Bodies from the Library 4, page 27
Mr Ives agreed eagerly.
‘What you say, sir, is true. It had not occurred to me before. As you point out, from the position of the body, its condition and from the nature of the wound, one could tell much.’
‘I trust you will help me to tell much today,’ Sir Christopher put in as they reached the stable.
He left Mr Ives to his grisly task, bidding him follow when he had completed the operation. The squire and Mr Amble were awaiting him impatiently, but Sir Christopher damped their ardour.
‘No, no, my task is not so easily accomplished,’ he said in reply to their eager questions. ‘I have not begun. But I’d thank you, Mr Easton, if I might see Vaughan’s pistols once more and inspect your notes of evidence at some length.’
They left Sir Christopher to his research, Mr Amble to return to his office, where Sir Christopher promised to wait upon him later in the day.
When, presently, a servant brought Mr Ives to him, Sir Christopher was gazing reflectively from a window at a distant vista of rain-swept downland. He turned, an expectant expression on his lean face.
‘Well, Mr Ives?’ he queried.
The surgeon answered excitedly: ‘I have it, sir. I have it. It was as I thought. The ball had penetrated the windpipe, passed downward, striking the collar bone and entering the lung. Death would have supervened very quickly. Here is the ball, misshapen as you will notice as a result of impact with the bone.’ He extended a battered piece of lead which Sir Christopher seized avidly.
He eyed it for some moments, turning it this way and that in his fingers. Then from a pocket he produced the ball he had found in the upholstering of the chaise.
‘One might surmise that your ball originally was similar to this one,’ Sir Christopher said.
‘That, sir, I doubt if anyone could say,’ he responded.
‘Then let us proceed to a small experiment, Mr Ives. You have your apothecaries’ scales?’
‘I have, sir.’ Mr Ives undid his bag.
‘Now, Mr Ives: I place in one pan of your scales the ball you extracted from the corpse. I place in the other this ball and—ah!’ Sir Christopher exclaimed with satisfaction as he regarded the balance. ‘You note that, Mr Ives. These balls weigh precisely the same. And since a pistol ball is spherical, I think we may assume they could have come from the same barrel.’
‘They tally to half a grain, to less,’ the surgeon agreed thoughtfully. ‘You’re right, sir. It’s patent proof, and simple, now that you demonstrate it. Such an idea would never have occurred to me.’
Sir Christopher raised a deprecatory hand.
‘Perhaps it would, Mr Ives, had you given the same study to the science of crime as you have to that of anatomy. I thank you for your help and maybe I shall ask more of it.’
‘I’m always at your service, sir.’ Mr Ives bowed.
‘Then you may expect a call from me about noon, Mr Ives,’ Sir Christopher said.
Sir Christopher walked back to Ashmarket later in the morning. On, his way he spent some time with Fratton, the lodge keeper, getting him to indicate exactly where the chaise had stood, and chatting in seemingly careless fashion.
When he reached Ashmarket he made for its bleak and cheerless jail and hammered on a great iron-studded door. To the turnkey who answered his summons, Sir Christopher presented an authority from Mr Easton and he was conducted to a dingy airless cell where Vaughan sat dejectedly on a plank bed.
The jailer yelled to the man to stand up and Vaughan obeyed defiantly. But Sir Christopher bade him be seated once they were alone and spoke to him with courtesy.
‘Vaughan, I’ve come to talk with you about last night’s bad business,’ he began. ‘Sit down now. Are you in pain?’
‘What if I am?’ Vaughan answered roughly. ‘And what do you want of me?’
Sir Christopher eyed the man keenly before he answered. A dangerous fellow in a fright, Sir Christopher assessed him, and one who had known a rough and violent life, he did not doubt. He noticed the man’s arm slipped from his sleeve and bound up crudely in a blood-stained bandage.
‘My name is Christopher Hazzard and what I want of you is to hear exactly what happened last night,’ he answered.
The man glared at him suspiciously.
‘If you think you’ve come here to trick me with your soft speaking, you’ve made a mistake, guv’nor,’ he said.
Sir Christopher smiled.
‘On the contrary: I’ve come here to help you.’
