The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

MR STRANG ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE by William Brittain

William Brittain (b.1930), now retired but for many years a high school teacher, has been writing mystery stories for over thirty years, starting with “Joshua” (Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 1964). He then began a series of delightful tales in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine which explored mysteries in the styles of various authors, starting with “The Man Who Read John Dickson Carr” (December 1965), itself a locked-room murder, and covering Ellery Queen, Rex Stout, Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle. By then he had published his first story featuring Mr Strang, a high school teacher with a gift for unravelling the unusual. The first was “Mr Strang Gives a Lecture” (EQMM, March 1967). By my count there have been over thirty Mr Strang stories since then, several of them impossible crimes, but unaccountably none have been collected into book form. Here’s one of the most intriguing.

MONDAY: THE CHALLENGE The 29 students in Mr Strang’s classroom gravely considered the two sentences scrawled across the freshly washed blackboard:

All A ’ s are C ’ s.

All B ’ s are C ’ s.

“The apparent conclusion – that all A’s are B’s – does have a certain allure, a kind of appealing logic.”

Mr Strang blinked myopically, his wrinkled face resembling that of a good-natured troll. Then he whirled, and his chalk drew a large screeching X through both sentences.

“Of course,” he snapped, “it’s also dead wrong. Its error can easily be verified by substituting ‘teenager’ for A, ‘ostrich’ for B, and ‘two-legged’ for C in the original premises. Thus, all teenagers are two-legged, all ostriches are two-legged, and therefore all teenagers are ostriches. I doubt you’d accept that conclusion.”

“I dunno,” guffawed a voice from the rear of the room. “Melvin’s a teenager, and he looks like an ostrich.”

Laughter, in which Mr Strang joined. The student’s comment hadn’t been spiteful, simply an attempt to inject humour into a period of intense mental activity.

Mr Strang’s elective class in Logic and Scientific Method was one of the most popular courses in Aldershot High School. It was also one of the most difficult in which to enroll. Those students finally accepted – invariably seniors – had risen to the top of the academic ranks like cream in fresh milk. With these students, a teacher could pull out all the stops, being not so much an instructor as a participant in a free give-and-take of theories and ideas.

The politeness of the members of the class was tempered by their scepticism. They were willing to weigh and consider the most heretical hypotheses, mercilessly rejecting what they believed to be sham, hypocrisy, or incompetence. After each period Mr. Strang felt exhausted, yet exhilarated – somewhat like a runner who has just broken the four-minute mile. In teachers’ heaven all classes would be like this one.

“Let us, then, consider the logical fallacy of undistributed middle,” he went on. He drew a large circle on the blackboard with two smaller circles like staring eyes inside it. “If the large circle represents category C, and the smaller ones are A and B-”

He paused. In the far corner of the room three students had their heads together and were whispering earnestly. “We seem to have a rump session meeting over there,” said the teacher. “Mr Cornish, Miss Doyle, Mr Lockley – what is it?”

There was a moment of embarrassed silence. “I yield to the gentleman in the maroon sweater,” Mr Strang said. “What’s going on, Jerry?”

Jerome Lockley was tall, black, and beautiful. As he slowly uncoiled from his seat it seemed as if he wouldn’t stop until his head hit the ceiling. Looking down from a height of over six and a half feet, he bestowed a sly grin on the old science teacher.

“Well, Mr Strang,” Jerry began. “You understand we all dig the way you teach this class. I mean, you keep us hopping, but it’s kind of fun. Like basketball drills. And you’re a right guy personally. If somebody gets in a little trouble, you try to help out instead of just dropping the dime on him. So I wouldn’t want you to take anything I say the wrong way.”

“Take what the wrong way?” asked the teacher.

“Since we’ve been in this class we’ve hypothesized, syllogized, and organized. We’ve deduced, induced, inferred, and referred. Right?”

“Right, Jerry. That’s what the class is all about.”

“Yeah, but the first day you told us that all this logic stuff would help us in the real world.” He jerked a thumb toward the window. “Out there, where it’s all at. But so far all we’ve seen are little X’s that are all Y’s, and stuff about ostriches and diagrams like that one on the board.”

