Inspector, who had remained silent.“If you want to go any further, sir, yes.”Marradine was not quite so sure now that he did want to go further; the chances of “seeing more of” Inez Fratten, under favourable conditions, whilst pursuing her brother for murder, were hardly promising. Still, he had gone too far now to turn back.“Very well,” he said, “get an exhumation order and let me have the surgeon’s report as soon as possible.”“What about re-burial, sir? If it’s to be done without attracting attention it’ll be much better to do it straight-a-way—that is to say, if you decide not to proceed with the case. On the other hand, if you do proceed, there’ll have to be an inquest and, if it’s not too far gone, the jury’ll have to view the body. In that case it had better come straight up to the mortuary here.”“Well,” said Sir Leward testily, “what do you suggest, Barrod?”“Either that you come to Woking yourself, sir, and have the preliminary examination there—in which case, if there’s nothing you can give the order for the re-burial on the spot; or else that you authorize me to take the decision in the same way.”“But I don’t know that there need necessarily be visible signs on the body, even if a murder has been committed. The cause of death was the rupture of an artery due to shock—the shock need not necessarily have left marks.”“I think you’ll find it difficult, sir, to persuade a coroner’s jury, let alone a petty jury, to bring in a verdict of murder if there aren’t any marks. Personally I don’t see how your murderer could count on death ensuing from a mere push—there must have been a blow—and if there was a blow, there must be a mark.”So it was eventually decided, that Barrod, Poole and a surgeon should proceed to Brooklands Cemetery that night, exhume the body by arrangement with the Cemetery authorities, and carry out a preliminary investigation on the spot. If there was the smallest suspicious sign, the body was to be brought to London and subjected to expert examination. If not, it was to be re-buried at once and a further conference would be held the next day to decide whether or not to drop the case.As the three officials travelled down to Brooklands by the 5.10 train that evening, Poole thought that Chief Inspector Barrod was treating him with more respect than he had previously done, but he did not discuss the case upon which they were engaged. Probably, thought Poole, he did not want to commit himself. Instead, the talk turned entirely on another case which had just closed, and in which the police-surgeon had been actively engaged. The train reached Brooklands at 5.55 and as soon as it was dark the work of the exhumation began. It took nearly an hour to bring the coffin to the surface and even then the actual exposure of the body took some time, owing to its being enclosed in a lead shell, a possibility which neither Barrod nor Poole had taken into account.At last the grisly work of unwinding was completed and the body laid upon a table. Naturally, after ten days, the flesh was beginning to show signs of decomposition, and to Poole’s untrained eye it appeared as if these marks might conceal what he was looking for. But the doctor had no such misgivings. Running his eye and his fingers rapidly over the chest, he shook his head.“Nothing here,” he said. “Turn it over.”“It would be on the back,” muttered Poole.The nauseating odour emitted by the moving of the body drove Poole to the door for a breath of fresh air. When he returned, he found the more hardened Barrod and the surgeon closely examining a mark upon the left centre of the back. The whole surface was stained, as was inevitable, but in one spot there was a deeper and more clearly defined stain. The surgeon pressed it gently with his sensitive fingers, then, producing a magnifying-glass, turned the beam of a powerful electric torch on to the spot and examined it with minute attention. After a couple of minutes he straightened his back.“Yes,” he said, “this is more than ordinary post-mortem staining; there clearly has been rupture of small capillary vessels. That means a blow, and from the look of it, a violent and concentrated blow.”
Thinking over his interview with Ryland Fratten, Poole felt rather uncertain as to what deduction to draw from it as to his character. Undoubtedly he was a much more intelligent—and consequently a potentially more dangerous—man than he had expected to find. On the other hand, without any practical justification, Poole realized that he rather liked what he had seen of him. Obviously, he must not build on such slender material and he cast about in his mind for the best means of studying Fratten’s character more closely. His sister, Inez, was out of the question; Mangane was possible, but Poole did not quite like the idea of pumping him. Finally it occurred to him that his own past history might provide a key to the problem.
In his undergraduate days, and to a lesser extent as a young barrister, he had not been above a little mild stage-door flirtation, during which he had made the acquaintance of various stage-door keepers, and especially that of Mr. Gabb of the “Inanity.” It was probable that Mr. Gabb knew the life-stories of more lights of the musical-comedy stage, together with their attendant moths, than any man in London. It was more than probable that he would know Ryland Fratten, and quite likely the history of his entanglement. Anyhow it was worth trying.
