Bodies from the Library 4, page 26
‘I would not offer an opinion, sir,’ Mr Amble said politely.
‘Yet a poor robber, I think you’ll concede, Mr Amble, to miss so rich a booty as two hundred guineas.’ Sir Christopher said with a smile. ‘How came that about? Was the fellow disturbed?’
Mr Amble frowned perplexedly.
‘There, sir, is another most confusing point. Disturbed, yes, when he was taken; but no, in that he had, as the evidence holds, fully ten minutes in which to carry out his designs. Aye and more, sir, the body had been searched, the clothes were in disarray—’
‘And was nothing found on this man Vaughan to show what he was seeking?’ Sir Christopher asked with a suddenly aroused interest.
‘Nothing. The mere trivial articles that one would look to find upon such a person. A few shillings, but, sir, a brace of pistols, both discharged, and powder flask and bullets.’
Sir Christopher sipped his coffee in silence for some moments.
‘And yet he shot the man—that’s curious. Was there any sign that the unhappy man had resisted?’
‘None, sir, according to my information.’
‘Tell me a little more about this, Mr Amble,’ Sir Christopher said, pushing back his chair. ‘As you know, an unusual crime has a deep interest for me, and this is both a curious and a stupid one on the face of it. Start from the beginning, Mr Amble, and give me your facts with a lawyer’s precision.’
Mr Amble cleared his throat and began in a dry, expressionless voice, ‘As I know the facts, Sir Christopher, they are these.’
Sir Christopher had taken a stout memoranda book from his pocket and prepared to make notes. He used the art of stenography or short writing as it was known, and wrote rapidly as the lawyer continued.
‘Shortly before midnight last, this unfortunate traveller arrived at his inn in a chaise from the ‘George’ at Portsmouth. He was posting in haste to London. He is described as having the appearance of a seafaring man. Here he was to change chaises. He waited some quarter of an hour for refreshment, then proceeded on his way in a chaise from this house, Samuel Chale post-boy. Some quarter of an hour later, close by the lodge gates of Dean Grange my good client’s house, some two miles on the road, the chaise was stopped, by, as Chale reports, an armed man who leapt from the darkness and seized the horses’ heads.’
‘And following the custom of post-boys, Chale ran away, I take it,’ Sir Christopher put in.
Mr Amble smiled frostily.
‘His story is that he slid from his horse and ran for help to the Wagon Inn, a humble place, some quarter of a mile distant.’
‘Why didn’t he go to Mr Easton’s lodge?’ Sir Christopher asked, as it seemed, of the air.
‘A point to be determined,’ Mr Amble conceded. ‘But his story is that as he approached the ‘Wagon’ he met Silas Bond the landlord riding home from Ashmarket. He told Bond what had happened and together they returned to the chaise. There they surprised the man by the door. He took alarm. There was an exchange of shots but Bond hit his man and between them he and Chale secured him.’
‘Eh? Shot him, did he?’ Sir Christopher commented.
‘A trivial wound I am assured. But sufficient to check the rogue.’
‘I see. Pray continue, Mr Amble.’
The little lawyer proceeded deliberately.
‘Now, sir: Chale states that he flung open the door of the chaise and found the passenger shot dead. Bond corroborates. Chale then went to the lodge and roused the keeper Fratton whom he sent for Giles Pedder the parish constable, returning to the chaise to assist Bond with his prisoner. When the constable arrived, he at once took Vaughan into custody, intending to secure him for the night and bring him before a Justice in the morning.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Sir Christopher said, raising his eyes from his book.
‘But, sir,’ Mr Amble continued, ‘Mr Easton, who is a Justice, had heard the shooting and had sent down to the lodge to inquire what was the cause. On learning from Fratton’s wife what had occurred, he himself came down, arriving just after the constable came. So Vaughan was at once taken to the house, brought before him and committed to jail. Meanwhile, Mr Easton, a most humane and conscientious gentleman, had sent Fratton on one of the post horses for Mr Ives the Ashmarket surgeon, hoping that even then there might be some chance of saving the unfortunate victim’s life. But alas! Mr Easton’s hopes were unfounded. Mr Ives stated that the gentleman must have died almost at once.’
