Murder Isn't Cricket, page 14
The astounded inspector was the first to speak. “I think I can eliminate Constable Lambert, Doctor,” he said. “He could not know that the man was on the green, because he had only a few moments before coming into the police-station from Cobham, where I had sent him on official business in the morning. I saw him step off the Cobham bus outside the police-station. He entered, and had been there only a minute or so when I received news of the man on the green and packed him off to see what it was all about.”
“Add to that, Inspector, the fact that when he reached the scene, the major, Bosanquet and Crombie were all there, as well as a ring of spectators,” said the chief constable. “I don’t see how he could have got away with anything.”
“Does Lambert play cricket with the club at all?” asked Manson.
“No, Doctor,” replied the inspector.
“Then I think we may as well be quit of him,” was the reply. “For I am quite certain that Leland saw someone at the match on the previous Saturday, and that was why he came again this Saturday.”
“And what do we do about Carruthers?” asked the chief constable. “Regularly sprawled over the man, did Carruthers.”
“Perhaps we might write off Carruthers also,” decided Manson. “Had he known that the man was there, he would not have sent Lambert to him, knowing that Lambert might search the man and obtain the thing that he (the inspector) wanted. Or had he done so, and later found that Leland was associated with him, he would have demanded from Lambert anything that had been found on the body. Then there was, of course, quite a company of people on the scene when the inspector arrived. I think we can acquit the inspector. He is eliminated.”
Inspector Carruthers wiped a heated brow in relief.
“So that we are now left with Dr. Lumley, George Crombie, Major ffolkes and Mr. Bosanquet,” said the assistant commissioner.
“I thought we had eliminated the major, A.C.?” protested the chief constable.
“Only as the murderer, Colonel,” was the reply. “He may yet be an accomplice, according to the doctor’s argufying.”
“If you acquit me, Doctor, because there was a crowd there when I arrived, then you have to acquit Dr. Lumley. He came after me, and I watched him make his examination. Had he removed anything from the body, I should have seen it,” said Carruthers.
“Now we have Major ffolkes, Crombie and Bosanquet. Which of them do we start with, Doctor?”
The scientist frowned at the question. “Of Crombie I know nothing,” he said. “He seems a simple soul to me. But Bosanquet worries me somewhat.”
The wrinkles were on the scholarly forehead of Dr. Manson, and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. And the fingers of him were playing a tattoo on an arm of his chair. The assistant commissioner caught the warning signs. He shifted back in his seat, preparing his mind for the reasoned argument he knew was coming, and seeking to see in it what the doctor saw. “And why does Bosanquet worry you, Doctor?” he asked.
“Because there are several points in his story which do not, to my tidy mind, fall into cohesion,” was the reply. “And because Bosanquet, all the afternoon, was behind Leland.”
“On the other hand, Doctor, there were about fifty people also behind Leland. Why pick on Bosanquet?” asked the chief constable.
“They had not the same peculiarities, Colonel,” was the reply.
“Such as?”
“It was rather a remarkable thing that he should have gone on to the green at all, was it not? The man was entertaining a party to the cricket. They had been sitting on the front lawn of his house all afternoon. Mrs. Bosanquet had prepared tea. One would have supposed that the host would have remained with his guests. Instead, he was inspecting his fowl-house, finding that the fowl were out, and then walking over the green to Crombie to tell him the tale.”
“He might have seen the fowl perambulating the garden and then, of course, he knew that Crombie would be collecting the chairs, and so would be on the green,” said Inspector Carruthers.
“And he would know, would he not, Carruthers, that Crombie would have to pass his gate with the handcart load of chairs on the way to the store—because I noticed that the only bridge over the dyke separating the green from the road was just below the Bosanquet bungalow. Why leave his guests and go across the green? This, by itself, however, is not entirely a suspicious action. But, viewed with others, it becomes so in my mind.”
“The others being?” from the assistant commissioner.
