Tragedy at Ravensthorpe

Chapter Twelve. CHUCHUNDRA’S BODY

SIR CLINTON’S map-drawing, however, was destined to be postponed. Hardly had they entered his office when the telephone bell rang. After a few moments’ conversation he put down the receiver and turned to Armadale.

“That’s Mold, the keeper. He’s found Maurice Chacewater’s body. He’s telephoning from his own cottage, so I told him to wait there and we’ll go up in the car. The body’s in the woods and we’ll save time by getting Mold to guide us to it instead of hunting round for the place.”

It did not take long to reach the head keeper’s cottage, where they found Mold in a state of perturbation.

“Where is this body?” Sir Clinton demanded, cutting short Mold’s rather confused attempts to explain matters. “Take us to it first of all and then I’ll ask what I want to know.”

Under the keeper’s guidance they made their way through the woods, and at last emerged into a small clearing in the centre of which rose a few ruined walls.

“This is what they call the Knight’s Tower,” Armadale explained.

Sir Clinton nodded.

“I expected something of the sort. Now, Mold, where’s Mr Chacewater’s body?”

The keeper led them round the Tower, and as they turned the corner of a wall they came upon the body stretched at full length on the grass.

“The turf’s short,” said Armadale, with some disappointment. “There’s no track on it round about here.”

“That’s true,” said Sir Clinton. “We’ll have to do without that help.”

He walked over to where Maurice Chacewater was lying. The body was on its back; and a glance at the head was enough to show that life must be extinct.

“It’s not pretty,” Sir Clinton said as he pulled out his handkerchief and covered the dead face. “Shot at close range, evidently. I don’t wonder you were a bit upset, Mold.”

He glanced round the little glade, then turned again to the keeper.

“When did you find him?” he demanded.

“Just before I rang you up, sir. As soon as I came across him, I ran off to my cottage and telephoned to you.”

“When were you over this ground last?—before you found him, I mean.”

“Just before dusk, last night, sir. He wasn’t there, then.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain, sir. I couldn’t have missed seeing him.”

“You haven’t touched the body?”

Mold shuddered slightly.

“No, sir. I went off at once and rang you up.”

“You met no one hereabouts this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“And you saw no one last night, either?”

“No, sir.”

“It was somewhere round about here, wasn’t it, that you heard that mysterious shot you told us about?”

“Yes, sir. I was just here at the time.”

Mold walked about twenty yards past the tower, to show the exact position. Sir Clinton studied the lie of the land for a moment.

“H’m! Have you any questions you want to ask, Inspector?”

Armadale considered for a moment or two.

“You’re sure you haven’t moved this body in any way?” he demanded.

“I never put a finger on it,” Mold asserted.

“And it’s lying just as it was when you saw it first?” Armadale pursued.

“As near as I can remember,” Mold replied, cautiously. “I didn’t wait long after I saw it. I went off almost at once to ring up the police.”

Armadale seemed to have got all the information he expected. Sir Clinton, seeing that no more questions were to come, turned to the keeper.

“Go off to the house and tell Mr Cecil Chacewater that his brother’s found and that he’s to come here at once. You needn’t say anything about the matter to anyone else. They’ll hear soon enough. And when you’ve done that, ring up the police station and tell them to send up a sergeant and a couple of constables to me here. Hurry, now.”

Mold went without a word. Sir Clinton waited till he was out of earshot and then glanced at Armadale.

“One thing stares you in the face,” the Inspector said in answer to the look. “He wasn’t shot here. That wound would mean any amount of blood; and there’s hardly any blood on the grass.”

Sir Clinton’s face showed his agreement. He looked down at the body.

“He’s lying on his back now; but after he was shot he lay on his left side till rigor mortis set in,” he pointed out.

The Inspector examined the body carefully.

“I think I see how you get that,” he said. “This left arm’s off the ground a trifle. If he’d been shot here and fell in this position, the arm would have relaxed and followed the lie of the ground. Is that it?”

“Yes, that and the hypostases. You see the marks on the left side of the face.”

“A dead man doesn’t shift himself,” the Inspector observed with an oracular air. “Someone else must have had a motive for dragging him about.”

“Here’s a revolver,” Sir Clinton pointed out, picking it up gingerly to avoid marking it with finger-prints. “You can see, later on, if anything’s to be made out from it.”

He put the revolver carefully down on a part of the ruined wall near at hand and then returned to the body.

“To judge by the rigor mortis,” he said, after making a test, “he must have been dead for a good while—a dozen hours or more.”

