Case for Sergeant Beef, Chapter Ten

Case for Sergeant Beef

CHAPTER TEN

   

FLIPP WAS NOT AT HOME

But Beef was up and busy early next morning as is his infuriating habit.  He will let everything wait overnight while he plays his eternal darts and drinks his beer, then expect me to start the day’s work with all the cheerfulness and enthusiasm of a young boy.

“Come on,” he said, while I was still sitting at the breakfast table.  “We’ve got to go and see Miss Shoulter.”

I rose unwillingly and we started off for Deadman’s Wood.  We had learnt from willing informants in the bar on the previous evening, informants whom Beef had tried to impress with talk of “private investigations”, that we could reach her bungalow by the fatal footpath, passing first “Labour’s End”, the home of the retired watchmaker with the absurd name, and then the spot where the crime had actually been committed.

On our way through the village we met Inspector Chatto who gave us a friendly greeting.

“On the job, eh?”

“Ah,” said Beef.  “There was one point I wanted to ask you about.  Those footprints.  You said they were Miss Shoulter’s.  What made you so sure?  Was there something special about them which corresponded to a pair of her shoes?”

Chatto laughed outright.

“Wait till you see her feet!” he said.  “Couldn’t mistake ’em.  I doubt if there’s another woman in the county who takes that size.”

“Large, are they?”

“Large?  You’ve never seen such plates of meat in your life.  The footprints were hers, all right.  Rubber soles which she always wears, I understand, and an outsize.  But women’s shoes with semi-high heels.”

“I’ve got you,” said Beef, and we walked on.

We passed “Labour’s End” and noticed an old gentleman at work in his garden.

“That must be Wellington Chickle,” I whispered.

“We’ll see him later,” promised Beef.  “It’s Miss Shoulter I want to talk to now.”

We were stopped again by our arrival at what Beef called “the Spot”.  It was a pleasant place.  It seemed a pity that it should have been denied by a brutal crime.  It was a clearing about twelve or fifteen yards wide, and the path ran right across it.  To our left as we walked was a fallen tree, about six yards back from the path on the verge of the wood itself.  It was behind this that the corpse had been found.

There was nothing to see here now, as Beef himself admitted, for it was nearly a week since the murder, and dozens of people had tramped about since then.  There were some scratches about six feet from the ground in the bark of a tree to our right which had been marked with chalk, and Beef decided these had been caused originally by shot and examined by experts.

“They can tell the distance from them,” he remarked.  And when he had gazed long at the wood about us he added that anyone could have approached the spot without using the path, and left no footprints at all.

We stood there in silence for a long time, and I wondered whether Beef was expecting a flash of inspiration to descend on him and reveal the murderer’s identity.  I asked him as much.

“No.  Just thinking,” he said, and we walked on.

Miss Shoulter greeted us from her kennels in her ringing voice.

“Hullo!” she shouted, and when she had joined us at the gate, added, I’m glad you’ve come.  The damn fools think it’s me now.”

Beef took this very seriously.

“Inspector Chatto’s no fool,” he said.  “And what makes you think he suspects you?”

“Tell it a mile off,” said Miss Shoulter, slapping her jodhpurs with a stick.  “Keeps asking me what I was doing in the wood that day.  Never went near the place.”

“Do you think there is somewhere we could go to talk a little more discreetly?” I asked, hoping she might take the hint and lower her voice.

“Not a soul here except Ribbon and he’s all right.  My kennel-boy, you know.  Came on the body on his way to church.”

“Yes, but others might be within earshot,” I said, lowering my own voice as an example to her.  I was thinking privately that earshot was a wide term when it referred to Miss Shoulter’s vocal powers.

“Come in then,” she invited.  “No one in the house.  Haven’t got any servants.”

“Expensive, aren’t they?” suggested Beef.

“It’s not that so much.  Between you and me I could have afforded a good many things I did without.  It was that brother of mine.  I had to pretend to be broke or he’d have had it out of me.  He couldn’t keep money, poor chap. . . .”