“But there’s still nearly seven weeks to go-”

Jerry shook his head. “Not good enough, Mr Strang.” He pointed toward the boy and girl with whom he had been whispering. “Richie and Alice and me, we’d like to know right now if what we’ve been learning is really gonna help us, or are we just spinning our wheels in here. How about it? Did you mean what you said that first day, or were you just jiving us?”

“The last quarter of the semester is devoted to practical applications. But until you’ve learned the basic theories-”

“Right on, Mr. Strang. We dig that. But you know all those theories, don’t you? I mean you could put ’em to use if you had to?”

“I hope so, Jerry. Although I must say that often emotion tends to-”

“Okay, Mr. Strang. Then prove it. Prove this logic of yours really works.”

Mr Strang chuckled, but in his mind there was a twinge of foreboding. “And just what did you have in mind?”

The others in the class looked up expectantly at the tall boy. Jerry thrust his head forward, daring the old teacher.

“We want you to figure out how Simon Winkler was wasted.”

Mr Strang reacted as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over him. For long seconds he gazed at Jerry, speechless. “But that happened last summer,” he said finally. “And even the police haven’t been able to – I mean, there’s no evidence really, that he was – uh – ‘wasted.’ I assume you mean murdered?”

Jerry shrugged. “Come on, man. Them two ladies was standing right there, weren’t they? And the priest. As for the fuzz, what do they know? They never took this class, did they?”

In a daze Mr Strang shook his head. In the far corner Richie Cornish tugged at Jerry’s sweater. “Sit down. He’s not gonna try it.”

“Sure he will!” argued Jerry. “Mr Strang’s my main man. And he’ll figure it out too.”

“Half a dollar?”

“It’s a bet.”

Jerry turned back to the teacher. “Now you got this deduction scam down pat. And it’s not like you’ve got no facts to go on. That case was on the front page in all the papers for weeks, and we all know you got a few connections with the local cops.”

“But I can’t just barge in and reopen a police investigation that-”

Jerry cocked his head to one side. “You can’t, Mr Strang?” he asked cynically. “Or you won’t?”

So there it was. The gauntlet had been flung down, the challenge had been hurled. All 29 students waited for Mr Strang’s answer. The old teacher took a deep breath and then sat on his high stool, a foolish grin on his face.

“Very well, Jerry,” he said slowly. “I don’t guarantee any results, but I can try.”

“Right on, man!” Jerry extended an arm rigidly, his fist clenched.

As the bell rang, the students left, the sound of their excited whisperings buzzing in the old teacher’s ears. He slumped over the demonstration table, cradling his head in his hands.

“Vorticella!” he said harshly. “Leonard Strang, you are an old fool!”

TUESDAY: THE CASE Detective Sergeant Paul Roberts stood at the front of the classroom, looking about warily. The kids had been decent enough so far, but who could tell what they might be plotting? Who in hell ever knew what was going on inside kids’ heads these days?

The only reason he was here was because he hadn’t been alert enough to think of a plausible excuse when Mr Strang had called him yesterday evening to ask him to come to the classroom and discuss the Winkler case. Oh, sure, he did owe the old teacher a favour – many of them, in fact. But standing here in front of this group of sharp-eyed youngsters… Roberts envied Mr Strang his classroom cool.

The old boy had done his homework right enough. There was Father Raymond Penn over in the corner, the case’s only unbiased witness. The young cleric’s unkempt hair and bushy beard made him look more like a hippie than a priest, in spite of the black suit and collar. Roberts was glad he’d stopped by the precinct’s records section to get the still-open file on the Winkler case. It wouldn’t do to annoy Mr Strang by coming in unprepared. He cleared his throat loudly.

“Last July twenty-first,” he began, “over in the Bay Ridge section of Aldershot, Simon Winkler died. The cause of death was a blow on the head – a fantastically powerful blow, since not only was the skull shattered, but two of the cervical vertebrae were crushed.

“Now Simon’s aunts, Agnes and Lucille Winkler, were within a few feet of him when he died. Furthermore, they both had every reason to want him dead. And yet it’s impossible that either of them struck him down. The police even investigated the possibility that the whole thing was an accident. But that was just as impossible. You see, we not only can’t find out how the blow was landed, but also, whatever object struck Simon Winkler seems to have disappeared.”