‘The gentry don’t help the likes of me,’ the man said. ‘All I got to say is I didn’t do it.’
‘I know that, Vaughan. You didn’t shoot that man,’ Sir Christopher interrupted quietly.
‘What?’ Jem Vaughan gaped. ‘Here, was you there, guv’nor?’
‘No, unfortunately. But I want to know who did shoot him. Do you know?’
‘No, sir, no. I take my oath I don’t.’
‘Then tell me what you do know.’
It took some little while to break down the man’s suspicions, but Sir Christopher was patient. To Vaughan’s first bald story, the same that he had told Mr Easton, he listened without comment. Then he asked:
‘What were you doing on the road last night?’
‘That’s my business,’ the fellow answered, returning to his early mood of defiance. Then, ‘Beg pardon, sir. If you can help me I’ll tell you the truth, though I wouldn’t say to Squire Easton. I’d been up in Dean Woods after pheasants.’
‘Ah! Now I understand something,’ Sir Christopher put in. ‘So that’s why you had that neat pair of pistols. Shooting them off the trees at roost, I suppose.’
‘That’s right, sir. The pistols is handier than a fowling piece and don’t make so much noise,’
‘Yes, I can see that. But, Vaughan, you didn’t have much luck, did you?’
‘No, sir. Too dark. I only had one shot. Then I give up.’
‘That’s fortunate for you, though you mayn’t know it. Now you say you were coming along the road when you happened on the chaise. Were the horses restive at all?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You stopped to see what was amiss?’
Vaughan nodded.
‘Had you heard any shot?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me, how soon after you stopped did Bond and Chale set upon you, as you put it?’
‘Why, they come at me almost at once. Sammy Chale calling out that I was a dirty murdering ruffian, and Silas Bond shooting—’
‘Who shot first?’
‘He did. Got my arm just as I fired.’
Sir Christopher sought to test Vaughan’s story by subtle questioning, but the man held to it though Sir Christopher extracted the fact that he called out: ‘What’s amiss here,’ when he had approached the chaise and found it apparently deserted and it was when he was about to open the door to see if anyone was inside that he was attacked.
But he was definite that he had heard no shot nor had seen nor heard anybody in the vicinity of the chaise.
‘You’ll hear from me again, Vaughan,’ he said as he closed his memoranda book. ‘Be of good heart, man. They shall not hang you for this crime, anyhow.’
‘You’re not lying to me?’
‘I’m not lying to you. Now what of this damaged arm of yours?’ Sir Christopher seized the arm as if to examine it and Jem Vaughan let out a groan of pain.
‘Eh, what’s this? Has this not been seen by a surgeon?’ Sir Christopher asked in apparent surprise.
‘They don’t have surgeons for them as can’t pay for ’em,’ Vaughan stated.
Sir Christopher shook his head.
‘And we call ourselves a Christian people,’ he murmured. Then, ‘I’ll see what I can do about it,’ he said, and summoned the turnkey.
To him he issued certain instructions before he left the jail, and gave the man a guinea for himself to see that they were carried out. An hour later, Mr Ives the surgeon arrived. But by then Sir Christopher Hazzard was already on the road for Portsmouth.
Sir Christopher dined at the ‘George’, bidding his post-boy to be ready for the return journey in an hour’s time. Then he set out on foot through the driving rain for the ‘Lugger’, a waterside tavern near Portsmouth Point.
It was a shabby place, of unsavoury reputation. Rumour had it that the ‘Lugger’ was a rendezvous of French spies and highwaymen and rogues of every kind, and many a good burgess shook a disapproving head when the tavern’s name was mentioned, and prophesied that Abel Carter, the landlord, would come to a bad end.
Yet Abel Carter did not. Though many a complaint was laid against him the law let him alone. Strong influences worked in his favour, for Abel Carter was counted one of the cleverest of the company of secret agents His Majesty’s Office of Foreign Affairs employed. Much useful information about Bonaparte’s plannings and schemings came up the road to Whitehall by messengers of Abel Carter’s, riding express from the ‘Lugger’ at Portsmouth.
Sir Christopher Hazzard knew the ways of the ‘Lugger’ and the door at the back by which a man might enter the tavern unseen. To it he came that afternoon, his heavy travelling cloak drawn close about him, as much against chance recognition as against the weather.