“We’ll come to that in a minute,” said Beef.  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you first.  I understand that you engaged me because the police thought your brother’s death was suicide and you wanted this disproved.  Well, I am breaking no confidence when I tell you that the police are now convinced that it was not suicide, and that at the inquest today there will probably be a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown.  So perhaps you’ll no longer require my services.”

“Good Lord, yes,” said Miss Shoulter.  “I tell you the fools think I did it.  I don’t want to face a murder charge.  You’d better keep going and find out who did do it.”

Beef coughed.

“In that case you understand that what I shall be looking for is the truth.  I could not undertake a case with any special axe to grind.”

Miss Shoulter laughed.

That’s all blah,” she said.  “I’ve read that stuff in detective novels.  You know perfectly well I didn’t do it.”

“You’ll forgive my pointing out that we know nothing of the sort,” I put in.  “Of course we don’t think you did it.  But what Sergeant Beef wants to say is that he will bring to book whoever murdered your brother.”

“That’s all right,” said Miss Shoulter.  “Now ask what questions you like.”

“There are rather a lot, I’m afraid,” said Beef.  “First of all about the footprints—”

“Footprints?”

“Perhaps I oughtn’t to have mentioned that.  But the police found footprints near the place where the body was found which corresponded to your own.”

Miss Shoulter stared.

“Must have been old ones,” she said.

“It rained the night before.”

“Can’t have been mine then.  Yet I should have thought my feet were pretty unmistakable.  I have to have my shoes made specially.”

“Exactly,” I murmured.

“But I didn’t go down the wretched path.  Dammit, I’d tell you if I did.”

Beef spoke slowly.

“In that case there’s only one possible explanation and it makes this crime look uglier than ever.  Have you ever missed a pair of shoes?”

“No.  Can’t say I have.”

“Perhaps you’d just go and check on what you’ve got.”

“That’s easy.  I’ve only got three pairs.”

She left us.

“Do you think she’s lying?”

“No,” said Beef.  “She’s speaking the truth.”

She was soon back.

“None missing,” she said.

“Think back carefully, now.  Over the last year, say.”

“Tell you what,” she said at last.  I sent a pair to the Jumble Sale a few months ago.  Pretty well done for, they were.  I wondered who could possibly want them.”

“They were sold?”

“I suppose so.  You’d better see Eva Packham about that.  She had the old clothes stall.  She’s the curate’s sister.”

“I will,” said Beef, and made one of his laborious notes.

“Do you think that someone wore them—to incriminate me?” asked Miss Shoulter.

“We shall see,” said Beef severely.  “Now about this brother of yours.”

Her breezy manner dropped for a moment.  I was watching her closely, and I could understand what Chatto had meant when he said that he believed she was quite fond of the wretched man.

“He was what you call a bad hat,” she said.  “No doubt of that.  Mother and Father spoilt him as a child.  And I’ve never been able to do much with him.  He was two years older than me and very self-willed.  He got through the money they left him in about five years, then started looking round for more.  It never seemed to occur to him to work for it.  I used to beg him to get a job.  But he never did.  I’m afraid he lived on women quite a bit when he was younger.  He had studied chemistry and once tried to run a chemist’s shop.  Then he scrounged a living out of racing.  He’s never actually been to jail.  But he was the type you read about in novels by Mrs. Henry Wood.  Drink and the devil, you know.  Of course I was his sister, and that makes a difference.”

It was queer to see this noisy, hearty woman as she spoke of her brother.  I was convinced that she was quite sincere.

“I tried, often enough.  But for the last few years I’ve—well, I’ve tried to protect myself a bit.  I told him I had no money left.  I’d find him a pound or two when he came down.  But then he’d go to the local pubs and make a fool of himself.  Quarrel, you know.”

“Who with?' asked Beef.  I’ve given up trying to correct his grammar.

Miss Shoulter paused.

“No one in particular,” she said.  “He just got quarrelsome.  Anyone who argued with him.”