‘A very proper action of Mr Easton’s,’ Sir Christopher said. ‘Dead or alive, a surgeon should always be called in such circumstances. Believe me, Mr Amble, fewer rogues would go unpunished were that the law of the land.’
‘I dare say, Sir Christopher,’ Mr Amble replied without much conviction. ‘But it was fortunate in this case, for in the course of his examination Mr Ives discovered the guineas in a belt round the dead man’s waist and at Mr Easton’s request made a search of the clothes in an endeavour to establish the identity of the victim. A search which, as I have told you, proved fruitless. Those, sir, are the facts as I know them.’
‘Thank you, Mr Amble,’ Sir Christopher added a note or two in his book. ‘Now what of this fellow Vaughan? Protested his innocence, of course?’
‘As you say, sir. And impudently. Professed some cock and bull story about walking along the road and seeing an abandoned chaise and going to find out what was amiss with it. Then as he says, Bond and Chale fell upon him and he fired in self-defence.’
‘Well, why not?’ Sir Christopher asked suddenly. ‘It sounds a plausible story to me.’
‘Plausible, sir!’ Mr Amble seemed shocked. ‘Plausible, maybe, had he not been found where he was found with his pistol discharged and a ball in a man’s heart close by him. No, Sir Christopher, Vaughan killed that man, but why? is the question I ask myself. It is my belief that there were more than one in it. There’s something behind it. Vaughan knows, but he’ll not say: he’ll not even give an account of his doings, nor can he offer a witness to say where he had been. It’s a dark mystery and I doubt we shall ever know the solution.’ Mr Amble’s head shook dubiously.
A flash of mild amusement showed in Christopher Hazzard’s puzzling grey eyes.
‘Oh, come, Mr Amble; let’s hope it’s not as obscure as that,’ he said. ‘I am almost persuaded to look into the matter myself, so profound a mystery do you make of it.’
‘I would not presume to ask that, sir, but I should be vastly grateful if you would,’ Mr Amble responded, brightening.
‘Yet maybe you’ll regret it, Mr Amble.’
‘Regret it, sir, how?’
‘Ah, how?’ Sir Christopher repeated cryptically. He rose. ‘Let us see if I can answer that question for you. Now can you arrange for me to see this fellow Vaughan in jail?’
‘At once, I’ll—’
‘No, not at once, Mr Amble. I must know more about the affair before I question him. First, I’d have a few words with Mr Easton, then I’d see the corpse. Where shall I find it?’
‘The corpse?’ Mr Amble shuddered slightly. ‘Why, it remains at Dean Grange awaiting the inquest.’
‘Then Mr Amble, let us proceed to Dean Grange,’ Sir Christopher responded.
Mr Easton of Dean Grange appeared a bluff, red-faced, fox-hunting squire. He received Sir Christopher and Mr Amble in his library and instantly ordered a bottle of his oldest Madeira to be brought.
‘Mr Amble has already told me of your art in ferreting out a mystery, Sir Christopher,’ he said, ‘though damme, such arts are beyond my understanding. I am a plain and simple country gentleman, sir, and I can but deal with plain and simple facts.’
‘You can do no better, Mr Easton,’ Sir Christopher responded with a bleak smile. ‘It is for facts that I am come to you that we may endeavour to establish the truth of this unhappy affair.’
Mr Amble put in: ‘Sir Christopher would have us believe that Vaughan’s story is true, Mr Easton.’
‘True!’ Mr Easton exclaimed in surprise. ‘Nay, you’re jesting, Sir Christopher.’
Sir Christopher smiled indulgently.
‘I only said that on what Mr Amble told me, I thought his story a plausible one. But doubtless you have more evidence.’
‘I’ll show you some evidence,’ the squire said, rising. He crossed to a cupboard, unlocked a strong box and produced a brace of pistols.
‘There, sir,’ he went on. ‘These were taken off the man and left in my charge by the constable. Two pistols, both discharged. The fellow admits he fired one at Bond; at whom did he fire the other?’
‘Did you ask him?’ Sir Christopher asked innocently.
‘Eh? I’m not sure. I’ll look.’
Sir Christopher examined the weapons with interest while Mr Easton searched a drawer in his escritoire.
‘Here, I have it,’ Mr Easton said after a few moments. ‘Vaughan states that he was set upon in the darkness by two men, one of whom fired at him. He fired in return in self-defence.’