The students leaned forward like bloodhounds on the scent. “I don’t have to worry about withholding information,” the detective went on, “because there’s nothing to withhold. By the time we’re through here today, you’ll know as much about the case as I do, and I was the man in charge of it. But the police are really stumped by this one. I guess the newspapers are too. All over the state they headlined it The Weird Winkler Death.”

“That’s all right,” Jerry Lockley drawled. “Mr Strang’ll figure out what really happened, with logic and all that jazz.”

Roberts made a wry grin. “Just a word of warning,” he said. “Although Lucille Winkler died last month of a stroke at the age of eighty, her older sister Agnes – an invalid in a wheelchair – is still alive, in a nursing home. So no rash accusations, okay? The laws concerning slander and defamation of character apply here just as well as anywhere else.”

“Paul,” said Mr Strang ingenuously. “We merely intend to examine the evidence and see where it leads.”

“Oh, sure, Mr Strang. Just like you always do.” A loud guffaw from the rear, and Roberts turned back to the class. “I’ll just start things off by saying that at the time Simon Winkler came to call on his aunts, he was in the process of trying to take their house away from them by some kind of sharp legal ploy. The two old women hated his guts. They made no bones during the entire investigation about how much they despised their nephew. So Simon Winkler’s visit to his aunts was hardly a social call.”

He motioned to the priest. “Now I’d like to introduce the man who was actually present in the house at the time of Simon Winkler’s death. Want to step up here, Father Penn, please?”

Father Raymond Penn came to the front of the classroom, where he used a finger to hook the white collar tab out of his shirt and undo the top button. To most of the boys the young priest seemed like a “right buy”; many of the girls found him adorable. He jammed his hands into his pants pockets and looked out at the class as if puzzled and bewildered by the human condition.

“By the time Lucille Winkler got in touch with me, Simon had already phoned her several times,” he began. “Lucille had put him off with one excuse or another, but when it became clear that eventually she’d have to see him about who really owned the house, she set a date and asked me to be there. She wanted a witness present, you see.

“When I arrived at the Winkler house that afternoon, the weather was about as wet as it could be. Rain had been pouring down for the past few days and nights, and the weatherman had predicted more of the same. I banged the knocker on the front door and heard Lucille fumbling with the lock, but by the time it opened, my hat was just a mass of soaked cloth.

“Lucille took my hat and raincoat to dry them off at the stove in the kitchen. Since she also had to tend to Agnes in the wheelchair, she left me alone in the living room for quite some time.”

He shrugged. “Matter of fact, I read three chapters in a book on fishing that was on the coffee table. I was just deciding whether I’d spent my next vacation catching bass in Canada or fishing for blue marlin off Mexico when she came back, wheeling Agnes in front of her. Gone about half an hour, I’d say.”

Roberts looked significantly at Mr Strang. Puckishly the teacher wiggled his fingers.

“We chatted for a while,” Penn went on. “Mostly about the weather. Lucille prattled on a lot about spending most of the previous dry week dragging the lawn sprinklers around that big back yard of theirs, and now here they had so much water it was like living under a faucet.

“Finally Agnes looked out the window. ‘I think Simon has arrived, Lucille,’ she said. ‘We must have some tea.’

“Outside, Simon Winkler was getting out of a cab. From what I could see, he was about fifty or fifty-five years old.”

“Fifty-four,” interrupted Roberts.

The priest nodded. “But then I glanced back and noticed Lucille,” he went on. “She was giving her sister the oddest look. Then she said, ‘I’ll put the water on.’ She went out to the kitchen, but she was only gone for a minute or so.”

Penn took a deep breath, and his eyes grew wide. “Now we come to the part the newspapers called weird. Me, I say it’s downright eerie. You see, just as Lucille came back, there was a loud knocking at the front door, and Simon Winkler was shouting through it for someone to hurry and open up. ‘Soaked to the skin!’ I heard him yell. I felt sorry for him because I’d been through the same thing just an hour before. Lucille was fumbling with the bolt – she had arthritis in both hands – and I was wishing there were a window in the door so I could at least make a sign to him that we were opening the door as fast as we could, when” – the priest’s voice grew low and sonorous – “when there was the sound of a dull thump from outside. That was followed by another sound – like something heavy sliding down the length of the door.”

The students looked at him in rapt silence. This was what they had been waiting for.