“You never heard of any particular quarrel?”

“No.”

“So he had no enemies down here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Who did he know in Barnford?”

“Just the men he met at the Crown or the Feathers.  And the Flipps, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“He’d known Flipp in London.  There was some sort of business between them.  I never knew that.  It was through Ron that the Flipps came to live here at the beginning of the war.  He told them about “Woodlands” being vacant.  And whenever he was down here he went up to see Flipp.”

“They were friendly?”

“Yes.  So far as I know.  It’s rather odd now I come to think of it, but I don’t think I ever saw them together.”

“Who was aware that your brother was coming down for Christmas?”

“Pretty well everyone.  He’d been down only three weeks before.  He told several people then that he was going to spend his Christmas with me.  And I probably told others.”

“I see.  When he came down how did he usually come from the station?”

“He’d leave his bag for the bus to bring and walk up.  Take the footpath through the wood.”

“He always did that?”

“Yes.  It saves over a mile.”

“So that almost anyone living round here would know that some time or other after the arrival of the London train he would be walking along that footpath?”

“Yes, but they wouldn’t have much idea of when.  My brother usually stopped in the village for a drink and might easily not come here till they slung him out at ten o’clock.”

“Ah!  Now about the gun.”

“Can’t be much use over that, I’m afraid.  Haven’t the remotest when it went.  I’m pretty careless about things, and there’s nothing in this bungalow worth pinching except the dogs.  I never noticed it had gone till a week before Christmas.”

“Do you think your brother might have taken it when he was last here?”

“Possible.  But I shouldn’t think so.”

“Who knew what cartridges you used?”

“Warlock’s, I suppose.  And I tell you who else knew that,” she said, smiling.  “Little Mr. Chickle.  He’s a dear little man who’s just come to live at ‘Labour’s End’.  He was asking me about a fortnight ago where he could get some cartridges and I told him that his only hope was Warlock’s and that they supplied ‘Fesantsure’ to all of us.”

“Do you know him well?' asked Beef with a monstrous affection of casualness.

“Little Chickle?  He’s in and out of the house all day.”

“He does a bit of shooting, too?”

“Well, he does.  But I don’t honestly think he likes it.  I think he sees himself as a country gentleman walking about with a gun.  Poor little chap kept a watchmaker’s shop for thirty years and has just retired.  Pathetic, really.  He told me the first time I saw him that he didn’t shoot.  He couldn’t bear to cause suffering to a living creature.  Then later he started this potting at rabbits.”

“I see.  Now about these shots.”

“I can tell you exactly what I heard.  I’ve gone over it so many times with the police that I should know by now.  I heard two shots in quick succession somewhere between three and half-past, and two more just like them about an hour later.  That’s all.”

“Where were you round about six?”

“Here.  Why?”

“Didn’t hear anything then?”

“No.  I had the wireless on softly though.”

“You went to Copling in the afternoon?”

“Just to post a letter.”

“Who to?”

“My bank in Ashley.”

Ask them if they’ve kept the envelope.  Might have in these days of paper-saving.  The envelope would be handy.”

“I will.”

“Then I think that’s all.”

“There’s one thing I ought to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“It’s about Flipp.  Very odd.  When I was on my way to Copling a little before four o'clock I went to call on Flipp.  I wanted to borrow something.  And he wasn’t in his house.  I shouldn’t have thought anything about it only he told the inspector that he’d never been out.  I know he wasn’t there.  I went right in and called him and looked in the rooms.  It was all open to the world—we leave our houses like that round here.  And he wasn’t in.”

“That’s interesting,” said Beef.  “That is interesting.  Now I’d just like a word with your kennel-boy.”

“Certainly.  You’ll find him down at the kennels.  And for goodness’ sake find out who did do it,” said Miss Shoulter as she shewed us out.  “I hate all this suspicion about the place.”

“I will,” promised Beef.  “It may take time, but I will.”

“Good man!” shouted Miss Shoulter heartily.

