Murder in the Morning

‘Half a mile along the main road to Ditchley, and then turn off to the left at the sign-post,’ said the Traveller in Mangles; ‘but I think you’ll be wasting your time.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Mr Montague Egg cheerfully, ‘I’ll have a shot at the old bird. As the Salesman’s Handbook says: “Don’t let the smallest chance slip by; you never know until you try.” After all, he’s supposed to be rich, isn’t he?’

‘Mattresses stuffed with gold sovereigns, or so the neighbours say,’ acknowledged the Traveller in Mangles with a grin. ‘But they’d say anything.’

‘Thought you said there weren’t any neighbours.’

‘No more there are. Manner of speaking. Well, good luck to it!’

Mr Egg acknowledged the courtesy with a wave of his smart trilby, and let his clutch in with quiet determination.

The main road was thronged with the usual traffic of a Saturday morning in June—worthy holiday-makers bound for Melbury Woods or for the seashore about Beachampton—but as soon as he turned into the little narrow lane by the sign-post which said ‘Hatchford Mill 2 Miles’, he was plunged into a profound solitude and silence, broken only by the scurry of an occasional rabbit from the hedgerow and the chug of his own Morris. Whatever else the mysterious Mr Pinchbeck might be, he certainly was a solitary soul, and when, about a mile and a half down the lane, Monty caught sight of the tiny cottage, set far back in the middle of a neglected-looking field, he began to think that the Traveller in Mangles had been right. Rich though he might be, Mr Pinchbeck was probably not a very likely customer for the wines and spirits supplied by Messrs Plummet & Rose of Piccadilly. But, remembering Maxim Five of the Salesman’s Handbook, ‘If you’re a salesman worth the name at all, you can sell razors to a billiard-ball,’ Mr Egg stopped his car at the entrance to the field, lifted the sagging gate and dragged it open, creaking in every rotten rail, and drove forward over the rough track, scarred with the ruts left by wet-weather traffic.

The cottage door was shut. Monty beat a cheerful tattoo upon its blistered surface, and was not very much surprised to get no answer. He knocked again, and then, unwilling to abandon his quest now he had come so far, walked round to the back. Here again he got no answer. Was Mr Pinchbeck out? It was said that he never went out. Being by nature persistent and inquisitive, Mr Egg stepped up to the window and looked in. What he saw made him whistle softly. He returned to the back door, pushed it open and entered.

When you arrive at a person’s house with no intention beyond selling him a case of whisky or a dozen or so of port, it is disconcerting to find him stretched on his own kitchen floor, with his head battered to pulp. Mr Egg had served two years on the Western Front, but he did not like what he saw. He put the tablecloth over it. Then, being a methodical sort of person, he looked at his watch, which marked 10.25. After a minute’s pause for consideration, he made a rapid tour of the premises, then set off, driving as fast as he could, to fetch the police.

The inquest upon Mr Humphrey Pinchbeck took place the following day, and resulted in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. During the next fortnight, Mr Montague Egg, with some uneasiness, watched the newspapers. The police were following up a clue. A man was requested to communicate with the police. The man was described—a striking-looking person with a red beard and a check suit, driving a sports car with the registered number WOE 1313. The man was found. The man was charged, and Mr Montague Egg, three hundred miles away, was informed, to his disgust, that he would be required to give evidence before the magistrates at Beachampton.

The accused, who gave his name as Theodore Barton, age forty-two, profession, poet (at which Monty stared very hard, never having seen a poet at such close quarters), was a tall, powerfully built man, dressed in flamboyant tweeds, and having a certain air of rather disreputable magnificence about him. One would expect, thought Monty, to find him hanging about bars in the East Central district of London. His eyes were bold, and the upper part of his face handsome in its way; the mouth was hidden by the abundance of his tawny beard. He appeared to be perfectly at his ease, and was represented by a solicitor.