His knock brought Abel himself to the door, and Sir Christopher entered after a few curt words of greeting and turned unbidden into a snug little parlour that was close by.
‘Eh, but I wasn’t expecting you, sir,’ Abel said as he closed the door.
Sir Christopher smiled.
‘I want some information and you can give it.’
‘Something amiss, Sir Christopher?’ Carter asked anxiously, poking the fire to a blaze.
Sir Christopher flung off his cloak and drew his memoranda book from his pocket.
‘Have you had a traveller here lately, five foot nine in height, blue eyes, grey hair; a man going to fat with good living. A Frenchman, or come from France recently. In disguise of a seafaring man. Dressed in reefer coat and blue trousers, and shoes. Hair, face and neck dyed brown. Usually wore a ring on the third finger of the left hand. The scar of a sabre wound, I’d say, on the right arm. Age, maybe fifty, maybe a year or so older—?’
‘Aye,’ Carter interrupted. ‘That ’ud be Mister Nicol. He’s been here a week. Left last evening.’
‘Who is Mr Nicol?’ Sir Christopher demanded sharply.
‘He’s a Frenchy, sir, though you’d never guess it. One of his lordship’s gentlemen.’
Carter was speaking of Lord Camber, the sinister, cunning old peer who, from his room in His Majesty’s Office of Foreign Affairs in Whitehall, organized that amazingly efficient intelligence service that England maintained in France. Sir Christopher himself had undertaken delicate missions of investigation both in England and France at Lord Camber’s urgent request.
‘What was Monsieur Nicol doing here, Abel?’
‘Waiting a letter from France. Job Harding brought it yesterday afternoon, and I fixed him a disguise so as he’d look like a seafaring man and not attract notice. He were a bit nervous for he’d had word that Boney’s spies were looking for him this side as well as the other. When Job came, he set off at once for London.’
‘The poor devil’s made his last journey, Abel.’
‘You don’t mean they’ve got him, sir?’
‘They have. Shot dead in a chaise two miles beyond Ashmarket soon after midnight.’
‘Was it his money or his papers they were after?’
‘His papers. And they got them; all but one. That I found hidden in the lining of his coat. It brought me here.’
‘I warned him not to go by night, but he wouldn’t wait,’ Carter said. ‘Who done it, sir? Do they suspect anyone?’
‘Ah, that’s what I want to establish.’ Sir Christopher put away his book. ‘Abel, what do you know of Sam Chale, post-boy at the “Bear” at Ashmarket?’
Abel Carter’s brow furrowed.
‘Nothing but that he’s a loud-mouthed sort. I doubt he’s the guts to do a job of that kind, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Do you know Silas Bond of the “Waggon” at Dean?’
Abel laughed curiously.
‘Course I do, sir. And the “Waggon”. There’s some queer coves use the “Waggon”; almost as queer as some as uses my house, though ’tain’t everyone as knows it.’ He laughed again. ‘There’s always a quiet stable and no questions asked nor answered for certain gentlemen as arrives in a hurry at the “Waggon”. If that’s where your nose leads you you’re on the right scent, I’d lay. Bond, he’s careful, he’s a downy cove. You won’t never prove nothing against him, though if it was done from the “Waggon” he’d know; yes, Silas would know.’
‘Haven’t seen him about the town lately?’
‘No, sir. But Sammy Chale’s been about. Come in here once.’
Sir Christopher spoke thoughtfully. ‘He’s been here while Nicol was with you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I wonder. Did Nicol post from London, do you know
‘He did, sir. Thursday. Come in here just after dark.’
‘All right, Abel; thank you.’ Sir Christopher remained talking with Carter for some minutes before he slid out by that back door into the driving rain to return to the ‘George’.
Mr Amble was growing impatient. The important hour of his dinner had arrived, yet Sir Christopher had not paid his promised call.
Darkness had fallen before a hammering at his front door proclaimed visitors. Mr Amble, left alone in his dining-room seeking consolation in a decanter of port wine, sighed with relief at the sound of Sir Christopher’s voice. Mr Amble went himself to greet him.