“What about that shot that the keeper said he heard?” queried Armadale.

“The time might fit well enough. But rigor mortis is no real criterion, you know, Inspector. It varies too much from case to case.”

Inspector Armadale pulled out a small magnifying glass and examined the dead man’s hand carefully.

“Those were his finger-prints on that Japanese sword right enough, sir,” he pointed out. “You can see that tiny scar on the thumb quite plainly if you look.”

He held out the glass, and Sir Clinton inspected the right thumb of the body minutely.

“I didn’t doubt it from the evidence you had before, Inspector; but this certainly clinches it. The scar’s quite clear.”

“Shall I go through the pockets now?” Armadale asked.

“You may as well,” Sir Clinton agreed.

Inspector Armadale began by putting his fingers into the body’s waistcoat pocket. As he did so his face showed his surprise.

“Hullo! Here’s something!”

He pulled out the object and held it up for Sir Clinton’s inspection.

“One of the Leonardo medallions,” Sir Clinton said, as soon as he had identified the thing. “Let me have a closer look at it, Inspector.”

He examined the edge with care.

“This seems to be the genuine article, Inspector. I can’t see any hole in the edge, which they told me was drilled to distinguish the replicas from the real thing. No, there’s no mark of any sort here.”

He handed it back to the Inspector, who examined it in his turn. Sir Clinton took it back when the Inspector had done with it, and placed it in his pocket.

“I think, Inspector, we’ll say nothing about this find for the present. I’ve an idea it may be a useful thing to have up our sleeve before we’ve done. By the way, do you still connect Foxton Polegate with this case?”

Armadale looked the Chief Constable in the eye as he replied.

“I’m more inclined to connect Cecil Chacewater with it, just now, sir. Look at the facts. It’s been common talk that there was ill-feeling between those two brothers. Servants talk; and other people repeat it. And the business that ended in the final row between the two of them was centred in these Leonardo medallions. That’s worth thinking over. Then, again, Cecil Chacewater disappeared for a short while. You couldn’t get in touch with him. And it was just at that time that queer things began to happen here at Ravensthorpe. Where was he then? It seems a bit suggestive, doesn’t it? And where was he last night? If you looked at him this morning, you couldn’t help seeing he’d spent a queer night, wherever he spent it. That was the night when this body was brought here from wherever the shooting was done. And when you asked Cecil Chacewater how he’d come home, he said he’d arrived by the first train this morning. That was a lie. He didn’t come by that train. He’d been here before that.”

To the Inspector’s amazement and disgust Sir Clinton laughed unaffectedly at this exposition.

“It’s nothing to laugh at, sir. You can’t deny these things. I don’t say they prove anything; but you can’t brush them aside merely by laughing at them. They’ve got to be explained. And until they’ve been explained in some satisfactory way things will look very fishy.”

Sir Clinton recovered his serious mask.

“Perhaps I laughed a little too soon, Inspector. I apologize. I’m not absolutely certain of my ground; I quite admit that. But I’ll just give you one hint. Sometimes one case looks as if it were two independent affairs. Sometimes two independent affairs get interlocked and look like one case. Now just think that over carefully. It’s perhaps got the germ of something in it, if you care to fish it out.”

“Half of what you’ve said already sounds like riddles to me, sir,” Armadale protested, fretfully. “I’m never sure when you’re serious and when you’re pulling my leg.”

Sir Clinton was saved from the embarrassment of a reply by the arrival of Cecil Chacewater. He nodded curtly to the two officials as he came up. The Inspector stepped forward to meet him.

“I’d like to put one or two questions to you, Mr Chacewater,” he said, ignoring the look on Sir Clinton’s face.

Cecil looked Armadale up and down before replying.

“Well, go on,” he said, shortly.

“First of all, Mr Chacewater,” the Inspector began, “I want to know when you last saw your brother alive.”

Cecil replied without the slightest hesitation:

“On the morning I left Ravensthorpe. We’d had a disagreement and I left the house.”

“That was the last time you saw him?”

“No. I see him now.”

The Inspector looked up angrily from his notebook.

“You’re giving the impression of quibbling, Mr Chacewater.”

“I’m answering your questions, Inspector, to the best of my ability.”

Armadale tried a fresh cast.

“Where did you go when you left Ravensthorpe?”

“To London.”

“You’ve been in London, then, until this morning?”

Cecil paused for a moment or two before answering.

“May I ask, Inspector, whether you’re bringing any charge against me? If you are, then I believe you ought to caution me. If you aren’t, then I don’t propose to answer your questions. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

Armadale was hardly prepared for this move.

