Trial and Error Page 16

  “You’ve thought it well over?” persisted the chief inspector.

  “I’ve been thinking it over all the way between Tokyo and London,” riposted Mr Todhunter quite tartly,

  “It’s a serious thing, you know, accusing yourself of murder,” pointed out the chief inspector in the kindliest way.

  “Of course it’s a serious thing,” positively snapped Mr Todhunter. “So is murder itself. So is arresting the wrong man.”

  “Very well, sir.” Almost resignedly, as it seemed to the astonished Mr Todhunter, the chief inspector pulled a pad towards him and prepared to take notes. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  “Oughtn’t my statement to be taken down properly, for me to sign?” Mr Todhunter asked, remembering the textbooks.

  “You just tell me about it first. Then if necessary we can put it down in statement form afterwards,” suggested the chief inspector, as one humouring a child.

  Somewhat haltingly Mr Todhunter began his story. It must be admitted that he told it badly, and that was only partly because he found it so difficult to tell at all. The necessity of leaving Farroway, and the whole Farroway family, out of the account was an added stumbling block.

  “I see,” said the chief inspector when Mr Todhunter had brought his tale to a diffident and somewhat lame close. So far as Mr Todhunter could judge, the chief inspector did not appear to have made a single note. “I see. And why did you determine to shoot Miss Norwood, sir? That wasn’t quite clear to me.”

  “Jealousy,” explained Mr Todhunter unhappily. Even to himself it did not sound altogether convincing. “I could not bear to—um—share her with others.”

  “Quite so. But had the question of sharing ever arisen? So far as I can make out, sir, you’d only met the lady once or twice. Had you on either of those occasions been—h’m—admitted to her favours?” queried the chief inspector delicately.

  “Er—no. That is, not exactly. But. . .”

  “You hoped, eh?”

  “Quite so,” agreed Mr Todhunter gratefully. “I hoped.”

  If the chief inspector thought privately that Mr Todhunter looked like anything in the world rather than an eager lover, or ever could look like one, he forebore to mention it.

  “Then the actual question of sharing had never arisen, in point of fact, because you had never had a share, so to speak, yourself?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you say you killed her before you could obtain the share? You killed her, in fact, while you were still hoping?”

  “Well, if you put it like that,” said Mr Todhunter doubtfully.

  “I’m not putting it any way. I’m only repeating what you said, sir.”

  “We had a quarrel,” said Mr Todhunter miserably. “A—um—a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “Ah! A bit passionate, was it?”

  “Very passionate.”

  “Shouted at each other and all that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And what time was that, sir?”

  “I should think,” said Mr Todhunter cautiously, “about a quarter to nine.”

  “And you shot her in the middle of the quarrel?”

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t run up to the house or get away from you or anything like that?”

  “No.” said Mr Todhunter, puzzled. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you’d have noticed if she had, wouldn’t

  “Certainly I should.”

  “Then how do you account for the fact that she spoke to her maid, in the house, at nine o’clock, sir? According to your version she was dead by then.”

  “I’m not giving you a Version,’ ” said Mr Todhunter angrily. “I’m telling you the truth. I may be mistaken over a matter of a quarter of an hour or so; that’s of no importance. You can surely realise from what I’m able to tell you that in the main fact I’m right. For instance, I can give you an exact description of the scene as it was when I left it. Miss Norwood was lying . . .” Mr Todhunter gave as graphic a description as he could manage. “And there were two glasses on the table,” he added triumphantly. “I wiped the prints off one but not the other.”

  “Why not the other?” awkwardly demanded the chief inspector.

  “Because I lost my head,” confessed Mr Todhunter. “I thought I heard a noise and escaped as quickly as I could. But the fact that I know that one of the glasses was wiped and the other not proves that I must have been there.” For by this time Mr Todhunter had been compelled to realise that this idiot of a chief inspector was receiving his story with the greatest scepticism.

  “Yes. No doubt.” The chief inspector began to balance his pencil across one stubby finger in a way extremely irritating to Mr Todhunter. “Ever read the newspaper, Mr Todhunter?” he asked suddenly with great airiness.