With Sir Christopher were Mr Easton and Mr Ives, the surgeon. Sir Christopher was apologetic.
‘You must pardon this intrusion, Mr Amble,’ he said, ‘but I find that I must return to London tonight and there are one or two points about this unhappy affair that I should like to make clear to you and Mr Easton before I go. So I have taken the liberty—’
‘No liberty, Sir Christopher; a privilege, a privilege,’ the lawyer interrupted politely. ‘Have you solved the problem, sir?’
‘That I must leave for you and Mr Easton to judge,’ Sir Christopher responded.
Mr Amble led the way to his dining-room and offered wine.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Sir Christopher began, ‘I think you may count the man Vaughan cleared. I think I can convince you of that. But first, I’d have you take note of one or two matters. I may have that bag, Mr Easton?’
The squire produced a bag and from it Sir Christopher drew out the pistols, the powder flask and the bag of balls that had been taken from Vaughan.
‘If you’ll notice,’ he continued, ‘this powder flask. It’s full, full to the top. That’s significant.’
‘How, sir?’ Mr Amble put in.
‘I submit, Mr Amble, that it is a proof that Vaughan did not reload his pistols.’
‘Maybe, Sir Christopher,’ Mr Easton said. ‘But what need to reload them? The rogue fired two shots, one he admits at Bond and the other as we hold at the man he murdered.’
‘I propose to prove to you that there were four shots, one only fired by Vaughan,’ Sir Christopher said quietly. ‘And I’ll show you three of the balls that were fired.’
‘How, sir?’ Mr Amble demanded in puzzled tone. ‘You say you can show us the actual balls that were fired?’
Sir Christopher smiled bleakly.
‘Here is the ball that killed that ill-fated stranger,’ he said. ‘Mr Ives will swear to that, Mr Amble, for he extracted it himself from the corpse.’
Mr Amble winced. Mr Ives bowed in agreement. Mr Easton took the misshapen piece of lead and examined it with fascinated interest.
‘You mean to tell us that that’s what took the man’s life?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Mr Ives will tell you that.’
Mr Easton looked up sharply while Mr Amble examined the ball, holding it gingerly by the tips of his fingers.
‘And now,’ Sir Christopher went on blandly, ‘I’ll show you another ball. This I’ll swear to. I took it from the upholstery of the chaise cut a matter of nine inches to a foot from where the traveller was sitting. I contend, gentlemen, that this ball was fired first, missed the man, and a second shot killed him. For, as I will show you, both are of a size and could have come from the same pair of pistols.’
‘I cannot follow you,’ Mr Easton protested. ‘How can any man say that?’
‘By the simple device of adding two and two and making it come to four,’ Sir Christopher smiled. ‘Already I have demonstrated it to Mr Ives.’
Mr Ives produced his scales. Sir Christopher placed one ball in each of the pans.
‘You see, gentlemen, they tally precisely.’
‘As I said when Sir Christopher first demonstrated this to me, to a fraction of a grain or less.’
‘But—but—’ Mr Easton began in argumentative tone.
Sir Christopher lifted a thin hand. ‘Maybe I can answer your objection, Mr Easton. You have seen they are of the same weight, but, you ask, how do we know they were of the same size?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Mr Easton agreed.
‘A pistol ball, sir, is solid and spherical. Could you then mould this,’ Sir Christopher calmly picked up the misshapen lead that had come from the corpse, ‘into any other size?’
‘No, sir. No. By God, he’s right, Mr Easton,’ the lawyer said with conviction. ‘’Tis a proof that would not have occurred to me, but I accept it.’
‘Yes, I see what he means.’
‘Then, Mr Easton, let me add two more to my little sum. You will note this.’ Sir Christopher took a ball from Vaughan’s bag and tried it in the muzzle of first one and then the other of his pistols. ‘This ball, you observe, fits exactly.’
‘It undoubtedly does, sir,’ the squire said, leaning forward.
‘But we place it in the scales against the ball that killed the man and—’
‘Damme! They’re of a different weight!’ Mr Easton exclaimed as the scale dropped, showing the ball from Jem Vaughan’s bag to be the lighter.
‘This is most significant,’ Mr Amble said. ‘It is a conclusive proof.’