❦

Case for Sergeant Beef, Chapter Nine

Case for Sergeant Beef

CHAPTER NINE

   

POLICE CONFIDENCES

“What you want to know, of course,” began Inspector Chatto, “is what makes us think it was murder.  That’s simple enough.  The corpse was found with a length of red tape round his foot which was attached to the trigger of the gun.  The inference being that he held the gun in an upright position, leaned over it and fired it with his foot.  His head in that case could not have been more than eighteen inches at the most away from the gun.  Now, if you care to read the medical evidence and the report of the ballistics expert you will find that in point of fact the gun was at least four yards, possibly more, from Shoulter when it was fired.”

Beef nodded knowingly.

“That makes it murder,” he said.  “That’s good.  I do hate suicide.  Nasty panicky little crime.  What else did the experts have to say?”

“Not a great deal.  The doctor did not see the body until early on Christmas morning.  He could not say more than that the man had been dead for anything from nine to sixteen hours, that is to say that Shoulter was killed between one p.m. and eight o’clock on Christmas Eve.”

“Not very helpful.”

“The bullet man was better.  You can be pretty accurate when it’s a shot-gun.  The spread of the shot and so on.  He believes that Shoulter was coming up the path, that is to say walking from Barnford towards Copling.  That would be his quickest way from Barnford to his sister’s bungalow.  The man who shot him was hidden on the wood side of a little clearing beside the path.  You can see the place.  There’s a fallen tree there which would make excellent cover.  When Shoulter was about level with the murderer he probably looked towards him, because he got both barrels in his face.  His distance in that case would be just four yards.  Then the murderer must have rigged the thing to look like suicide.  He had some red tape in his pocket and tied it round the barrel and made a loop for the man’s foot.  Then he dragged the corpse across the clearing and dumped it behind the tree.  There was evidence of the body being dragged across the wet, sticky ground.”

“Did you see that yourself?” asked Beef.

“Yes.  Constable Watts-Dunton here had the sense to get me out at once, though it was Christmas Day.  When I came to have a look at the place I found everything untouched since the crime, except just for the footprints of young Jack Ribbon who found the body at eleven-thirty on Christmas Eve.  It was very useful.  There was no doubt about the body having been dragged across the clearing, though very determined efforts had been made to destroy the marks of dragging.”

“Footprints, you said,” prompted Beef.

“Yes.  They were interesting.  There were the dead man’s coming from Barnford and stopping short on the footpath about half-way across the clearing.  There were Jack Ribbon’s coming from Barnford and turning off to go to the tree on which he sat down for a smoke that night before he found the corpse.  And the only other ones were—guess!”

“Joe Bridge’s,” I said at once, remembering how astutely I had already secured his name as a suspect.

Chatto positively goggled at me.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“Never mind Mr. Townsend,” said Beef rudely.  “He’d say anything.”

“I’m interested,” the inspector told him.  “We have heard about this young Joe Bridge.  Had a row with Shoulter, didn’t he?  Know any more?”

I had to admit that at present I did not know any more.

“Well, there were some of Bridge’s.  But it looked as though he had simply walked down the path from Copling.  There were some more interesting ones than that.  The footprints we particularly noticed were those of Miss Shoulter, the dead man’s sister.  And your client,” he added with a rather malicious smile.

“Were they new?” said Beef.  “When had it rained last?”

“Night of the twenty-third – twenty-fourth,” said Chatto.  “These had all been made on Christmas Eve.  Of course,” he conceded as though he wanted to be kind.  “Of course the clearing could have been approached by other ways which would have left no footprints at all.  You could come up between the trees and if you were careful and avoided patches of mud you wouldn’t need to leave a mark.”

“I see.  Now what about this Shoulter?”

“The dope on him is coming in every day.  Masses of it.  No good at all.  Goes in for professional punting and has been mixed up with some pretty shady lots on the racecourse.  Started as a chemist.  Was bookie’s clerk for a time.  A drunk and a sponger.  He was a parents’ darling as a child and when the old people died went rotten.  Ran through what they left him and did his best to get the little bit left to his sister.  One report says that he’s not above blackmail.  No loss, and anybody’s victim.”