  “No. That is, yes. In the ordinary way. But not about this case.”

  “Why not about this case?”

  “It was painful to me,” Mr Todhunter said with dignity. “Having shot the woman I—um—loved, I had no wish to see the sensation that the Press was making of it. . . . Why?” asked Mr Todhunter in sudden alarm. “Was that information about the two glasses reported in the papers?”

  The chief inspector nodded. “It was, sir. And so was everything else that you’ve told me. Every single thing.”

  “But I did it!” cried Mr Todhunter in high agitation. “Damn it all, I shot the woman. There must be some way I can prove it. Ask me questions. Ask me about some of the details that didn’t get into the papers.”

  “Very well, sir.” The chief inspector, stifling a yawn, proceeded to question Mr Todhunter about the exact situation of the barn in relation to the house, about a summerhouse that apparently stood somewhere near the barn and about similar topographical details.

  Mr Todhunter, unable to answer, explained feverishly that he had only seen the place by night.

  The chief inspector nodded and went on to ask him what he had done with the revolver after the shooting.

  “It’s in a drawer in—” Mr Todhunter clapped a hand to his forehead. “Ha! I can prove it!” he crowed. “Gracious me, I’m taking leave of my senses. Of course I can prove it. If you’ll come back with me to Richmond, Chief Inspector, I can lay before you incontrovertible evidence, tangible evidence, of the truth of what I’m telling you. I have there a diamond bracelet which I actually took off Miss Norwood’s wrist after she was—um—dead.”

  For the first time the chief inspector showed real interest. “A bracelet? Describe it if you please, sir.”

  Mr Todhunter did so.

  The chief inspector nodded. “The bracelet that was reported as missing. And you say that it’s in your possession?”

  “I didn’t know it was reported as missing, but it’s certainly in my possession now.”

  The chief inspector pressed a button on his desk. “I’ll send a sergeant back to Richmond with you. If what you say is true, sir, we shall have to go into all this seriously.”

  “What I say is true,” returned Mr Todhunter with dignity, “and I should advise you very earnestly to take it seriously. You have an innocent man in prison. If you put him on trial, it will be a fiasco, in view of what I have to tell.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” returned the chief inspector equably. “But we’ll look after that, Mr Todhunter.”

  To the sergeant, when he arrived a few moments later, the chief inspector gave his instructions; and, Mr Todhunter having been consigned to the newcomer’s care, the two made their way downstairs. To Mr Todhunter’s gratification, they entered a police car.

  “I suppose I’m under arrest?” suggested Mr Todhunter, not without complacence, as the car pushed a cautious nose out into the traffic of Whitehall.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” replied the sergeant, a taciturn person with the air of a drill sergeant.

  It appeared that he would not say very much else, either, and the journey to Richmond was accomplished in almost complete silence, Mr Todhunte
r being filled with a strange mixture of elation and apprehension, and the sergeant wearing an expression like a stuffed sea lion, which might or might not have covered a complexity of emotions.

  Mr Todhunter let himself into the house with his own key and, motioning to his companion to tread softly, led the way upstairs. The police car waited outside, presumably to conduct Mr Todhunter to prison. He wondered in a vague way whether he would have to walk out of the house between the sergeant and the plain-clothes driver, and if they would put gyves upon his wrists.

  Selecting the right key with due deliberation, Mr Todhunter pulled open the drawer. There, in its nest under the handkerchiefs, was the revolver. Mr Todhunter pulled it out and handed it to the sergeant.

  The sergeant broke it open and squinted down the barrel with an expert eye. “This gun’s clean, sir.”

  “Well, I cleaned it of course,” Mr Todhunter said testily, rummaging in the drawer.

  “I mean, it’s never been fired.”

  Mr Todhunter turned round and stared at him. “Never been .. . but it has.”

  “This gun’s never been fired, sir,” repeated the sergeant stolidly.

  “But . . .” A light broke on Mr Todhunter. “Bless my soul,” he muttered. “Bless my soul!” He hesitated. “Er—are you at liberty to tell me this, Sergeant? Was a gun found in the possession of Mr Vincent Palmer?”