“I think you’re injudicious, Mr Chacewater,” he said in a tone which he was evidently striving not to make threatening. “I know you didn’t arrive by the first train this morning, though you told us you did. Your position’s rather an awkward one, if you think about it.”

“You can’t bluff me, Inspector,” Cecil returned. “Make your charge, and I’ll know how to answer it. If you won’t make a charge, I don’t propose to help you with a fishing inquiry.”

The Inspector glanced at Sir Clinton’s face, and on it he read quite plainly the Chief Constable’s disapproval of his proceedings. He decided to go no further for the moment. Sir Clinton intervened to make the situation less strained.

“Would you mind looking at him, Cecil, and formally identifying him?”

Cecil came forward rather reluctantly, knelt down beside his brother’s body, examined the clothes, and finally, removing the handkerchief, gazed for a moment or two at the shattered face. The shot had entered the right side of the head and had done enough damage to show that it had been fired almost in contact with the skin.

Cecil replaced the handkerchief and rose to his feet. For a few moments he stood looking down at the body. Then he turned away.

“That’s my brother, undoubtedly.”

Then, as if speaking to himself, he added in a regretful tone:

“Poor old Chuchundra!”

To the Inspector’s amazement Sir Clinton started a little at the word.

“Was that a nickname, Cecil?”

Cecil looked up, and the Inspector could see that he was more than a little moved.

“We used to call him that when we were kids.”

Sir Clinton’s next question left the Inspector still further bemused.

“Out of The Jungle Book by any chance?”

Cecil seemed to see the drift of the inquiry, for he replied at once:

“Yes. Rikki-tikki-tavi, you know.”

“I was almost certain of it,” said Sir Clinton. “I can put a name to the trouble, I think. It begins with A.”

Cecil reflected for a moment before replying.

“Yes. You’re right. It does begin with A.”

“That saves a lot of bother,” said Sir Clinton, thankfully. “I was just going to fish in a fresh direction to get that bit of information. I’m quite satisfied now.”

Cecil seemed to pay little attention to the Chief Constable’s last remark. His eyes went round to the shattered thing that had been his brother.

“I’d no notion it was as bad as all this,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so bitter about things.”

The sergeant and constables appeared at the edge of the clearing.

“Seen all you want to see, Inspector?” asked Sir Clinton. “Then in that case we can leave the body in charge of the sergeant. I see they’ve got a stretcher with them. They can take it down to Ravensthorpe.”

Armadale rapidly gave the necessary orders to his subordinates.

“Now, Inspector, I think we’ll go over to Ravensthorpe ourselves. I want to see that chauffeur again. Something’s occurred to me.”

As the three men walked through the belt of wood-land Sir Clinton turned to Cecil.

“There’s one point I’d like to have cleared up. Do you know if Maurice had any visitors in the last three months or so—people who wanted to see the collection?”

Cecil reflected for a time before he could recall the facts.

“Now you mention it, I remember hearing Maurice say something about a fellow—a Yankee—who was writing a book on Leonardo. That chap certainly came here one day and Maurice showed him the stuff. The medallions were what he chiefly wanted to look at, of course.”

“You didn’t see him?”

“No. None of us saw him except Maurice.”

Sir Clinton made no comment; and they walked on in silence till they came to the house. Inspector Armadale was by this time completely at sea.

“Find that chauffeur, Inspector, please; and bring him along. I’ve got one or two points which need clearing up.”

When the chauffeur arrived it was evident that Armadale had not been mistaken when he described him as stupid-looking. Information had to be dragged out of him by minute questioning.

“Your name’s Brackley, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton began.

“Yes, sir. Joe Brackley.”

“Now, Brackley, don’t be in a hurry with your replies. I want you to think carefully. First of all, on the day that Mr Foss was murdered, he ordered you to bring the car round to the front door.”

“Yes, sir. I was to wait for him if he wasn’t there.”

“You pulled up the car here, didn’t you?”

Sir Clinton indicated the position in front of the house.

“Yes, sir. It was there or thereabouts”

“Then you put up the hood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What possessed you to do that on a sunny day?”

“One of the fastenings was a bit loose and I wanted to make it right before going out.”

“You didn’t think of doing that in the garage?”

“I didn’t notice it, sir, until I’d brought the car round. My eye happened to fall on it. And just then I saw Mr Foss going off into the house with some people. He didn’t seem in a hurry, so I thought I’d just time to make the repair before he came out.”