“How long had he been in Barnford?”

“Arrived that morning from London on a train that gets in at two-fifty.  Too late for a drink, but went to the back door of the Feathers and asked the landlord, a man named Brown, if he could have one.  Brown says he refused and that Shoulter walked off at once.  But of course we can’t be sure about that.  He may have sat there drinking all the afternoon.  We only know for certain that he came off the train at two-fifty.  No one except Brown admits to having seen him alive again.”

“I see,” said Beef.  “That’s all very clear and interesting.”

“There’s a lot more stuff,” said Chatto.

“Yes.  I was just going to ask about the gun.”

“Your client’s again,” smiled Chatto.  “But she did report to the police about seven days before the crime that she had lost it.  Taken from her front hall.  Says she had no idea when it went.  The last time she had seen it to her knowledge was when her brother had been down a month ago.  He had taken it out one afternoon to try and get a rabbit.  She can’t be sure that he put it back in its usual place in the hall.  She only knows that about a week before Christmas she noticed that it wasn’t there.  She asked young Ribbon and he said that he hadn’t seen it for some days.  The last time he positively remembers seeing it was when she told him to clean it once in October.  He put it back after that.”

“What about cartridges?”

“Potter’s Fesantsure were in the gun,” said Chatto.  “The local firm, Warlock’s of Ashley, say that they supplied these to most of the people round here who had licences.  That includes Miss Shoulter, a man named Flipp who lives in the wood, a retired watchmaker named Chickle who lives at a bungalow called ‘Labour’s End’ at the Barnford end of the footpath through the wood, a solicitor named Aston with an office in Ashley and a bungalow at Copling, and your friend Joe Bridge.”

“Any interesting fingerprints?”

“None.  The gun had been wiped dry and then gripped by the dead man, presumably after death by someone holding his hand round the barrel.  None on anything else that we’ve found.  Gloves, of course.”

“Any idea when the shots were fired?”

“Pretty contradictory.  Both Flipp and a woman named Mrs. Pluck who is housekeeper to Chickle, whose first name, by the way, is Wellington—”

“Wellington?” shouted Beef.

“Wellington.  After the Iron Duke.”

“Blimey, you haven’t half got some names round here.” And he gave a rude stare at Watts-Dunton.

“I was saying that Mrs. Pluck, Flipp, Chickle himself and Miss Shoulter say they heard a double shot at about twenty past three.  Mrs. Pluck, Miss Shoulter, and Flipp heard the same thing about an hour later, but Chickle says that was himself potting at a hare.  Then Chickle and Mrs. Pluck, but not Miss Shoulter or Flipp, heard another shot, which might have been two barrels fired simultaneously, at exactly six-five.  They’re sure about the time as Chickle was putting away his gardening things just then and called Mrs. Pluck’s attention to the fact that someone was poaching.”

Mm.  Now what I’d like to know is this.  Suppose Shoulter was shot with the gun he was holding, is there anything to make us certain of that?  Could he have been shot with one gun, then this one discharged and put by him by the murderer?”

“He could.  Nothing to prevent it.  But no reason to think so.  Why should the murderer use two guns?”

“I was wondering perhaps whether Shoulter borrowed his sister’s gun last time he was down and had it with him that afternoon.  She can’t swear to seeing it since he was in the house before.  The murder might have been done with another gun, then this one fired off in the air and used to fake the suicide.”

“Conceivable,” agreed Chatto.  “And it had occurred to me.  There’s nothing final against it, but two reasons why I don’t think it’s likely.  First the ticket-collector remembers seeing Shoulter when he got off the train but does not remember his having a gun.  He says he believes he had a golf bag, so I admit it could have been in that, but it doesn’t seem very likely.  However, I still have an open mind.  The second reason is that none of the double reports heard came near enough to one another.  I mean, if he was going to fake it to look like suicide he—or she—would surely attend to that at once.  There was nearly an hour between the first double report and the second, and an hour and a half between the second and third.”