  “It was, sir.”

  “And had that gun been recently fired? Please tell me. It’s exceedingly important.”

  “Evidence was given before the magistrates that the gun in Mr Palmer’s possession had been recently fired,” replied the sergeant without emotion.

  “Yes, and that was my gun,” cried Mr Todhunter desperately. “I exchanged it surreptitiously for Mr Palmer’s, the morning after. I—er—I was trying to get rid of the evidence, you see. I never thought he would be seriously suspected. It—it was culpable of me—criminally culpable. But that’s what I did.”

  “Is that so, sir?”

  “I can prove it. There was a witness. Mrs Farroway was there at the time. It was in Miss Farroway’s . . .” Mr Todhunter’s voice died away. The sergeant, that grim man, was actually smiling.

  “Well, anyhow, what about that bracelet, sir?” smiled the sergeant.

  “The bracelet, yes. Well there’s no getting round that, at any rate,” said Mr Todhunter almost defiantly and turned back to the drawer.

  Two minutes later the contents of the drawer were on the floor. Three minutes after that the contents of all the other drawers had joined them there.

  Finally Mr Todhunter could keep up the pretence of searching no longer.

  “It’s gone,” he announced hopelessly. “I can’t understand it. It—it must have been stolen.”

  “Gone, eh?” said the sergeant. “Well, and I must be going too. Good afternoon, sir.”

  “But I had it,” cried Mr Todhunter shrilly. “It’s preposterous. I shot the woman. You must arrest me.”

  “Yes sir,” said the sergeant with remarkable stolidity. “But I don’t think we’ll arrest you just yet awhile. In fact, if I were you, sir, I wouldn’t think any more about it.”

  One minute later Mr Todhunter, watching miserably from a window, saw the sergeant rejoin the driver of the police car. He also saw him touch his forehead significantly and jerk a thumb back towards the house. The sergeant’s opinion was only too painfully obvious.

  2

  Ten minutes after the fiasco Mr Todhunter was ringing up his solicitor.

  “The document you left with me?” said the latter, his voice a little surprised at the curtness with which Mr Todhunter cut short his greetings, but dry and efficient as ever. “Yes, of course I remember it. I have it still, yes. . . . You want me to do what?”

  “I want you to take it round to Scotland Yard this minute,” repeated Mr Todhunter loudly. “This minute, you understand. Ask for some high official—you’ll know someone. Explain how the document came into your hands, and the precise date. If necessary take along a clerk to confirm it. Make the chap read it in your presence. Go though it with him if you like. And then please come along here to me.”

  “What is all this about, Todhunter?”

  “Never mind what it’s about,” snapped Mr Todhunter. “Those are your instructions. It’s a matter of vital urgency and importance, that’s all I can tell you. Will you do it?”

  “Very well,” agreed the solicitor imperturbably. “No doubt you know what you’re doing. Then I’ll be at Richmond as soon as I can. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said Mr Todhunter.

  He hung up the receiver with relief. Benson was a sound chap. Benson could be relied on. If anyone could drum sense into the heads of those idiots, Benson could.

  He sat down to await Benson’s arrival.

  It was nearly three hours before Benson came, neat and irreproachable in correct black coat and striped trousers. Mr Benson, senior partner in Benson, Whittaker, Doublebed and Benson, was the very model and pattern of a family solicitor.

  “Well?” said Mr Todhunter eagerly.

  With the privilege of a family solicitor, Mr Benson proceeded to speak his mind. He looked Mr Todhunter up, and he looked Mr Todhunter down, and he spoke.

  “You’re mad, Todhunter,” said Mr Benson.

  “I’m not mad,” shouted Mr Todhunter. “I shot the woman.”

  Mr Benson shook his head and sat down without an invitation. “We’d better discuss this matter,” he said, superimposing with some care one creased trouser leg upon the other.

  “We certainly had,” agreed Mr Todhunter savagely. “Whom did you see?”

  “I saw Chief Constable Buckleigh, whom I happen to know slightly. I’m sorry now that I did. I assure you, if I’d known the contents of your precious document, I would never have gone there with it at all.”