Montague Egg was called at an early stage to give evidence of the finding of the body. He mentioned that the time was 10.25 a.m. on Saturday, June 18th, and that the body was still quite warm when he saw it. The front door was locked; the back door shut, but not locked. The kitchen was greatly disordered, as though there had been a violent struggle, and a blood-stained poker lay beside the dead man. He had made a rapid search before sending for the police. In a bedroom upstairs he had seen a heavy iron box standing open and empty, with the keys hanging from the lock. There was no other person in the cottage, nor yet concealed about the little yard, but there were marks as though a large car had recently stood in a shed at the back of the house. In the sitting-room were the remains of breakfast for two persons. He (Mr Egg) had passed down the lane from the high-road in his car, and had met nobody at all on the way. He had spent perhaps five or ten minutes in searching the place, and had then driven back by the way he came.

At this point Detective-Inspector Ramage explained that the lane leading to the cottage ran on for half a mile or so to pass Hatchford Mill, and then bent back to enter the main Beachampton road again at a point three miles nearer Ditchley.

The next witness was a baker named Bowles. He gave evidence that he had called at the cottage with his van at 10.15, to deliver two loaves of bread. He had gone to the back door, which had been opened by Mr Pinchbeck in person. The old gentleman had appeared to be in perfect health, but a little flurried and irritable. He had not seen any other person in the kitchen, but had an impression that before he knocked he had heard two men’s voices talking loudly and excitedly. The lad who had accompanied Bowles on his round confirmed this, adding that he fancied he had seen the outline of a man move across the kitchen window.

Mrs Chapman, from Hatchford Mill, then came forward to say that she was accustomed to go in every week-day to Mr Pinchbeck’s cottage to do a bit of cleaning. She arrived at 7.30 and left at 9 o’clock. On Saturday 18th she had come as usual, to find that a visitor had arrived unexpectedly the night before. She identified the accused, Theodore Barton, as that visitor. He had apparently slept on the couch in the sitting-room, and was departing again that morning. She saw his car in the shed; it was a little sports one, and she had particularly noticed the number, WOE 1313, thinking that there was an unlucky number and no mistake. The interior of the shed was not visible from the back door. She had set breakfast for the two of them. The milkman and the postman had called before she left, and the grocer’s van must have come soon after, for it was down at the Mill by 9.30. Nobody else ever called at the cottage, so far as she knew. Mr Pinchbeck was a vegetarian and grew his own garden-stuff. She had never known him have a visitor before. She had heard nothing in the nature of ‘words’ between Mr Pinchbeck and the accused, but had thought the old man was not in the best of spirits. ‘He seemed a bit put out, like.’

Then came another witness from the Mill, who had heard a car with a powerful engine drive very rapidly past the Mill a little before half-past ten. He had run out to look, fast cars being a rarity in the lane, but had seen nothing, on account of the trees which bordered the road at the corner just beyond the Mill.

At this point the police put in a statement made by the accused on his arrest. He said that he was the nephew of the deceased, and frankly admitted that he had spent the night at the cottage. Deceased had seemed pleased to see him, as they had not met for some time. On hearing that his nephew was ‘rather hard up’, deceased had remonstrated with him about following so ill paid a profession as poetry, but had kindly offered him a small loan, which he, the accused, had gratefully accepted. Mr Pinchbeck had then opened the box in his bedroom and brought out a number of banknotes, of which he had handed over ‘ten fivers’, accompanying the gift by a little sermon on hard work and thrift. This had happened at about 9.45 or a little earlier—at any rate, after Mrs Chapman was safely off the premises. The box had appeared to be full of banknotes and securities, and Mr Pinchbeck had expressed distrust both of Mrs Chapman and of the tradesmen in general. (Here Mrs Chapman voiced an indignant protest, and had to be soothed by the Bench.) The statement went on to say that the accused had had no sort of quarrel with his uncle, and had left the cottage at, he thought, 10 o’clock or thereabouts, and driven on through Ditchley and Frogthorpe to Beachampton. There he had left his car with a friend, to whom it belonged, and hired a motor-boat and gone over to spend a fortnight in Brittany. Here he had heard nothing about his uncle’s death till the arrival of Detective-Inspector Ramage had informed him of the suspicion against him. He had, of course, hastened back immediately to establish his innocence.