“Seconds later we got the door open. And the rain poured in on us, because something was propping open the outer storm door.” Penn pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“The thing holding open the storm door,” he continued, “was the body of Simon Winkler. He was lying on the front stoop with blood gushing from his head. There were some gardening implements on the stoop – a bushel basket and some other things – and the blood had stained them all red, even in the rain. I was numb. Didn’t know what to think or do. Finally I felt for a pulse. There was none. Winkler was dead.”

A pencil falling to the floor sounded like a cannon shot in the classroom.

“Well,” said Penn, “I tried to get the women back into the house. But they just stood in the doorway, staring at the body. Finally I told Lucille to go inside and call the police. Agnes and I remained in the doorway looking down at the body. The rain was coming in, but it seemed almost obscene just to leave the body there without anyone – I mean-”

He swallowed loudly, mopped at his face with the handkerchief, and sagged into a chair.

“What hit him?” asked Richie Cornish.

Roberts got to his feet. “That’s what we’d like to know too, young fella,” he said. “It was at this point the police entered the case. The first patrol car that pulled up found Father Penn and Agnes Winkler looking down at the body at the doorway. A sheet was put around the body and the sheet immediately soaked through with rain and blood.”

Roberts drew out a report form from the file folder he was holding and consulted it, speaking in a low voice: “I arrived on the scene at four thirty-five pm. We ran a grease pencil outline of the body on the stoop and then had the body taken to the morgue. By that time the door was closed again, but before knocking I looked around a little. There, on one side of the stoop, was a bushel basket with a handful of weeds in it, and a metal sprinkling can lying on its side. On the other side of the stoop was a shiny new pair of grass shears and a little trowel. And that was all.”

The detective’s expression was grim, and he stared almost belligerently at the class. “Each of those things weighed a pound or two at most,” he snapped. “Sure, some of ’em could give a man a headache or even knock him out if he was hit with enough force. And the grass shears would have made a perfect stabbing weapon, except that Winkler wasn’t stabbed. His skull was crushed like an eggshell. And dammit – excuse me, Mr Strang – there just was nothing around heavy enough to do it. We checked the stoop and walk for loose cement or to see whether a part of the wrought-iron railing might have been pulled away. Nothing.”

He spread his hands. “There you have it. Oh, sure, we went inside and questioned Lucille, Agnes, and Father Penn. And we got the same story you heard just now. I even had the house searched. Neat as a pin, everything in its place. And absolutely no indication that someone besides the two women might have been living there, or hiding there, who could have done it.

“And now,” he said, “let’s take a look at the scene of the crime.” The detective nodded at two boys at the rear of the room. One lowered the window shades and the other pressed the switch of a slide projector. A shaft of light lanced across the room, and on the screen at the front appeared a picture of an incredibly ugly house surrounded by what seemed to be acres of badly kept lawns and gardens.

“The Winkler house. It’s off by itself on a private lane. Hipped roof, with three gables evenly spaced out along its upper section, well back from the eaves. Front door in the center, with a window on either side of it. Two more windows on the second floor. No fancy woodwork. Just a completely functional house.”

“Looks like a big old barn,” commented a student.

“It should,” Roberts replied. “When Andrew Winkler -Lucille and Agnes’ grandfather – had the house built, he used the plans of a barn. Andrew was as rich as Midas, but he was too cheap to hire an architect. In fact, the records show that he pulled some kind of financial gimmick so he didn’t have to pay the builder more than half of what the job was worth.”

Somewhere a student chuckled.

“When Andrew died,” Roberts continued, “his son Jacob got the house. He added those three gables. According to the stories, Jake was something of a character. He showed his patriotism by flying a huge American flag he hung from that big pole sticking out from the centre gable there, and at the same time increased the family fortune by robbing the government blind back in Roosevelt’s day.”

“Oh?” said a boy brightly. “Was that Franklin D.?”

“No,” replied Roberts. “Teddy. Anyway, Jacob Winkler had three children. Lucille and Agnes, and then much later, a boy who later became Simon’s father. When Jacob died, he left the house and grounds to the two women.”

He paused. “Are you getting all this straight?”

“Yeah, we’re right with you,” said Jerry Lockley. “But enough of this history jazz. Let’s get back to the good stuff.”