  “You wouldn’t?” sneered Mr Todhunter. “You think it of no importance to ensure justice being done?”

  “On the contrary, I do, my dear fellow. And that’s why I’m going to prevent you from doing anything foolish. I understand that you’ve been at Scotland Yard yourself this afternoon, trying to get yourself arrested. It’s a pity you didn’t consult me first.”

  With a great effort Mr Todhunter held himself under control. “You showed the man my statement?”

  “I did, certainly. Those were your instructions.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He laughed. He’d heard about your visit already.”

  “It didn’t convince him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Nor you?”

  “My dear Todhunter, you mustn’t believe me so simple.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mr Benson smiled, a not uncomplacent smile. “You must remember that I drew up your new will before you sailed. I know of your interest in that particular family, I know that you expected to die very shortly, I know your quixotic nature and—”

  “My nature isn’t quixotic,” interrupted Mr Todhunter loudly and rudely.

  Mr Benson shrugged his shoulders.

  “Look here,” said Mr Todhunter more temperately, “do you honestly believe I faked the whole thing?”

  “I’m quite sure you did,” replied Mr Benson with a little smile. “As to that document, it is of course valueless. I read it carefully. It contains no information that you could not have got out of the newspapers and not a tittle of evidence. You assert that you have the dead woman’s bracelet, but you can’t produce even that.”

  “Never mind the bracelet. That’ll turn up. . . . Benson, whatever you may think, I’m speaking the truth. I admit I can’t prove it, but I shot that woman.”

  Mr Benson slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Todhunter. . . .”

  “You won’t believe me?”

  “I know you too well. I wouldn’t believe you if you produced almost incontrovertible evidence. You couldn’t shoot anyone, let alone a woman. So. . .”

  “Well, I’m going to prove it,
” said Mr Todhunter violently. “If I don’t, that chap Palmer is going on trial for a crime he never committed. I’ve got to convince the police—and you’ve got to help me.”

  Mr Benson shook his head again. “I’m sorry, I can’t act for you in this.” “What do you mean?”

  “What I say. I can’t act for you. If you mean to go ahead with such a harebrained idea, you must obtain other advice.”

  “Very well,” replied Mr Todhunter with dignity. “Then that’s all there is to be said.” He rose.

  Mr Benson rose too. By the door he paused.

  “I’m sorry, Todhunter. . . .”

  “I hope you’ll be sorrier still if an innocent man is hanged,” said Mr Todhunter grimly.

  3

  Mr Todhunter sat alone in his library.

  The two elderly cousins had gone to bed with much shaking of their frizzed old heads and wonderings whether the voyage had done dear Lawrence much good after all, he seemed so preoccupied and worried; and at last Mr Todhunter had the place to himself. His head looking rather like an ancient and time-stained ostrich egg as it poked forward on his shoulders, he set himself to consider the situation.

  Mr Todhunter was, indeed, very much upset. He knew of course what the trouble was. His reading had shown him that after any particularly notorious crime has been committed the police are much bothered by unbalanced persons coming along and trying to confess to it. They had simply mistaken him for one of these lunatics. It was really excessively galling.

  From the point of view of young Palmer it was tragic. He was innocent. It was almost inconceivable that he could be convicted. And yet . . . the police must have some kind of evidence, or they would never have arrested him. What could that evidence be?

  Mr Todhunter’s mind wavered helplessly from the mythical case against young Palmer to the actual case against himself, and his shockingly bad presentation of the latter. Had it been a mistake to pretend jealousy as the motive for the crime? But what else could he pretend? It was, perhaps, not vitally important to keep Farroway out of it, especially since the Farroway connection must now be known to the police; but the real motive was hopeless to put forward. Mr Todhunter knew, for every criminological volume he had read had told him so, that the police had no imagination. He had therefore decided long ago that to tell them the truth about the motive which had actuated him would be useless. They would never understand. They would never believe that a man would commit an absolutely academic, altruistic murder on behalf of a man and his family whom he scarcely knew at all. There was no getting away from it; put like that, the thing sounded fantastic. And yet it had not seemed at all fantastic in its gradual development.