“You got on to the running-board to reach the hood, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which running-board? The one nearest the house?”

“No, sir. The other one.”

“So you could see the front of the house as you were working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see anything—anything whatever—while you were at work? You must have raised your eyes occasionally.”

“I could see the window opposite me.”

“By and by, I think, Marden, the valet, came up and spoke to you?”

“Yes, sir, he did. He’d been going to the post, he said, but there had been some mistake or other and he’d come back.”

“He left you and went into the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“After that, did you see Marden again—I mean within, say, twenty minutes or so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you see him, if you can remember?”

“Up there, sir, at that window. He was talking to Mr Foss.”

“When you were up on the running-board, you could just see into the room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened after that?”

“I finished the repair; so I came down off the running-board and let down the hood again.”

“Anything else you can remember, Brackley?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. That will do. By the way, Inspector,” Sir Clinton turned round, preventing the Inspector from making any comments while the chauffeur was standing by. “I’d clean forgotten the patrolling of the place up yonder. I’ve never found time to go up there; but it’s really a bit out of date now. I think we can dispense with the patrol after to-night. And the same holds for that guard on the museum. There’s no need for either of them.”

“Very good, sir,” Armadale responded, mechanically.

The Inspector was engaged in condemning his own stupidity. Why had he not seen the possibilities involved in that repair of the hood? With the extra foot of elevation of course the chauffeur could see further into the museum than a man standing on the ground. And here was the damning evidence that Marden’s story was a lie. And the Inspector had missed it. He almost gritted his teeth in vexation as he thought of it. The keystone of the case: and the Chief Constable had taken it under his nose!

Sir Clinton turned to Cecil as the chauffeur retired.

“I shall be here about one o’clock in the morning, Cecil,” he said, lowering his voice. “I want you to be on the watch and let me in without anyone getting wind of my visit. Can you manage it?”

“Easily enough.”

“Very well. I’ll be at the door at one o’clock sharp. But remember, it’s an absolutely hush-hush affair. There must be no noise of any sort.”

“I’ll see to that,” Cecil assured him.

Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector.

“Now I think we’ll go across to where we left my car.”

On the way to the police station Sir Clinton’s manner did not encourage conversation; but as they got out of the car he turned to Armadale.

“Map-drawing’s a bit late in the day now, Inspector; but we may as well carry on for the sake of completeness.”

He led the way to his office, took a ruler and protractor from his desk, and set to work on a sheet of paper.

“Take this point as the museum,” he said.” This line represents the beginning of the tunnel. I took the bearing that time when I lagged behind you. At the next turn—this one here—I made a pretence of examining the walls and took the bearing as we were standing there. I got the third bearing when I asked you to measure the dimensions of the tunnel. As it has turned out, secrecy wasn’t really necessary; but it seemed just as well to keep the survey to ourselves. I got the distances by pacing, except the last bit. There I had to estimate it, since we were crawling on all fours; but I think I got it near enough.”

“And you carried all the figures in your memory?”

“Yes. I’ve a fairly good memory when I’m put to it.”

“You must have,” said Armadale, frankly.

“Now,” Sir Clinton went on. “By drawing in these lines we get the position of that underground room. It’s here, you see. The next thing is to find out where it lies, relative to the ground surface. I had a fair notion; so when I got to the top of the turret I took the bearing of the Knight’s Tower. I’ll just rule it in. You see the two lines cut quite near the cell. My notion is that there’s a second entrance into that tunnel from that ruined tower. In the old days it may have been a secret road into the outpost tower when a siege was going on.”

“I see what you’re getting at now,” Armadale interrupted. “You mean that Maurice Chacewater’s body was in the cell and that it was shifted from there up the other secret passage—the one we didn’t see—and left alongside the tower this morning?”

“Something of that sort.”

“And now we’ve got to find who killed Maurice Chacewater down there, underground?”

“There’s nothing in that, Inspector. He killed himself. It’s a fairly plain case of suicide.”

“But why did he commit suicide?”

Sir Clinton appeared suddenly smitten with deafness. He ignored the Inspector’s last inquiry completely.

“I shall want you to-night, Inspector. Come to my house at about half-past twelve. And you had better wear rubber-soled boots or tennis shoes if you have them. We’ll go up to Ravensthorpe in my car.”

“You’re going to arrest Marden, sir?”

“No,” was Sir Clinton’s reply, which took the Inspector completely aback. “I’m not going to arrest anybody. I’m going to show you what Foss was going to do with his otophone; that’s all.”