“Of course,” said Beef slowly.  “If it was premeditated, and someone knew Shoulter would be coming off that train and walking up to his sister’s house, he could have fired the barrels of Miss Shoulter’s gun the day before in readiness.”

“True—though there are a lot of ifs.  And why would he do that?  Why not use the gun first for the murder, then leave it there for the faked suicide?”

“No reason.  I was just looking all round, if you know what I mean.  How about alibis?”

“Well, we haven’t touched on that much, as we haven’t got a suspect yet.  Of the people who lived round about, for what they’re worth, very few have an alibi for much of the time and none for all of the time.  Miss Shoulter went out on her bicycle at about four and says she went to Copling (which you can reach by road from her place).  She went to post a letter and can’t remember whom she may have met, if anyone.  Joe Bridge was with his cowman till about five, then drove off in his car.  He was in the Crown soon after opening-time, which is six o’clock around here.  Aston, the solicitor—”

“Why have you got him in?” asked Beef.

“Well, he has a gun, some Fesantsure cartridges, and he is a solicitor.”

“But that doesn’t make him a murderer, surely?  Though I dare say there’s many a solicitor must feel like murder with the silly things people come to them with.”

“No.  But it does mean that he might have had red tape in his pocket,” said Chatto, and left this to sink in.

“Yes,” said Beef after a moment.  “And who else?”

“Little Mr. Chickle left his house at three-thirty, and was back at ten to five.  His housekeeper’s a sort of walking alarm clock, and notices all his times of coming and going.  Then Mrs. Pluck went off to the pictures in Ashley at six-thirty and young Jack Ribbon finished work at four.  Flipp has no one to testify to his movements at all.  His wife’s away and he’d let their servants, two sisters from Ashley, go home for Christmas.  Says it was his only chance of keeping them for another month or two.  He says he was indoors all day.  Never left his house at all.  Of course you understand these are not our suspects.  They’re really the only people whose movements could seem of the least possible interest.  You may find some more whom we’ve not yet come on.”

“Who are your suspects?” asked Beef.

Chatto hesitated.

“Frankly,” he said at last, “we haven’t any.  Of course, Miss Shoulter’s footprints do take some explaining, and she’s not helpful She says that she never used the footpath that day.  The only time she went out was on her cycle.  Quite positive about it, she is.  A very downright woman.  But I don’t suspect her.  I cannot see what possible motive she could have had.  Shoulter had no money.  And she appears to have been quite fond of the wretched man.”

“Then the police,” I put in with a disarming smile, “are what the newspapers called baffled?”

“That’s about it,” said Chatto complacently.  “But I think we shall get at something from the other end, as it were.  When we’ve learnt all there is to learn about the dead man we shall know that someone here had a motive.  We shall start from there.  Motive’s the thing, every time.  You can’t go wrong if you find the motive.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Beef.  Only sometimes there’s a lot of motives, and a lot of people with them.”

“Yes, there is that,” admitted Chatto.

Beef stood up.

“Very grateful to you,” he said.  “And now I suppose I get to work.  But I’ve got no big ideas, Inspector.  In fact I’ve got only one idea at present, and it’s this.  I think we’re going to find this case a lot more difficult and a lot more interesting than it looks.  Anyway, I’ll come and see you again.  And if I should hit on anything I shan’t forget that you’ve let me in on this.”

Inspector Chatto gave us his ready little smile again.  But my ears burned when I thought what he must be saying to Constable Watts-Dunton about Beef when we had left the house.

Beef disgusted me further by turning back to the Crown.

“Quite enough for to-day,” he said.  “I want to think.  Besides, it’s opening time.”

❦

Case for Sergeant Beef, Chapter Eight

Case for Sergeant Beef

CHAPTER EIGHT

   

IT WAS MURDER

When Sergeant Beef and I arrived in Barnford it was New Year’s Eve, and the first rush of local excitement over the body found in Deadman’s Wood was beginning to subside.