“Just a little more background. It seems that about a year ago Simon Winkler discovered a flaw in his aunts’ title to the house and property. By that time the women had gone through nearly all their money. They lost a bundle in the stock market crash of ‘29. The house was about all they had left. But Simon saw an opportunity to get the house for himself, leaving Lucille and Agnes with nothing. A cruel, heartless attitude, of course, but in my business we come across that sort of thing all the time. Anyway, he wrote to his aunts outlining his position and indicating that within a short time he’d be fully prepared to take them to court over the ownership of the place unless they could reach some kind of settlement with him.”

“And that’s what the meeting last July was all about?” asked Alice Doyle.

“That was it. So you see, the women make perfect suspects as far as motive is concerned. But means and opportunity? No way.”

The detective shook his head. “So there you have it. The death of Simon Winkler. Was it a perfect crime? Was it an accident? We just don’t know. Frankly, this case seems immune to any logical approach. But I’d be very happy if Mr Strang could shed any light on it. I don’t like cases that remain in the Open File.” He chuckled. “And neither does the lieutenant.”

Silence. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Mr. Strang who was staring off into space.

“Any questions?” asked Roberts finally.

Jerry Lockley’s hand shot up. Roberts nodded in his direction.

“I been thinking, you know,” said Jerry. “Couldn’t those ladies have tossed something out of the window of that centre gable – something heavy? Whammo! Down it comes on ol’ Simon’s head. What about that, Mr Roberts?”

The detective shook his head. “First of all, both women were old and weak. They could hardly have lifted a heavy object, much less toss it out a window. And even if one of them managed it, the gable is set back from the roof’s edge. The distance down from the gable to the eaves is about eight feet. So the object would have either made a hole in the shingles or stayed on the roof or rolled off the edge, smashing the gutter. Our investigation showed everything intact and nothing was found on the roof. And remember, both Agnes and Lucille were at the front door with Father Penn at the exact moment of death. Finally, any object heavy enough to smash Winkler’s skull couldn’t have landed very far from the body. But we found nothing.”

Jerry sank back into his seat.

“What if a guy hit Winkler and ran away fast?” someone called.

“Uh, uh. A man – especially one carrying a heavy object – would have left tracks in the soft earth unless he went straight down the front walk. And that walk’s long enough so that even an Olympic runner couldn’t have gotten away before the door was opened and he’d be seen.”

Silence.

“Anything more?” Roberts asked.

“Just one thing, Paul,” said Mr Strang softly.

“What’s that?”

“Was there a laundry room anywhere on the ground floor?”

Roberts screwed up his face, puzzled. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Right next to the kitchen. A little room with an automatic washer at least fifteen years old. Why?”

“Did the laundry room have an outside window?”

Roberts consulted his folder. “A little one, yeah. But-”

“Thank you, Paul,” said the teacher. “Thank you very much.”

“Hey, you mean you’ve got a handle on this case?”

The teacher nodded.

“Well, give!”

Before Mr Strang could reply, the bell rang.

Over the excited humming of the students as they shoved their way toward the door, Jerry Lockley’s voice rang out loudly.

“Well, all RIGHT!”

WEDNESDAY: THE CONCLUSION “Glad to see you back, Paul,” Mr Strang began. “I’m just sorry Father Penn couldn’t make it.” He turned to address the class.

“The murder of Simon Winkler-”

“Wait a minute!” Paul Roberts called out. “I told you yesterday, without proof you can’t accuse-”

“Oh, to be sure, but Winkler was murdered. By his aunts, of course, The problem is how they did it. And I hope to explain that today.”

He pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. “Lucille and Agnes Winkler,” he said. “Represented to us yesterday as a pair of sweet, frightened, rather doddering old octogenarians. And yet their grandfather did a builder out of his just payment, their father swindled money from the government, and their nephew was preparing to take the roof from over their heads through legal chicanery. From one generation to the next the Winkler family has not only been devious but completely without scruples. If only from the standpoint of heredity, can we expect less from the ladies?

“I say no! The method of murder was not only heartless, as all murders are, it was also devilishly clever – as might be expected from the descendants of Andrew and Jacob Winkler.”

“Hardly proof, Mr Strang,” said Roberts. “What about the weapon?”