The police theory was that, as soon as the last tradesman had left the house, Barton had killed the old man, taken his keys, stolen the money, and escaped, supposing that the body would not be found till Mrs Chapman arrived on the Monday morning.

While Theodore Barton’s solicitor was extracting from Inspector Ramage the admission that the only money found on the accused at the time of his arrest was six Bank of England five-pound notes and a few shillings’ worth of French money, Mr Egg became aware that somebody was breathing very hard and excitedly down the back of his neck, and, on turning round, found himself face to face with an elderly woman, whose rather prominent eyes seemed ready to pop out of her head with agitation.

‘Oh!’ said the woman, bouncing in her seat. ‘Oh, dear!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Egg, ever courteous. ‘Am I in your way, or anything?’

‘Oh! oh, thank you! Oh, do tell me what I ought to do. There’s something I ought to tell them. Poor man. He isn’t guilty at all. I know he isn’t. Oh, please do tell me what I ought to do. Do I have to go to the police? Oh, dear, oh, dear! I thought—I didn’t know—I’ve never been in a place like this before! Oh, I know they’ll bring him in guilty. Please, please stop them!’

‘They can’t bring him in guilty in this court,’ said Monty soothingly. ‘They can send him up for trial—’

‘Oh, but they mustn’t! He didn’t do it. He wasn’t there. Oh, please do something about it.’

She appeared so earnest that Mr Egg, slightly clearing his throat and settling his tie, rose boldly to his feet and exclaimed in stentorian accents: ‘Your Worship!’

The bench stared. The solicitor stared. The accused stared. Everybody stared.

‘There is a lady here,’ said Monty, feeling that he must go through with it, ‘who tells me she has important evidence to give on behalf of the accused.’

The staring eyes became focused upon the lady, who instantly started up, dropping her handbag, and crying: ‘Oh, dear! I’m so sorry! I’m afraid I ought to have gone to the police.’

The solicitor, in whose face surprise, annoyance and anticipation struggled curiously together, at once came forward. The lady was extricated and a short whispered consultation followed, after which the solicitor said:

‘Your worship, my client’s instructions were to reserve his defence, but, since the lady, whom I have never seen until this moment, has so generously come forward with her statement, which appears to be a complete answer to the charge, perhaps your worship would prefer to hear her at this stage.’

After a little discussion, the Bench decided that they would like to hear the evidence, if the accused was agreeable. Accordingly, the lady was put in the box, and sworn, in the name of Millicent Adela Queek.

‘I am a spinster, and employed as art mistress at Woodbury High School for Girls. Saturday 18th was a holiday, of course, and I thought I would have a little picnic, all by my lonesome, in Melbury Woods. I started off in my own little car just about 9.30. It would take me about half an hour to get to Ditchley—I never drive very fast, and there was a lot of traffic on the road—most dangerous. When I got to Ditchley, I turned to the right, along the main road to Beachampton. After a little time I began to wonder whether I had put in quite enough petrol. My gauge isn’t very reliable, you know, so I thought I’d better stop and make quite certain. So I pulled up at a roadside garage. I don’t know exactly where it was, but it was quite a little way beyond Ditchley—between that and Helpington. It was one of those dreadfully ugly places, made of corrugated iron painted bright red. I don’t think they should allow them to put up things like that. I asked the man there—a most obliging young man—to fill my tank, and while I was there I saw this gentleman—yes, I mean Mr Barton, the accused—drive up in his car. He was coming from the Ditchley direction and driving rather fast. He pulled up on the left-hand side of the road. The garage is on the right, but I saw him very distinctly. I couldn’t mistake him—his beard, you know, and the clothes he was wearing—so distinctive. It was the same suit he is wearing now. Besides, I noticed the number of his car. Such a curious one, is it not? WOE 1313. Yes. Well, he opened the bonnet and did something to his plugs, I think, and then he drove on.’

‘What time was this?’