Returning quickly to his lodgings, Poole invested himself in the suit of immaculate evening clothes, the light black overcoat, and “stouted” top-hat, which were the carefully preserved relics of his less sombre past. There had always seemed a possibility of their coming in useful, and now Poole was glad of his foresight in keeping them by him and in good order. After standing himself a good, though light, dinner and a half-bottle of Cliquot at the Savoy Grill, with the object of imbibing the necessary “atmosphere,” Poole strolled round to the stage-door of the “Inanity” a little before nine. He knew that the interval would not take place before a quarter past at the earliest, so that he had plenty of time for a heart-to-heart with Mr. Gabb.
The result more than fulfilled his expectations. Gabb knew Ryland Fratten well, and all about his various affairs of the heart. He liked him, but he clearly felt a certain contempt for a man who, no longer a callow boy, wasted his life in fluttering about these tinsel attractions. Fratten’s latest flame was Miss Julie Vermont; she had a small speaking part in the piece now on. The affair had lasted about six months—longer than usual—and more serious than usual, though there had been a hitch in it lately.
At this moment, the swing-door leading into the theatre was pushed open and a girl in the exaggerated dress of a parlour-maid so popular on the lighter stage, stood for a moment in the doorway. She was extremely pretty, in a rather hard way, with closely-shingled auburn hair; Poole noticed a diamond and platinum ring on the third finger of the well-manicured hand that held open the door.
“Oh, Gabb,” she said, “if Mr. Gossington comes round tell him I can’t come out tonight, will you?”
Gabb made an inarticulate grunt and scribbled upon a pad in front of him. With a quick glance at the attractive figure of the detective, the girl vanished.
“ ‘Talk of the devil,’ ” said Gabb; “that’s his girl—Mr. Fratten’s that is—Miss Vermont. At least she was, but it’s cooled off a bit lately, I think, diamond ring and all. Maybe something to do with his father’s death. Anyway he hasn’t been round lately and she’s been going out with this young Gossington—Porky Gossington’s boy in the Blues, he is. Here’s the interval now, sir.”
Poole drew back as a trickle of young men in evening clothes, mostly bareheaded, came round from the main entrance. Poole watched with sympathetic amusement the well-remembered and unchanging scene: the confident assurance of the accepted cavalier, chaffing Gabb and exchanging pleasantries with the little cluster of girls who occasionally poked their heads through the swing-door; the shy diffidence of the fledgling presenting his first note, his blush of delight when it returned to him with an evidently favourable answer, his crestfallen retreat at the verbal message: “Miss Flitterling is sorry she’s engaged,” or, worse still: “No answer, sir.” It was all very laughable, and very pathetic, thought the emancipated Poole.
Feeling that, for the moment, the stage-door keeper had yielded as much information as could be extracted without arousing suspicion, Poole said good-night and walked out into the Aldwych. He had not gone far when he felt a touch on his arm and, looking down, saw a small and shabby individual ambling along beside him.
“Beg pardon, guv’nor,” said his new acquaintance, “but if yer wants hinformation abaht the Honerable Fratten, I’m the chap with the goods.”
Wondering how this seedy creature could know of his question, the detective looked at him more closely and presently remembered that he had seen him come in with a note for Gabb when he and the latter had been talking together. Probably the man had picked up the name then; possibly he had hung about outside and caught a bit more—and was now out to take advantage of his eaves-dropping. Probably whatever information he proffered would be worthless, if not purely imaginary, but it was never safe to turn one’s back upon the most unlikely source of news.
“Well, what is it?” he asked carelessly.
The man smiled. “It’s sumfing worf ’aving, sir,” he said. “ ’Arf a Fisher’d do it.”
Poole, of course, in his official capacity, had no need to pay for information, but he did not wish yet to reveal himself as a police-officer. His informant probably took him for a jealous rival—if not an injured husband.
“How am I to know it’s worth paying for?” he asked.
“Dahtin’ Thomas, ain’t yer? S’posin’ I tells yer one bit an’ keeps the other up me sleeve till yer pays? Then yer’ll know what quality yer buyin’.”
“All right,” said Poole, “fire away.”
His companion leant closer to him and said in a husky whisper.
“E’s paid ’er off!”
“Paid her off? Who? What d’you mean?”
“Fratten. E’s paid off that Vermint gurl—blood-money, breach-o’-prom., alimony—whatever yer calls it. Five bob a week she’d ’a bin lucky to git if she’d moved in my circles—at theworst,” he added with a leer.
“How do you know?” asked Poole, who was now definitely interested.
“ ’Eard ’er buckin’ about it to ’er pals. Not much I don’t see an’ ’ear rahnd the ‘Hinanity’—worf sumfin’ sometimes. That’s the first part, mister—the rest’s better.” He held out his hand.
