Police at the Funeral

Chapter 13 Man Friday

'It's very irregular you coming along like this,' the Inspector grumbled. They had turned out of the new road, crossed a maze of narrow streets and now took the path across the meadows to the river. 'Very irregular,' he repeated gloomily. 'I don't want to sound ungrateful, old man,' he added hastily, 'and by all means come along. I only mention it because there'll be Bowditch down here and one or two other fellows.'

Mr Campion smiled. 'That's all right,' he said. 'I'll efface myself as much as possible. You go right ahead. Pretend I'm not there. If you do it well enough the others will think they're seeing things and that always adds a little fun to the proceedings.'

There were several plain-clothes men on the banks of the Granta and a uniformed man by the bridge, to say nothing of the one or two hopeful spectators. The prospect was cold and gloomy and served to emphasize the melancholy futility of any further proceedings so far as the unfortunate Andrew Seeley was concerned.

As they approached, one of the raincoated figures came hurrying towards them. This proved to be Detective-Sergeant Bowditch, the Inspector's colleague from the Yard. There was a legend in the Force that Bowditch had been born in a helmet, and he certainly suggested the policeman in mufti more successfully than any man Mr Campion had ever seen. He was tall, squarely built, with a red face and a thick soft black moustache. His small eyes were surrounded by creases and his whole appearance conveyed a quite unwarrantable cheerfulness.

'Hullo, sir,' he said, and smiled, his face diffused with a delight for which there was no visible cause. He glanced inquiringly at Campion, but receiving no explanation for the young man's presence favoured him also with a welcoming beam. Stanislaus eyed him gloomily.

'Found anything?' he inquired.

'No,' said Mr Bowditch, adding still more cheerfully, 'no. Come down to have a look?'

He did not seem to expect to receive a reply, and went on. 'We've combed both banks from the willows to the road, and there's not a sign of anything. Of course, it's some time since it happened.'

Stanislaus nodded sourly. 'I know,' he said. 'Hullo, what's this?'

The three men glanced down the footpath to where a fourth man was hurrying towards them, something in his hand. The newcomer turned out to be a grey-faced sergeant of the local police, bearing a battered green felt object.

'I found this under some dead leaves in that bit of copse up there,' he said, pointing to the clump of trees just below the footpath bridge on the south side of the river. 'I don't know if it's anything of importance, but it was under a pile of leaves and doesn't seem to have been there very long.'

Stanislaus took the exhibit with interest. It was the battered relic of a green trilby hat. Headband and lining were gone and the braid with which the edge of the brim had been bound was frayed.

'Not the hat the deceased wore to church on the Sunday in question,' said Mr Bowditch jovially. 'Apart from the fact that the deceased wore a bowler on that occasion, the condition of this hat precludes any such eventuality.'

The Inspector's withering glance had the effect of silencing his subordinate without in any way diminishing his good temper.

'Anything else of interest?' Stanislaus inquired of the finder of the hat. 'What's in that hut over there?' He pointed to a little shanty standing among the haze of budding leaves in the copse.

'There's nothing there, sir, save for a few bits of sacks, dead leaves and so on.' The man was unenthusiastic. 'Seems to have been used as a storage place for tools and a shelter for the workmen clearing the wood at some time or other. Shall I verify that, sir?'

'Oh no, no need. I'll come and have a look later. Thank you very much, Davidson.'

As the man went off, Stanislaus handed over the battered hat to Bowditch.

'You can take charge of that,' he said. 'I don't think it's anything to do with this business. I shall make a point of seeing where it was found, though. You say there's absolutely no sign from the road to the willows to show where the body was put into the water? Of course it might have floated down for miles, though the cottager says he heard the shot from his direction.'

'That's so,' said Mr Bowditch happily. 'But if you'll step along and have a look at this stream, sir, you'll see right away what occurred to me.'

As they moved on down the footpath towards the little humpbacked stone bridge, he continued.

