Murder Takes a Holiday Read online

  It was certainly a grim spectacle that we looked in on. The hut was a small building about six feet square, devoid of any furniture or fittings excepting one or two pegs high up the wall. The single, unglazed window was closely shuttered and on the bare floor in the farther corner a man was sitting, leaning back into the corner, with his head dropped forward on his breast. The man was undoubtedly Arthur Crofton. That much I could say with certainty, notwithstanding the horrible changes wrought by death and the lapse of time. ‘But,’ I added when I had identified the body, ‘I should have said that he had been dead more than a fortnight. He must have come straight back from Margate and done this. And that will probably be the missing tumbler,’ I concluded, pointing to one that stood on the floor close to the right hand of the corpse.

  ‘No doubt,’ replied Thorndyke, somewhat abstractedly. He had been looking critically about the interior of the hut, and now remarked: ‘I wonder why he did not shoot the bolt instead of locking himself in; and what has become of the key? He must have taken it out of the lock and put it in his pocket.’

  He looked interrogatively at the sergeant, who having no option but to take the hint, advanced with an expression of horrified disgust and proceeded very gingerly to explore the dead man’s clothing.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed at length, ‘here we are.’ He drew from the waistcoat pocket a key with a small ivory label attached to it. ‘Yes, this is the one. You see, it is marked “Bathing Hut”.’

  He handed it to Thorndyke, who looked at it attentively, and even with an appearance of surprise, and then, producing an indelible pencil from his pocket, wrote on the label, ‘Found on body.’

  ‘The first thing,’ said he, ‘is to ascertain if it fits the lock.’

  ‘Why, it must,’ said the sergeant, ‘if he locked himself in with it.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Thorndyke agreed, ‘but that is the point. It doesn’t look quite similar to the other one.’

  He drew out the key which we had brought from the house and gave it to me to hold. Then he tried the key from the dead man’s pocket; but it not only did not fit, it would not even enter the keyhole. The sceptical indifference faded suddenly from the sergeant’s face. He took the key from Thorndyke, and having tried it with the same result, stood up and stared, round-eyed, at my colleague.

  ‘Well!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a facer! It’s the wrong key!’

  ‘There may be another key on the body,’ said Thorndyke. ‘It isn’t likely, but you had better make sure.’

  The sergeant showed no reluctance this time. He searched the dead man’s pockets thoroughly and produced a bunch of keys. But they were all quite small keys, none of them in the least resembling that of the hut door. Nor, I noticed, did they include those of the bungalow door or the garden gate. Once more the officer drew himself up and stared at Thorndyke.

  ‘There’s something rather fishy about this affair,’ said he.

  ‘There is,’ Thorndyke agreed. ‘The door was certainly locked; and as it was not locked from within, it must have been locked from without. Then that key – the wrong key – was presumably put in the dead man’s pocket by some other person. And there are some other suspicious facts. A tumbler has disappeared from the bedside table, and there is a tumbler here. You notice one or two spots of candle grease on the floor here, and it looks as if a candle had been stood in that corner near the door. There is no candle here now; but in the bedroom there is a candle which has been carried without a candlestick and which, by the way, bears an excellent impression of a thumb. The first thing to do will be to take the deceased’s finger-prints. Would you mind fetching my case from the bedroom, Jardine?’

  I ran back to the house (not unobserved by the gentleman in the next bungalow) and, catching up the case, carried it down to the hut. When I arrived there I found Thorndyke holding the tumbler delicately in his gloved left hand while he examined it against the light with the aid of his lens. He handed the latter to me and observed:

  ‘If you look at this carefully, Jardine, you will see a very interesting thing. There are the prints of two different thumbs – both left thumbs, and therefore of different persons. You will remember that the tumbler stood by the right hand of the body and that the table, which bore the mark of a tumbler, was at the left-hand side of the bed.’