“Let me refer you to Bosanquet’s statement at the inquest. I can, I think, remember the wording of it pretty accurately. He is describing how he felt the man’s heart and found that he was dead. He continued:
“‘I thought it best that Crombie should raise the alarm, while I remained to see that the body was not disturbed in any way.
“‘Coroner: Had you recognized the man at all?
“‘Bosanquet: I had not then even seen his face, sir. . . . His hat was over his eyes. . . . When I found he was dead I felt sure that the body should be left until the police arrived. Had the man been still alive, I would have endeavoured to render him assistance, which would doubtless have meant disturbing his position in the chair.’”
Dr. Manson ceased speaking and looked round his circle of listeners. He smiled a little as he saw behind their interest expressions of inquiry. “It does not convey anything to you?” he inquired. “Now, it conveys quite a lot to me, I having, as you have heard, a very suspicious mind. Here we have a man who leaves his guests and walks across a green to a workman who has, in any case, within a few minutes, to pass his door. He finds the workman in trouble over a man lying in a chair. ‘I can’t make him move,’ says the workman. What does Bosanquet do? The man has a hat over his eyes. He is lying back in his chair. Does Mr. Bosanquet do what you, or I, would have done—take off his hat and have a look at him to see if he is ill, or if he is conscious, but unable to speak? He does not. He slips a hand into the man’s waistcoat and says to Crombie: ‘By Jove, he’s dead! You nip off and tell the squire, and I will stay here with the body of a man I don’t know and haven’t troubled to look at. It must not be disturbed.”
“Gee whiz, Doctor! I get the point,” broke in the assistant commissioner.
The doctor acknowledged the comment with a nod, and then continued his hypothesis. “Now, what are the circumstances in which any ordinary person understands that a body should be left undisturbed until the police arrive, Chief Constable? If you saw a man fall down in a fit, or if you saw that a man suddenly laid back in his chair and died, would you raise an alarm and leave the body undisturbed until you could get the police?”
“No. I do not think that I should do so, Doctor,” replied the colonel. “I should, I suppose, lay the body down and possibly try artificial respiration.”
“Of course you would. In what circumstances would you stand back and leave the body exactly as it was until the police arrived and made an examination?”
“You mean, Doctor”—and the words came slowly from the chief constable—“you mean that the only occasions on which a body would be left undisturbed in such circumstances is when the person is known to have died a violent death?”
Dr. Manson nodded. “Of course I mean that, Colonel,” he agreed. “Take the explanation given on the green by Crombie to the inspector, of the scene when Bosanquet arrived, and was told that the gentleman could not be awakened. Mr. Bosanquet said: ‘Perhaps he’s fainted with the heat and excitement. Let me see him.’ Again I say that I would have expected any ordinary person at once to have whipped off the man’s hat and attempted to render some assistance. He might have loosened his collar, which is a thing most people know should be done in the case of fainting from the heat, and he might have said we had better give him some air. But no. Mr. Bosanquet, without more ado, slips a hand inside the man’s waistcoat, and says he’s dead. ‘Perhaps he’s fainted with the heat and the excitement,’ Bosanquet had said. If that was so, why on earth should he say that the body should be left undisturbed? But if he knew that the man had met a violent death, then, indeed, he would follow such a course.”
“Then you think, Doctor, that Bosanquet is the man?” asked the assistant commissioner.
“I do not think anything of the kind, Sir Edward. I am merely, as is my custom, pointing out curious circumstances, because I do not like curious circumstances in connection with violent deaths, any more than I like coincidences in connection with violent deaths. It may be that Mr. Bosanquet is an unusual person; but, if so, I want that to be proved to my satisfaction, and to the satisfaction of Justice.