'You'll see,' he said, 'the current is slow at the sides but swift in the centre. It is also comparatively deep here. Well,' he continued, still with his smile, 'you see what I mean? In order to get a body to drift any way you'd have to place it in the swift part of the stream. In other words, if I was doing it myself I'd drop it over this here bridge. If I was doing it,' he said, and broke into a roar of laughter, which he speedily suppressed at an aggrieved glance from Inspector Oates.

There was obviously a good deal of sense in Mr Bowditch's observation. Mr Campion, considering the scene, came to the same conclusion himself. He also recollected Mr Cheetoo's dilations on the same subject. There was, as the observant student had noticed, a strong eddy just below the bridge which would have held any floating object for some considerable time if it had not succeeded in sweeping it into the bank. It was evident that the Inspector himself was inclined to take Mr Bowditch's line of reasoning, for he devoted his attention for some time to the bridge.

This was of the stone humpbacked variety, high enough to permit a small boat to pass beneath it when the river was at its normal level. It was topped by a low stone parapet on either side, and the surface of this the Inspector scrutinized carefully. After some moments of earnest contemplation he turned away regretfully.

'There's nothing,' he said. 'Of course. What can you expect? I suppose this bridge is used fairly often. Children run along the parapet. There is no moss, and any traces of mud, blood or dust that might have been left will have gone long ago in the downpour we've had in the last ten days. Come on. We'll take a look at the hut.'

The hut, which lay fifteen yards or so from the footpath and possibly thirty from the bank, turned out to be one of those temporary structures which clearance men occasionally leave behind them. It was composed mainly of faggots, and roofed with sticks covered with a sack or two. It was quite sound, however, and the ground inside was dry and hard. The Inspector paused at the entrance and peered in.

One or two matted sacks stiff with mud lay in a corner, but for the rest the place was empty. There was no sign that it had been disturbed since its constructors had abandoned it.

'No traces of any kind?' the Inspector inquired.

'No footprints,' said Mr Bowditch joyously. 'But then there wouldn't be on this stuff. There's no reason to suppose that the deceased came up here, is there?'

The stiff wiry twitch outside the hut betrayed nothing. It did not even show any traces of their own passage over it, in spite of the dampness of the ground. The Inspector's gloom increased.

'That hat,' he said, 'where was that found? This is a waste of time, Bowditch.'

'That's right,' said the red-faced man. 'Still, it's all got to be done. Never overlook anything, and you can't miss the thing you're looking for. That's the idea, isn't it? The beautiful hat which our colleague discovered was located at a point over here. It was buried by somebody, and I should say he knew best.' He glanced happily at the ruin in his hand.

They returned to the footpath again and walked on for a dozen yards or so, pausing at last before a heap of newly-turned leaves, wet and pungent in the fine rain which had now begun to fall.

'There you are,' he said. 'I think Davidson is right, too. This hadn't been here very long. It was buried under the leaves, not covered fairy-tale fashion by robins and such. What does that tell you, sir?'

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 laughter. '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 made 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",' repented 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.'

The Inspector walked gingerly round the yellow chair and peered at the glass.

'Chalk, on the outside,' he announced. 'The rain's coming the other way and hasn't touched it. What an extraordinary thing! Someone's playing the fool. Any marks under the window? I believe there's a flower-bed here.'

He raised the sash and leaned out. They heard him grunt softly, and the next moment he was back again, an incredulous expression upon his face.

'Well, what do you make of this?' he said. 'You look here.'

Campion and Marcus accepted his invitation with alacrity. Between the path which bounded the bowling-green and the wall of the house there was a narrow flower-bed, and in the centre of this, deep and distinct, as though it had been made in plaster, was the single imprint of an immense naked foot.

There was something ludicrous about it. It was a caricature of a footprint with great splayed-out toes, the whole thing of a size that impressed one at a glance.

Campion and Marcus looked at one another, the same thought uppermost in both their minds. Feet like these were not to be hidden. Campion grinned at the Inspector.

'Looks like one of your boys,' he said. 'Rather overdoing the plain clothes, I should say.'

Inspector Stanislaus Oates did not return his smile.