‘I was just going to tell you. When I came to look at my watch I found it had stopped. Most vexatious. I think it was due to the vibration of the steering-wheel. But I looked up at the garage clock—there was one just over the door—and it said 10.20. So I set my watch by that. Then I went on to Melbury Woods and had my little picnic. So fortunate, wasn’t it? that I looked at the clock then. Because my watch stopped again later on. But I do know that it was 10.20 when this gentleman stopped at the garage, so I don’t see how he could have been doing a murder at that poor man’s cottage between 10.15 and 10.25, because it must be well over twenty miles away—more, I should think.’

Miss Queek ended her statement with a little gasp, and looked round triumphantly.

Detective-Inspector Ramage’s face was a study. Miss Queek went on to explain why she had not come forward earlier with her story.

‘When I read the description in the papers I thought it must be the same car I had seen, because of the number—but of course I couldn’t be sure it was the same man, could I? Descriptions are so misleading. And naturally I didn’t want to be mixed up with a police case. The school, you know—parents don’t like it. But I thought, if I came and saw this gentleman for myself, then I should be quite certain. And Miss Wagstaffe—our head-mistress—so kindly gave me leave to come, though today is very inconvenient, being my busiest afternoon. But I said it might be a matter of life and death, and so it is, isn’t it?’

The magistrate thanked Miss Queek for her public-spirited intervention, and then, at the urgent request of both parties, adjourned the court for further inquiry into the new evidence.

Since it was extremely important that Miss Queek should identify the garage in question as soon as possible, it was arranged that she should set out at once in search of it, accompanied by Inspector Ramage and his sergeant, Mr Barton’s solicitor going with them to see fair play for his client. A slight difficulty arose, however. It appeared that the police car was not quite big enough to take the whole party comfortably, and Mr Montague Egg, climbing into his own Morris, found himself hailed by the inspector with the request for a lift.

‘By all means,’ said Monty; ‘a pleasure. Besides, you’ll be able to keep your eye on me. Because, if that chap didn’t do it, it looks to me as though I must be the guilty party.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, sir,’ said the inspector, obviously taken aback by this bit of thought-reading.

‘I couldn’t blame you if you did,’ said Monty. He smiled, remembering his favourite motto for salesmen: ‘A cheerful voice and cheerful look put orders in the order-book,’ and buzzed merrily away in the wake of the police car along the road from Beachampton to Ditchley.

‘We ought to be getting near it now,’ remarked Ramage when they had left Helpington behind them. ‘We’re ten miles from Ditchley and about twenty-five from Pinchbeck’s cottage. Let’s see—it’ll be the left-hand side of the road, going in this direction. Hullo! this looks rather like it,’ he added presently. ‘They’re pulling up.’

The police car had stopped before an ugly corrugated-iron structure, standing rather isolated on the near side of the road, and adorned with a miscellaneous collection of enamelled advertisement-boards and a lot of petrol pumps. Mr Egg brought the Morris alongside.

‘Is this the place, Miss Queek?’

‘Well, I don’t know. It was like this, and it was about here. But I can’t be sure. All these dreadful little places are so much alike, but—Well, there! how stupid of me! Of course this isn’t it. There’s no clock. There ought to be a clock just over the door. So sorry to have made such a silly mistake. We must go on a little farther. It must be quite near here.’

The little procession moved forward again, and five miles farther on came once more to a halt. This time there could surely be no mistake. Another hideous red corrugated garage, more boards, more petrol-pumps, and a clock, whose hands pointed (correctly, as the inspector ascertained by reference to his watch), to 7.15.

‘I’m sure this must be it,’ said Miss Queek. ‘Yes—I recognise the man,’ she added, as the garage proprietor came out to see what was wanted.

The proprietor, when questioned, was not able to swear with any certainty to having filled Miss Queek’s tank on June 18th. He had filled so many tanks before and since. But in the matter of the clock he was definite. It kept, and always had kept, perfect time, and it had never stopped or been out of order since it was first installed. If his clock had pointed to 10.20, then 10.20 was the time, and he would testify as much in any court in the kingdom. He could not remember having seen the car with the registered number WOE 1313, but there was no reason why he should, since it had not come in for attention. Motorists who wanted to do a spot of inspection often pulled up near his garage, in case they should find some trouble that needed expert assistance, but such incidents were so usual that he would pay no heed to them, especially on a busy morning.