‘Quite understandable,’ Sir Christopher commented, still toying with the pistols. ‘Mr Amble tells me that his powder flask and bullet bag were taken from Vaughan. Might I see them, Mr Easton? These are unusual weapons for a man of his kind to carry, as doubtless you’ve noticed. A very fine pair of pistols of the modern type.’
Mr Easton went again to his strong box.
‘Here you are, Sir Christopher,’ he said, returning with a leather bag and flask.
Sir Christopher inspected both at some length and Mr Amble was curious to know what he found in them to demand so keen an attention. He asked. But Sir Christopher evaded the question.
‘I am merely noting my facts, Mr Amble,’ he replied. ‘It is surprising how significant even the smallest detail sometimes may prove. Now, sir,’ he addressed Mr Easton, ‘if I might ask you a few questions I should be vastly obliged.’
Sir Christopher produced his memoranda book and for some ten minutes he questioned Mr Easton shrewdly, recording his answers word for word. At length he closed his book.
‘It was fortunate, Mr Easton, that you had not already retired,’ he said.
‘Yes. Indeed it was. For I am a man of early hours, save when I entertain.’
‘And you heard the shots clearly?’
‘Distinctly. Here in this room. First one, which roused me from my reading, and, I’ll admit, caused me some apprehension. I summoned a servant instantly and sent him to the lodge to inquire the cause. And then two more.’
‘A very natural apprehension, Mr Easton. I am grateful to you, sir, for your patience with my tiresome questioning. And now, I should like to see the unhappy victim’s body. You will accompany me, Mr Amble?’
Mr Amble consented reluctantly and the three of them went out into the stable yard. Mr Easton unlocked a stable door. The dead man lay on a trestle table decently covered with a sheet.
‘Let’s see what this poor devil has to tell us,’ Sir Christopher said as he drew it back and then for many minutes he appeared to be oblivious to the presence of his companions.
Mr Easton and the lawyer, standing a little aloof, watched him in fascination as he examined the body. It was not a pretty sight. The man had been shot in the throat and his attire was drenched in blood. But Sir Christopher was heedless of this. He turned the still form about, examined the clothing minutely, gazing for some time into the set face.
‘Well,’ Mr Amble queried, ‘and what has he told you about himself?’
‘Little, and much,’ Sir Christopher said. ‘An older man than he would seem and one in disguise’
‘Disguise?’ Mr Easton put in. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Look for yourself.’ Mr Amble followed the squire with obvious disinclination. Sir Christopher lifted the dead man’s head. ‘A man of dark complexion and hair you’d say—until you used your eyes. See, you observe by the roots of the hair, it’s grey. The hair was dyed. And note the darkness of the face. Death has changed its hue hardly at all. A face tanned by sun and weather, you’d say? Observe.’ He rolled back the bloodstained shirt. ‘The effects of sun and weather cease strangely sudden.’
They looked, and it was plain even to them that the weather-tanned hue of the man’s face was due to stain.
‘He was no seafaring man,’ Sir Christopher continued. ‘Did you ever know a sailor with hands like this? Why, they’re as soft and delicate as a woman’s. They never hauled on a tarry rope.’
‘Nor sailor’s clothes, save the reef and the rough trousers. Unless seafaring men have taken to the wearing of cambric shirts of a fine quality as you will observe this one is. And of the French fashion I would risk a wager.’
‘You think then the man is a Frenchman?’ Mr Amble demanded.
‘I would not say that yet, But I’d say Frenchman or English he is a man used to good living and luxury. Beyond that I’ll go no further at the moment. He was shot at close range. You’ll note there is much scorching of gunpowder about his attire. Yes, I would say from the position of the wound that he who shot him leaned through the window of the chaise, perhaps the near side window, and thrust his pistol close against the poor devil’s body. Now the chaise, may I see that, Mr Easton?’
The squire led them to an adjoining coach house where Sir Christopher regarded the cumbrous vehicle with characteristic care. It was a heavy old-fashioned chaise, swung on sturdy springs, well suited to the rough, downland roads. The near side window was open, the other closed. After a while he flung open a door and entered.
An ugly, dark patch smeared the seat where the traveller had sat. Sir Christopher began to inspect the interior with immense patience.