  When I had examined the thumb-prints he placed the tumbler carefully on the floor and opened his ‘research-case’, which was fitted as a sort of portable laboratory. From this he took a little brass box containing an ink tube, a tiny roller and some small cards, and, using the box-lid as an inking-plate, he proceeded methodically to take the dead man’s fingerprints, writing the particulars on each card.

  ‘I don’t quite see what you want with Crofton’s fingerprints,’ said I. ‘The other man’s would be more to the point.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Thorndyke replied. ‘But we have to prove that they are another man’s – that they are not Crofton’s. And there is that print on the candle. That is a very important point to settle; and as we have finished here, we had better go and settle it at once.’

  He closed his case, and, taking up the tumbler with his gloved hand, led the way back to the house, the sergeant following when he locked the door. We proceeded direct to the bedroom, where Thorndyke took the candle from its socket and, with the aid of his lens, compared it carefully with the two thumb-prints on the card, and then with the tumbler.

  ‘It is perfectly clear,’ said he. ‘This is a mark of a left thumb. It is totally unlike Crofton’s and it appears to be identical with the strange thumb-print on the tumbler. From which it seems to follow that the stranger took the candle from this room to the hut and brought it back. But he probably blew it out before leaving the house and lit it again in the hut.’

  The sergeant and I examined the cards, the candle and the tumbler, and then the former asked:

  ‘I suppose you have no idea whose thumb-print that might be? You don’t know, for instance, of anyone who might have had any motive for making away with Mr Crofton?’

  ‘That,’ replied Thorndyke, ‘is rather a question for the coroner’s jury.’

  ‘So it is,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘But there won’t be much question about their verdict. It is a pretty clear case of wilful murder.’

  To this Thorndyke made no reply excepting to give some directions as to the safekeeping of the candle and tumbler; and our proposed ‘gipsy holiday’ being now evidently impossible, we took our leave of the sergeant – who already had our cards – and wended back to the station.

  ‘I suppose,’ said I, ‘we shall have to break the news to Mrs Crofton.’

  ‘That is hardly our business,’ he replied. ‘We can leave that to the solicitor or to Ambrose. If you know the lawyer’s address, you might send him a telegram, arranging a meeting at eight o’clock tonight. Give no particulars. Just say “Crofton found”, but mark the telegram “urgent” so that he will keep the appointment.’

  On reaching the station, I sent off the telegram, and very soon afterwards the London train was signalled. It turned out to be a slow train, which gave us ample time to discuss the case and me ample time for reflection. And, in fact, I reflected a good deal; for there was a rather uncomfortable question in my mind – the very question that the sergeant had raised and that Thorndyke had obviously evaded.

  Was there anyone who might have had a motive for making away with Crofton? It was an awkward question when one remembered the great legacy that had just fallen in and the terms of Miss Shuler’s will; which expressly provided that, if Crofton died before his wife, the legacy should go to her. Now Ambrose was the wife’s brother; and Ambrose had been in the bungalow alone with Crofton, and nobody else was known to have been there at all. I meditated on these facts uncomfortably and would have liked to put the case to Thorndyke; but his reticence, his evasion of the sergeant’s question and his decision to communicate with the solicitor rather than with the family, showed pretty clearly what was in his mind and that he d
id not wish to discuss the matter.

  Promptly at eight o’clock, having dined at a restaurant, we presented ourselves at the solicitor’s house and were shown into the study, where we found Mr Jobson seated at a writing-table. He looked at Thorndyke with some surprise, and when the introductions had been made, said somewhat dryly:

  ‘We may take it that Dr Thorndyke is in some way connected with our rather confidential business?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I replied. ‘That is why he is here.’

  Jobson nodded. ‘And how is Crofton?’ he asked, ‘and where did you dig him up?’

  ‘I am sorry to say,’ I replied, ‘that he is dead. It is a dreadful affair. We found his body locked in the bathing-hut. He was sitting in a corner with a tumbler on the floor by his side.’