Miss Queek, however, felt quite certain. She recognised the man, the garage and the clock. As a further precaution, the party went on as far as Ditchley, but, though the roadside was peppered the whole way with garages, there was no other exactly corresponding to the description. Either they were the wrong colour, or built of the wrong materials, or they had no clock.

‘Well,’ said the inspector, rather ruefully, ‘unless we can prove collusion (which doesn’t seem likely, seeing the kind of woman she is), that washes that out. That garage where she saw Barton is eighteen miles from Pinchbeck’s cottage, and since we know the old man was alive at 10.15, Barton can’t have killed him—not unless he was averaging 200 miles an hour or so, which can’t be done yet awhile. Well, we’ve got to start all over again.’

‘It looks a bit awkward for me,’ said Monty pleasantly.

‘I don’t know about that. There’s the voices that baker fellow heard in the kitchen. I know that couldn’t have been you, because I’ve checked up your times.’ Mr Ramage grinned. ‘Perhaps the rest of the money may turn up somewhere. It’s all in the day’s work. We’d better be getting back again.’

Monty drove the first eighteen miles in thoughtful silence. They had just passed the garage with the clock (at which the inspector shook a mortified fist in passing), when Mr Egg uttered an exclamation and pulled up.

‘Hullo!’ said the inspector.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Monty. He pulled out a pocket-diary and consulted it. ‘Yes—I thought so. I’ve discovered a coincidence. Let’s check up on it. Do you mind? “Don’t trust to luck, but be exact and certify the smallest fact.” ’ He replaced the diary and drove on, overhauling the police car. In process of time they came to the garage which had first attracted their attention—the one which conformed to specification, except in the particular that it displayed no clock. Here he stopped, and the police car, following in their tracks, stopped also.

The proprietor emerged expectantly, and the first thing that struck one about him was his resemblance to the man they had interviewed at the other garage. Monty commented politely on the fact.

‘Quite right,’ said the man. ‘He’s my brother.’

‘Your garages are alike, too,’ said Monty.

‘Bought off the same firm,’ said the man. ‘Supplied in parts. Mass-production. Readily erected overnight by any handy man.’

‘That’s the stuff,’ said Mr Egg approvingly. ‘Standardisation means immense saving in labour, time, expense. You haven’t got a clock, though.’

‘Not yet. I’ve got one on order.’

‘Never had one?’

‘Never.’

‘Ever seen this lady before?’

The man looked Miss Queek carefully over from head to foot. ‘Yes, I fancy I have. Came in one morning for petrol, didn’t you, miss? Saturday fortnight or thereabouts. I’ve a good memory for faces.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘Ten to eleven, or a few minutes after. I remember I was just boiling up a kettle for my elevenses. I generally take a cup of tea about then.’

‘Ten-fifty,’ said the inspector eagerly. ‘And this is—’ he made a rapid calculation—‘just on twenty-two miles from the cottage. Say half an hour from the time of the murder. Forty-four miles an hour—he could do that on his head in a fast sports car.’

‘Yes, but—’ interrupted the solicitor.

‘Just a minute,’ said Monty. ‘Didn’t you,’ he went on, addressing the proprietor, ‘once have one of those clock-faces with movable hands to show lighting-up time?’

‘Yes, I did. I’ve still got it, as a matter of fact. It used to hang over the door. But I took it down last Sunday. People found it rather a nuisance; they were always mistaking it for a real clock.’

‘And lighting-up time on June 18th,’ said Monty softly, ‘was 10.20, according to my diary.’

‘Well, there,’ said Inspector Ramage, smiting his thigh. ‘Now, that’s really clever of you, Mr Egg.’

‘A brain-wave, a brain-wave,’ admitted Monty. ‘ “The salesman who will use his brains will spare himself a world of pains”—or so the Handbook says.’