With some repugnance Poole slipped a ten-shilling note into the grimy palm. The man spat on it and tucked it into his belt.
“I knows where ’e got it from—the spondulics to pay ’er with.” He paused for encouragement, but receiving none, continued: “I ’eard ’im this time, it was, arstin’ a pal where ’e could raise the wind—said ’e’d tried all the usual—father, ‘uncles,’ Jews, Turks an’ other infidelities—nuthin’ doin’—’ad enough of ’im. This pal put ’im on to a new squeezer—chap called ‘Silence’ in Lemon Street, back o’ the Lyceum. Seen ’is place meself—neat an’ unpretenshus. That’s the chap. That’s worf anover, ain’t it?”
Poole shook his head.
“We’ll stick to our bargain for the moment,” he said. “What’s your name, in case I want you again?”
But that was asking too much.
“That ain’t part o’ the bargain,” he said. “If yer wants me, yer can alwys find me—round the ‘Hinanity’—Mr. Gabb’ll give yer a reference.”
And with a peck at his cap the man was gone.
Poole felt that this might well be a useful line of inquiry; he turned his steps automatically towards the Lyceum—of course, it was long past business hours but he might as well have a look at the place.
Lemon Street proved to be a very short and very dark alley that ran out of Wellington Street almost immediately behind the Lyceum Theatre. There were not more than half a dozen houses in it, all gloomy and nondescript. On the third of them, Poole descried a small black plate over an electric door-bell, inscribed in white with the one word:Silence. It looked more like an injunction than a name. The detective was conscious of being intrigued. Stepping back across the street to get a better view of the house he became aware of a glimmer of light over the fanlight of the door—it appeared to come from a room at the back—possibly in this queer neighbourhood and with an unusual clientele, office hours might be so unconventional as to include ten o’clock at night. Deciding to put this theory to the test, Poole went back to the door and touched the bell. He heard no answering trill; but in a moment or two the door opened silently and at the same time a light, shaded so as to throw its beam upon anyone on the doorstep while leaving the passage in darkness, was switched on.
Poole could just make out a dim figure beyond the door, then the light was switched off, and a hand beckoned to him to enter. He did so and the door closed quietly behind him whilst the figure led the way down the passage to a room at the back. Poole could see now that the man who had admitted him was short and slightly hunchbacked, and, when he turned to motion Poole to a chair in the inner room, that his face was sallow and covered with faint pockmarks, whilst his hair was black and meagre. Truly a figure worthy of its setting.
“Silence?” said Poole, by way of opening the interview. The man bowed but did not speak.
Feeling that this was an occasion when his diplomacy would probably be outmatched, the detective produced his official card.
“I am Inspector Poole, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard,” he said in a crisp voice. “I have come to ask you for information regarding a sum of money advanced by you to Mr. Ryland Fratten.”
This was banking rather heavily upon the slender framework of his late informant’s credibility. Poole was relieved to see an unmistakable flutter of apprehension pass over the otherwise inscrutable features in front of him. Following up his advantage, Poole assumed his most official manner.
“You will probably realize,” he said, “that you will be well advised not to attempt to conceal any phase of this transaction. The consequences of any deception would be very serious for you.”
He paused to let these words sink in.
“What precisely do you want to know?” Silence asked, in a low but curiously refined voice.
“I want to know how much you lent Mr. Fratten, on what security, and at what rate of interest?”
The man remained silent, his fingers beating a tattoo, his eyes cast down upon the writing-pad before him.
“My business is supposed to be confidential,” he said at last.
“I realize that, but if the police require information it will be advisable for you not to withhold it.”
Poole knew that this was a delicate point as between police and public, but a man engaged in such a business as this probably was, could afford to run no risks. He was not mistaken.
“I lent Mr. Fratten £15,000 for three months only, at 10% per month. The rate of interest is high but Mr. Fratten’s reputation is not good. I know well what trouble others in my profession have had to recover their advances. I could only do business on very special terms.”
“And the security?”
“A note of hand only.”
“Surely something more? If Mr. Fratten’s reputation is so bad, what expectation could you have had of being repaid within three months?”
The moneylender fidgeted uneasily.
“He showed me a letter,” he said at last, “a letter from his father’s (Sir Garth Fratten’s) doctor. I gathered from it that Sir Garth’s expectation of life was very short; Mr. Fratten was his heir. I took a risk; it came off.”
A shadow of a smile crossed the pale face. Poole felt a shudder of repugnance—this gambling upon a man’s life was an ugly business. Ugly enough, from the moneylender’s point of view—hideous when applied to father and son.