Presently a hole in the leather back of the seat caught his keen eyes. It was not easily discernible, but he examined it at length, then with a penknife deliberately slit the leather and probed with long thin fingers in the horsehair stuffing. At last a soft ejaculation of satisfaction told that he had found that for which he was seeking. Carefully he withdrew a pistol ball.
‘You have found something?’ Mr Amble asked, peering into the chaise.
‘I have made some few observations,’ Sir Christopher answered, ‘but of what moment I cannot yet say. Still, enough to start my simple sum.’
‘Your sum, sir?’ the squire queried in a mystified tone.
Sir Christopher climbed out.
‘Merely to make two and two add to four, Mr Easton,’ he said courteously, ‘and if it makes four to find two more to add to six.’
Mr Easton seemed unconvinced.
‘I cannot follow you,’ he retorted. ‘I can but hope your sum will add aright. What would you see now, sir?’
‘There is some small further examination I would like to make of the corpse,’ Sir Christopher answered. ‘I’ll not ask you to return with me, Mr Amble, it is not a pleasant task I have to perform.’ Mr Amble looked relieved. ‘And, sir,’ he continued, addressing Mr Easton, ‘if I might summon Mr Ives the surgeon, he would help me in my addition.’
‘Certainly. I’ll send a groom at once.’
‘Perhaps it were better if I wrote him a note. I can explain what I need of him.’
Mr Easton nodded assent and they went to the house. But presently Sir Christopher returned to the stables alone and began a minute examination of the dead man’s clothes.
Mr Ives arrived post haste in his gig in response to the letter Mr Easton’s groom had brought him from Sir Christopher. Mr Ives was flattered by the summons, but for the life of him he could not imagine why he had been asked to bring certain instruments, for Sir Christopher had said that it was no case of illness.
Sir Christopher received him alone. Mr Ives was mildly agitated.
‘Mr Ives,’ Sir Christopher began. ‘I am informed you are a man skilled in anatomy and possessing great discretion.’
‘I have some small skill, sir,’ Mr Ives agreed modestly. ‘I have studied in the London schools, and it is the first essential of my calling to be discreet.’
‘Indeed, you are right there. Now, Mr Ives. Mr Easton tells me you have seen the body of the unfortunate man who was killed in a chaise close by here last night.’
‘I have, sir.’
‘There were signs that the man’s clothing had been searched, I understand.’
‘Indeed there were, sir. The rogue had nigh stripped the body, yet curiously enough missed the prize. It is clear that he was disturbed just in time.’
‘Very fortunate,’ Sir Christopher said dryly. ‘Now how did the man die, Mr Ives?’
‘How, sir? He was shot.’ Mr Ives spoke with surprise. ‘It was plain to see.’
‘But is it plain to prove?’
‘Prove? Why, sir, you have seen the body yourself. The ball must have entered by the throat. It must have penetrated the trachea and reached the lung. There was considerable haemorrhage—’
‘Yes, Mr Ives, and that ball is still in the body, I take it.’
‘Without doubt, sir.’
‘Then I’ll ask you to extract it. It would, no doubt, be a delicate operation, and one for which skill should be adequately rewarded. You may name your own fee, Mr Ives.’
‘You are indeed generous, Sir Christopher,’ Mr Ives responded rubbing his hands.
‘Then shall we proceed to the operation?’
Mr Ives was all excitement as he and Sir Christopher left the house.
‘This is an operation I have never before performed,’ he said. ‘Many a ball have I probed and extracted from a wounded man. But from a corpse. Would you count it impertinent, Sir Christopher, were I to ask why you are so set on seeing the ball that killed the unfortunate man?’
‘By no means, Mr Ives. I seek to discomfit Mr Easton and Mr Amble.’
Mr Ives glanced at him sharply, feeling that in some way the words carried reproof for his question, but Sir Christopher met his gaze with an engaging smile.
‘Maybe there is another reason. You shall know that presently. But you speak of this task as a new one. Mr Ives, the time will come when no man shall die by violence, but a surgeon shall be the first to examine him.’ And then for some minutes Sir Christopher held Mr Ives fascinated as he spoke earnestly of the observations that a skilled surgeon could make upon how and when a man had been killed and of their application to the detection of the murderer.