“Let us go on with the curiosities. Crombie is an aged man, very wobbly on his pins. Yet, when Bosanquet finds that this man is dead, and must not be disturbed, and that the alarm must be raised quickly, does he run as fast as he can to tell his friends the cricketers? No. Instead, he sends Crombie hobbling at a mile an hour for help, and remains himself with the body. Had I, now, knowing that the man had been killed, wanted to retrieve anything from the body, I should have done exactly what Bosanquet did. Instead of waiting until Crombie came past my house with his barrow, leaving the body on the green for anybody to discover, I should have walked out to Crombie when the green was still clear except for him and the dead man, I should have told him at once, what I knew already, that the man was dead, and have sent him off to raise the alarm, leaving me free without interference, or spectators, to take just what I wanted at my leisure. That is what I would have done. The point we have to decide is did Bosanquet do it, or didn’t he?”
“Heavens, Doctor! You do see things, don’t you?” ejaculated the inspector.
“There is still one other point which, taken in conjunction with the others, can also be counted as a curiosity in Mr. Bosanquet.”
“And what would that be?”
“His recollection of the shots fired, if they were shots, or the backfires, if they were backfires. Bosanquet said at first that he had heard a shot, and he gave the time as about a quarter to five o’clock. Then he changed his mind and said that it was a backfire that he heard. The change of opinion, you will notice, was after he had talked the matter over with Mr. Catling. When I asked if he knew the sound of a shot, he said he knew nothing at all about shots and had never shot anything in his life. Now, is it not a little curious that he, knowing nothing whatever about shots, as soon as he hears an explosion says, ‘That was a shot, that was’? The more so as he possesses a car, and, I have no doubt, is perfectly familiar with the noise of a car backfiring. The average motorist’s reaction on hearing such an explosion coming from down the road is that the noise comes from the backfire of a car. Why should a man who doesn’t know anything about a shot, and does know about motor-cars, assume that the explosion was not a backfire, but the report of a gun?
“Now, again, all the people who were with the Bosanquets were together on the front lawn. Everyone except Mr. Bosanquet heard two shots or backfires. But he heard only one. Why did he hear only one, and the others with him hear two? There may be nothing in this, of course. He may have been a little preoccupied at the time, though it was no more than a minute after the first explosion. But, on the other hand, taken in conjunction with all the other things I have mentioned, there may be a good deal in it.”
There was a silence as the scientist finished his summing-up of the position, and sat back in his chair. It was broken by the assistant commissioner. “Well, Mr. Chief Constable, what do you say to all that?” he asked.
“That we will have to get busy on Bosanquet,” was the reply. “Though, mark you, I’ve known the man for years, and he’s as nice a fellow as ever I’ve met. I can’t picture him in the role of a killer or as an accomplice of a killer. Mind you, I reckon the doctor has made out a good case for inquiry, and I admit that up to now the inquiry into him has been no more than superficial. But I do wish we had some idea of motive on which to work. As I say, I have known him for years, and he was at Oxford a little after me. Why does he want to go killing an Australian he has never likely seen, since Leland only reached this country a few weeks ago. And what connection have the initials S.F. with Albert Bosanquet?”
“Are you sure that he has never been in Australia, Colonel?” Manson awaited the reply with some interest.
“Positive, Doctor. Whenever I have mentioned that place or New Zealand, where, as you know, I have fished, he always expressed envy of people who have travelled. He knew that I had been in India, and told me once that he had always wanted to see India.”
“The point of that being, Colonel?” asked the A.C.
“That he would have to call in India to get here from Australia.”
“Unless he went from Australia on the Pacific route, and came across America from San Francisco,” suggested Dr. Manson.
“Which he didn’t do, Doctor, because he was for ever saying he would have to try to find time to pay a visit to the States.”
“Do you know all this of your own knowledge, Colonel, or is it what you have gathered in the course of talks with Bosanquet?”
“Well, if you put it that way, Doctor, it is from talks with him and with mutual acquaintances.”
“Then, of course, Colonel, it is like what the soldier told the girl—it is not evidence. Get me evidence. As for the motive, we really want to know what S.F. was to Leland. Perhaps I can get evidence on that. May I use the telephone?”