He learnt nothing more of interest from the rather melodramatic moneylender, except the significant fact that the transaction was affected on 17th October, exactly half-way between the date of Ryland Fratten’s threatened disinheritance by his father and the latter’s death. After a thoroughly blank and unpromising beginning, Poole felt that the day had ended well. He went home to bed, carefully folding his evening clothes before putting them away until next time.
The following day was a Sunday, but on Monday morning Poole reported again to Sir Leward and the latter, after hearing what he had to say, decided that the time had come to call Chief Inspector Barrod into their councils. Barrod listened with attention to the précis of the case given by Poole, but showed no sign of making any amends for his former scepticism.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “you’ve got the motive all right; you’ve probably got the murderer; but have you got the murder?”
Sir Leward looked at Poole. The latter nodded.
“I agree,” he said, “that’s the missing link up to date. So far there is nothing to prove that a murder has been committed.”
“And how are you going to prove it?”
“In the first place, we ought to have a look at the body.”
“Exhumation?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“Do you agree, Barrod?” asked Sir Leward, turning to the Chief Inspector, who had remained silent.
“If you want to go any further, sir, yes.”
Marradine was not quite so sure now that he did want to go further; the chances of “seeing more of” Inez Fratten, under favourable conditions, whilst pursuing her brother for murder, were hardly promising. Still, he had gone too far now to turn back.
“Very well,” he said, “get an exhumation order and let me have the surgeon’s report as soon as possible.”
“What about re-burial, sir? If it’s to be done without attracting attention it’ll be much better to do it straight-a-way—that is to say, if you decide not to proceed with the case. On the other hand, if you do proceed, there’ll have to be an inquest and, if it’s not too far gone, the jury’ll have to view the body. In that case it had better come straight up to the mortuary here.”
“Well,” said Sir Leward testily, “what do you suggest, Barrod?”
“Either that you come to Woking yourself, sir, and have the preliminary examination there—in which case, if there’s nothing you can give the order for the re-burial on the spot; or else that you authorize me to take the decision in the same way.”
“But I don’t know that there need necessarily be visible signs on the body, even if a murder has been committed. The cause of death was the rupture of an artery due to shock—the shock need not necessarily have left marks.”
“I think you’ll find it difficult, sir, to persuade a coroner’s jury, let alone a petty jury, to bring in a verdict of murder if there aren’t any marks. Personally I don’t see how your murderer could count on death ensuing from a mere push—there must have been a blow—and if there was a blow, there must be a mark.”
So it was eventually decided, that Barrod, Poole and a surgeon should proceed to Brooklands Cemetery that night, exhume the body by arrangement with the Cemetery authorities, and carry out a preliminary investigation on the spot. If there was the smallest suspicious sign, the body was to be brought to London and subjected to expert examination. If not, it was to be re-buried at once and a further conference would be held the next day to decide whether or not to drop the case.
As the three officials travelled down to Brooklands by the 5.10 train that evening, Poole thought that Chief Inspector Barrod was treating him with more respect than he had previously done, but he did not discuss the case upon which they were engaged. Probably, thought Poole, he did not want to commit himself. Instead, the talk turned entirely on another case which had just closed, and in which the police-surgeon had been actively engaged. The train reached Brooklands at 5.55 and as soon as it was dark the work of the exhumation began. It took nearly an hour to bring the coffin to the surface and even then the actual exposure of the body took some time, owing to its being enclosed in a lead shell, a possibility which neither Barrod nor Poole had taken into account.
At last the grisly work of unwinding was completed and the body laid upon a table. Naturally, after ten days, the flesh was beginning to show signs of decomposition, and to Poole’s untrained eye it appeared as if these marks might conceal what he was looking for. But the doctor had no such misgivings. Running his eye and his fingers rapidly over the chest, he shook his head.
“Nothing here,” he said. “Turn it over.”
“It would be on the back,” muttered Poole.
The nauseating odour emitted by the moving of the body drove Poole to the door for a breath of fresh air. When he returned, he found the more hardened Barrod and the surgeon closely examining a mark upon the left centre of the back. The whole surface was stained, as was inevitable, but in one spot there was a deeper and more clearly defined stain. The surgeon pressed it gently with his sensitive fingers, then, producing a magnifying-glass, turned the beam of a powerful electric torch on to the spot and examined it with minute attention. After a couple of minutes he straightened his back.
“Yes,” he said, “this is more than ordinary post-mortem staining; there clearly has been rupture of small capillary vessels. That means a blow, and from the look of it, a violent and concentrated blow.”