  ‘Horrible! horrible!’ exclaimed the solicitor. ‘He ought never to have gone there alone. I said so at the time. And it is most unfortunate on account of the insurance, though that is not a large amount. Still the suicide clause, you know—’

  ‘I doubt whether the insurance will be affected,’ said Thorndyke. ‘The coroner’s finding will almost certainly be wilful murder.’

  Jobson was thunderstruck. In a moment his face grew livid and he gazed at Thorndyke with an expression of horrified amazement.

  ‘Murder!’ he repeated incredulously. ‘But you said he was locked in the hut. Surely that is clear proof of suicide.’

  ‘He hadn’t locked himself in, you know. There was no key inside.’

  ‘Ah!’ The solicitor spoke almost in a tone of relief. ‘But, perhaps – did you examine his pockets?’

  ‘Yes, and we found a key labelled “Bathing Hut”. But it was the wrong key. It wouldn’t go into the lock. There is no doubt whatever that the door was locked from the outside.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Jobson, in a faint voice. ‘It does look suspicious. But still, I can’t believe – it seems quite incredible.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Thorndyke, ‘but it is all perfectly clear. There is evidence that a stranger entered the bungalow at night and that the affair took place in the bedroom. From thence the stranger carried the body down to the hut and he also took a tumbler and a candle from the bedside table. By the light of the candle – which was stood on the floor of the hut in a corner – he arranged the body, having put into its pocket a key from the board in the living-room. Then he locked the hut, went back to the house, put the key on its peg and the candle in its candlestick. Then he locked up the house and the garden gate and took the keys away with him.’

  The solicitor listened to this recital in speechless amazement. At length he asked:

  ‘How long ago do you suppose this happened?’

  ‘Apparently on the night of the fifteenth of this month,’ was the reply.

  ‘But,’ objected Jobson, ‘he wrote home on the sixteenth.’

  ‘He wrote,’ said Thorndyke, ‘on the sixth. Somebody put a one in front of the six and posted the letter at Margate on the sixteenth. I shall give evidence to that effect at the inquest.’

  I was becoming somewhat mystified. Thorndyke’s dry, stern manner – so different from his usual suavity – and the solicitor’s uncalled-for agitation, seemed to hint at something more than met the eye. I watched Jobson as he lit a cigarette – with a small Bryant and May match, which he threw on the floor – and listened expectantly for his next question. At length he asked:

  ‘Was there any sort of – er – clue as to who this stranger might be?’

  ‘The man who will be charged with the murder? Oh, yes. The police have the means of identifying him with absolute certainty.’

  ‘That is, if they can find him,’ said Jobson.

  ‘Naturally. But when all the very remarkable facts have transpired at the inquest, that individual will probably come pretty clearly into view.’

  Jobson continued to smoke furiously with his eyes fixed on the floor as if he were thinking hard. Presently he asked, without looking up:

  ‘Supposing they do find this man. What then? What evidence is there that he murdered Crofton?’

  ‘You mean direct evidence?’ said Thorndyke. ‘I can’t say, as I did not examine the body; but the circumstantial evidence that I have given you would be enough to convict unless there were some convincing explanation other than murder. And I may say,’ he added, ‘that if the suspected person has a plausible explanation to offer, he would be well advised to produce it before he is charged. A voluntary statement has a good deal more weight than the same statement made by a prisoner in answer to a charge.’

  There was an interval of silence, in which I looked in bewilderment from Thorndyke’s stern visage to the pale face of the solicitor. At length the latter rose abruptly, and, after one or two quick strides up and down the room, halted by the fireplace, and, still avoiding Thorndyke’s eye, said, somewhat brusquely, though in a low, husky voice:

  ‘I will tell you how it happened. I went down to Seasalter, as you said, on the night of the fifteenth, on the chance of finding Crofton at the bungalow. I wanted to tell him of Miss Shuler’s death and of the provisions of her will.’

  ‘You had some private information on that subject, I presume?’ said Thorndyke.

  ‘Yes. My cousin was her solicitor and he kept me informed about the will.’

  ‘And about the state of her health?’