“Go right ahead, Doctor.”
The scientist dialled Whitehall 1212, and asked for the laboratory. A voice responded. “That you, Merry?” he inquired. “Manson here. Will you get this message radioed to Australia. Ready?
“Jervis CID Melbourne Stop Leland diary states quotes saw SF today Stop Must look into this Stop End quotes Do you know anybody SF having association Leland any time Stop Radio reply details Stop Manson Scotland Yard End message.
“That may bring some results,” said Manson as he replaced the receiver. “Perhaps we had better not proceed with any inquiries until I have a reply to it. We might, go barging up an inconvenient pole. And now. Colonel, much as I dislike to leave your very pleasant hospitality, I think I shall have to be returning. If you can drop us down in your car, Inspector?”
The party broke up. Inspector Carruthers drove the assistant commissioner and Dr. Manson back into the village of Thames Pagnall. They stopped at the police-station. “The next train isn’t for half an hour, Doctor,” he explained. “Perhaps you would like to wait in my house. It’s more comfy than the police-station.”
“Better if we had one for the road, or rather rail, in the pub over there,” suggested the A.C.; and the men walked down the road to the ‘Green Man’.
Old Gaffer Baldwin saw them approaching, and his grin displayed his one remaining tooth.
“Evening, Gaffer,” greeted the inspector.
“A pint, thankin’ yer,” was the reply.
The inspector laughed. He gave the outside potman the order: “Four pints, please, George.”
“This that magpie fellow, Inspector?” asked the assistant commissioner.
Carruthers nodded.
“What’s his name? Baldwin, isn’t it?”
“Yes, A.C., but he’s always called just plain Gaffer.”
The A.C. looked at the old man. “Seen any more magpies lately, Gaffer?” he asked, jocularly.
“Wot’s he a-sayin’ of?” asked Gaffer.
“He says have you had any more presentiments?”
“Wot! . . . No, that I ain’t. But I don’t mind a-tryin’ of a pint on’t. Though I reckons as ’ow it won’t be as good as beer.” Baldwin emptied his pot at a gulp.
The A.C. chuckled. He bent close to Gaffer’s ears and bellowed: “I didn’t say have a drink. I said have you had any more presentiments?”
Gaffer planked his mug down on the bench. His eyes roved the heavens as for enlightenment.
The inspector giggled. Dr. Manson cupped his hands. “Seen that magpie of yours again, Gaffer?” he asked.
“Ah!” The oldest inhabitant pushed his mug forward for a refill. The magpie was still a good selling line. He turned to the inspector.
“Yer minds that there dog of old Beasley’s, ’spector?” he asked. “That there one he sez is a collie, wot ain’t no collie ’cordin’ to my reckonin’?”
“I know it, Gaffer. What about it?”
“He wer a-’owlin’ summat turr’ble las’ night, he wer.”
“Well, Gaffer, they will howl sometimes, you know,” rejoined the inspector. “It’s no use a policeman talking to it.”
“All down River Road, he wer. And ’owling half’n’our. When I ’ears ’im, I sez to meself, ‘Gaffer—’”
“Oh, crumbs! Is he at it again?” moaned the chief constable, amid a guffaw of laughter.
“I sez to meself,” went on Gaffer, “‘You mark me words. Summat’s goin’ to ’appen.’ And I tells old Bill Jennings as ’ow he’d better get his spade ready.” Gaffer made another insinuating movement of his mug.
“Bill Jennings?” muttered the chief constable. “Who the devil is Bill Jennings?”
“The gravedigger,” said the inspector.
“Oh lor,” from the assistant commissioner. “Is this ruddy place hag-ridden?”
“He’ll be hearing a robin singing in the church next,” opined the inspector.
“For the love of Mike, don’t you start, Carruthers. What the heck does a robin do?”