“Ah, yes, the weapon. I was struck, Paul, by your description of the gardening tools at the front door. Would women who kept the house as neat as a pin – your words, Paul – have left those objects lying about? I doubt it. Furthermore, you mentioned a shiny new pair of grass shears. Shiny, after three days and nights of wet weather? No rust? Oh, come now.

“No, the tools were put there, probably just before Father Penn arrived, for just one purpose – to camouflage the murder weapon.

“Now what are the requirements for such a weapon? Basically it must be heavy – massive, in fact. Therefore we eliminate the basket, the trowel, and the shears. All too light.”

He bent down behind the demonstration table and brought up an object that bonged as it hit the table’s hard surface.

“A sprinkling can,” he said simply. “Borrowed from my landlady and similar, I daresay, to the one you found, Paul. Weight, perhaps a pound or two. But-”

He moved the can underneath the curved faucet at one end of the table and turned the water on full. In a few seconds the can was brimming. Mr Strang hooked a spring scale to the handle and lifted.

“Fourteen pounds,” he announced. “A massive club indeed. A weapon fit for a Samson. That’s what struck down Simon Winkler. So heavy and deadly when full” – he emptied the water into the sink and tossed the can into the air – “and so light and harmless when empty.”

“But-” Roberts began.

“How was the blow delivered? Jerry Lockley’s theory of yesterday was close to the mark.”

Jerry tapped his brow, but Roberts shook his head. “Mr Strang, neither of those ladies could toss something that heavy eight feet from the second floor onto-”

“No, Paul.” The teachers finger traced a diagonal in the air. “It was eight feet from the gable to the eaves. But that’s on a diagonal, down a sloping roof. The actual horizontal distance couldn’t have been much more than four feet, maybe less.”

“Even so, a can full of water being heaved four feet? By two old women who weren’t even on the same floor? What are you trying to give me?”

“You’re forgetting something. On that centre gable there was a means to suspend the can beyond the edge of the roof. Think, Paul. All of you. Think back to Jacob Winkler. Remember what-”

“The flagpole!” cried Jerry Lockley. “Hey, yeah. A can attached to the rope on that flagpole and pulleyed out to clear the roof.”

“And since the pole was for a large flag, it would be fairly sturdy,” nodded the teacher.

Then Jerry shook his head. “No way, Mr Strang.”

“Why, Jerry?”

“Look, the can is hanging there, right? Maybe getting full of water from the rain. But you want us to believe it just happened to break loose at exactly the right time? I ain’t buying that.”

“Of course not. You see, when the can was hauled out to the end of the flagpole, it was empty. And the rain was simply a cover for what really happened.”

“Huh?”

“What did Lucille Winkler tell Father Penn she’d been doing the week before the rain?”

“Moving lawn sprinklers. So what?”

“Hoses,” said the teacher. “Think of the lengths of hose required to water that huge yard. Put together they’d make an incredible length.”

Jerry’s finger moved upward and then horizontally, making an inverted L in the air. Then a broad grin split his face. “That’s why you asked about the laundry room, ain’t it, Mr Strang?”

“You mean-” Roberts began.

Mr Strang nodded. “Imagine a length of hose attached to a faucet in the laundry room – a faucet which had to be threaded to accommodate the washing machine and to which a garden hose could therefore be attached. Imagine that hose leading out the laundry window, up the rear of the house, through the upper hallway to the middle gable in front. Think of it snaking out along the flagpole with its open end directly over a sprinkling can hanging there.”

“I see what you mean,” said the detective. “But you still haven’t answered the boy’s question. How could the can be made to break loose at exactly the right time?”

“As I said earlier, the gardening tools were out of place, considering the weather,” Mr Strang answered. “But there’s another incongruous element here, Paul. Do you recall what Father Penn was reading while waiting for Lucille in the living room?”

“Yeah, a book on fishing. So?”

“In a house inhabited by two aged spinsters? Highly unlikely reading material, wouldn’t you say? No, that book was in the house for a specific purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Research. On fishing line.”

“Huh?”

“Fishing line,” Mr Strang repeated. “It’s the one type of string or cord that’s made to extremely close breaking tolerances. That’s so those who catch fish on lighter lines will receive more credit for the skill than those who use heavier tackle. And there’s a line which breaks at a strain of twelve pounds. The breaking strain is precise to within an ounce or so. I verified that yesterday with a call to Morey’s Sport Shop.”