  ‘Yes. Well, when I arrived at the bungalow, it was in darkness. The gate and the front door were unlocked, so I entered, calling out Crofton’s name. As no one answered, I struck a match and lit the lamp. Then I went into the bedroom and struck a match there; and by its light I could see Crofton lying on the bed, quite still. I spoke to him, but he did not answer or move. Then I lighted a candle on his table; and now I could see what I had already guessed, that he was dead, and that he had been dead some time – probably more than a week.

  ‘It was an awful shock to find a dead man in this solitary house, and my first impulse was to rush out and give the alarm. But when I went into the living-room, I happened to see a letter lying on the writing-table and noticed that it was in his own handwriting and addressed to his wife. Unfortunately, I had the curiosity to take it out of the unsealed envelope and read it. It was dated the sixth and stated his intention of going to Margate for a time and then coming back to the bungalow.

  ‘Now, the reading of that letter exposed me to an enormous temptation. By simply putting a one in front of the six and thus altering the date from the sixth to the sixteenth and posting the letter at Margate, I stood to gain thirty thousand pounds. I saw that at a glance. But I did not decide immediately to do it. I pulled down all the blinds, drew the curtains and locked up the house while I thought it over. There seemed to be practically no risk, unless someone should come to the bungalow and notice that the state of the body did not agree with the altered date on the letter. I went back and looked at the dead man. There was a burnt-out candle by his side and a tumbler containing the dried-up remains of some brown liquid. He had evidently poisoned himself. Then it occurred to me that, if I put the body and the tumbler in some place where they were not likely to be found for some time, the discrepancy between the condition of the body and the date of the letter would not be noticed.

  ‘For some time I could think of no suitable place, but at last I remembered the bathing-hut. No one would look there for him. If they came to the bungalow and didn’t find him there, they would merely conclude that he had not come back from Margate. I took the candle and the key from the key-board and went down to the hut; but there was a key in the door already, so I brought the other key back and put it in Crofton’s pocket, never dreaming that it might not be the duplicate. Of course, I ought to have tried it in the door.

  ‘Well, you know the rest. I took the body down, about two in the morning, locked up the hut, brought away the key and hung it on the board, took the counterpane off the bed, as it had some marks on it, and re-made the bed with the blanket outside. In the morning I took the train to Margate, posted t
he letter, after altering the date, and threw the gate-key and that of the front door into the sea.

  ‘That is what really happened. You may not believe me; but I think you will as you have seen the body and will realise that I had no motive for killing Crofton before the fifteenth, whereas Crofton evidently died before that date.’

  ‘I would not say “evidently”,’ said Thorndyke; ‘but, as the date of his death is the vital point in your defence, you would be wise to notify the coroner of the importance of the issue.’

  ‘I don’t understand this case,’ I said, as we walked homewards (I was spending the evening with Thorndyke). ‘You seemed to smell a rat from the very first. And I don’t see how you spotted Jobson. It is a mystery to me.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be if you were a lawyer,’ he replied. ‘The case against Jobson was contained in what you told me at our first interview. You yourself commented on the peculiarity of the will that he drafted for Crofton. The intention of the latter was to leave all his property to his wife. But instead of saying so, the will specified each item of property, and appointed a residuary legatee, which was Jobson himself. This might have appeared like mere legal verbiage; but when Miss Shuler’s legacy was announced, the transaction took on a rather different aspect. For this legacy was not among the items specified in the will. Therefore it did not go to Mrs Crofton. It would be included in the residue of the estate and would go to the residuary legatee – Jobson.’

  ‘The deuce it would!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Certainly, until Crofton revoked his will or made a fresh one. This was rather suspicious. It suggested that Jobson had private information as to Miss Shuler’s will and had drafted Crofton’s will in accordance with it; and as she died of malignant disease, her doctor must have known for some time that she was dying and it looked as if Jobson had information on that point, too. Now the position of affairs that you described to me was this: Crofton, a possible suicide, had disappeared and had made no fresh will.