Mr Strang preened, brushing at the wrinkled lapels of his jacket as if he were wearing regal finery. “In summary, class -Paul – here’s how the murder must have been accomplished. The Winkler women invited Simon to call on a day when heavy rain was a certainty. That morning Lucille lowered a long length of hose from an upstairs rear window to the window in the laundry room and attached one end of the hose to the tap in the laundry room. The other end was led to the front center gable, where both hose and sprinkling can were tied to the flagpole rope by the same piece of twelve-pound-test fishing line. This apparatus was hauled out to a point directly above the front stoop. The sheer wall of the house, which left neither Father Penn nor Simon Winkler protected from the pelting rain, also had nothing to divert the can in its fall. Oh, I’m sure Lucille tested the rig several times in previous weeks to get the trajectory exactly right. Just as I’m sure she tested the amount of time it took the can to fill to a point where the line would break.

“On the appointed day the sisters invite Father Penn to visit – the perfect, incorruptible, unimpeachable witness. Finally the three of them see Simon arriving. At that point Agnes suggests tea. Why? As an excuse for her sister to leave the room, of course. Then the sisters had their private little joke.”

“What joke?” asked Roberts.

“You’ll recall that as Simon was getting out of the taxi, Father Penn noticed a strange look which passed between the ladies. And then, what did Lucille say to Agnes?”

“Why-” Roberts’s eyes widened. “It was ‘I’ll put the water on’.”

There was a collective gasp from the students.

“I see you catch my meaning,” said the teacher. “On her way to the kitchen Lucille enters the laundry room and turns on the tap to a degree determined by earlier practise. As Simon arrives at the door, the can above his head is filling.”

“Wouldn’t he have seen it hanging there?” asked Roberts.

“Unlikely. In a rainstorm the tendency is to lower the head into the collar of the coat.” Mr Strang proceeded to demonstrate. “Inside the front door Lucille fumbles with the bolt. After all, the timing may not be absolutely perfect. She must wait for the can to drop.

“At length it does, smashing into Simon’s skull with almost the force of a cannonball. The can drops to one side, spilling its contents onto the already soaked earth, and lands innocently among the strategically placed gardening tools. The hose above snaps back to the roof, and its stream of water sluices across the shingles and into the gutters, joining the torrent gushing down the leaders.”

“But weren’t those two taking a big chance?” Roberts asked. “I mean, what if Simon had moved just a little bit to one side or the other?”

“Not too big a chance,” was the reply. “You see, Simon had to open the storm door to get at the knocker. Now when he heard Lucille fumbling with the lock inside, it would be instinctive for him to hold the storm door open so he could get inside in a hurry. And at that point his position would be as predictable as the phases of the moon.”

“But wouldn’t we have seen that hose draped through the house when we came to investigate?” asked the detective.

“Probably – if it had been left in place. But Lucille went back into the house to call the police. I suspect that it was then she turned off the water in the laundry room and disconnected the hose. Then she slipped upstairs and dragged the rest of the hosing through the house and pushed it out the rear window. Once it fell to the ground out in back, it became just an innocent length of rubber tubing.”

The old teacher made a stiff but elegant bow to his class. “Alpha and omega,” he said, grinning. “Do any of you have any questions?”

There was a clinking of coins followed by Jerry Lockely’s whisper: “Pay up, Richie. I told you he’d come through.”

For several moments Roberts considered Mr Strang’s solution. “It hangs together, I’ll say that for it,”he announced finally. “Weird, like the papers said, but that had to be how it was done. Only-”

“Only what, Paul?”

“How do we go about proving it?”

“Is that really necessary?” Mr Strang caressed the briar pipe in his jacket pocket. “I mean with Lucille already dead and Agnes in a nursing home with little time left-”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take any official action. I’d just like to know for my own satisfaction. And to be able to close out this case.”

“Perhaps you might begin by checking the local sporting and camping stores. Lucille must have purchased that fishing line somewhere.”

The detective patted the teacher on the back with a massive hand. “Mr. Strang, you’re something else. I don’t suppose you’d ever consider taking up police work on a full-time basis.”

“Sorry, Paul. My class and I have an appointment with the fallacy of undistributed middle.” The teacher drew a large circle on the board with two smaller circles inside it. “And we’re three days late as it is.”