We alighted at the station at about midday and Beef at once turned his mind to the question of our quarters.  I have noticed on previous occasions that until he is what he calls “fixed up” Beef will not begin to take any part in the investigations in hand.

“Which is the best pub?” he asked the ticket-collector.

“Depends what for,” the man said slowly.  “The beer’s best at the Feathers, but there’s some nice people keeping the Crown.  I should say the Feathers’ darts was better, but if you want a good warm fire in the bar the Crown’s the place.  When it comes to company . . .”

At last Beef cut this short.

“I want to put up for a few nights,” he said.

“Then you better try the Crown.  The Feathers don’t do anything of that.”

“How do I get there?”

“Follow this road till you come to Potter’s the butchers, then turn right.  It’s on your left.”

“Thanks,” said Beef, and picking up his suitcase marched off.

“May as well be comfortable,” he explained.  “A nice little case like this should be enjoyable if we get decent quarters.”

I made no comment, though I could have pointed out the discrepancy between a corpse in a wood and “enjoyment”.

We found the Crown and Beef made for the Public Bar.  Not until the beer in his pint glass had sunk by three or four inches did he approach the object for which we had presumably come to the inn.

“Do you go in for accommodation?” he asked the plump, middle-aged woman who had served us.

“That depends,” she said with a guarded look at Beef’s red face.

“I was wanting to put up for a few days,” explained Beef.

“Commercial?” asked the landlady.

“Certainly not.  I’m here to investigate the violent death of Mr. Ronald Shoulter.”

He spoke in his most impressive accents.  I could have kicked him for giving away our business.  “Scotland Yard?” asked the landlady with some animation.  Beef shook his head.

“Private,” he explained.  “Representing the sister of the deceased.  This gentleman”—for the first time I was included in Beef’s negotiations—“is Mr. Townsend, who writes up my cases.”

“Well!’ said the landlady.

“We could do with a couple of rooms,” Beef continued.  I did not blame the landlady for hesitating.  Beef being solemn and important was not an imposing sight.

“I don’t think we should give you much trouble,” I intervened with a smile.  The landlady still seemed dubious.

“I’ll ask my husband,” she said at last, and disappeared through a door behind the bar.

A few minutes later a little quick-spoken grey-haired sparrow of a man hurried in.

“Bristling’s my name,” he said.  “Pleased to meet you.  Detectives, eh?”

Beef cleared his throat.

“Private investigators,” he said.

“On this job in Deadman’s Wood, I hear.  Think it was murder?”

“I have not yet commenced inquiries,” said Beef loftily.

“I see.  Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t put you up.  Staying long?”

“Difficult to say,” said Beef.  “Very difficult to say.”

“Well, we’ll do what we can.  Mother!  Shew them the rooms.”

“I think we’ll have the other half first,” said Beef.  “What about you?”

When our glasses were refilled and Mr. Bristling had his, Beef clumsily led the conversation to the matter in hand.

“What’s thought about it in the village?” he asked.

“Well, we know the party.  The dead party, I mean.  As a matter of fact I had to ask him to leave here one night.  Caused trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Argument, leading to threats.  He was fond of his liquor, see, and didn’t know when to stop.  And when he’d had a few he got nasty.  Very nasty, sometimes.  That particular night he was arguing with Joe Bridge, a young farmer from Copling way.”

I became interested at once.  With any luck this Bridge would be a suspect.  I feel that in order to make Beef’s investigations interesting to the reader it is as well to have as many suspects as possible.

“Has he a gun?” I asked.

I could see that Beef did not like my quick-witted entry into the conversation.  And I don’t think that Mr. Bristling did, either.

“Yes, Joe’s got a gun.  What farmer hasn’t?”

“You was telling us about Shoulter,” said Beef.

“Yes, he was a nuisance.  Whenever he came down to stay with his sister he’d be round here or the Feathers drinking himself silly and quarrelsome.  Owes me a bit of money, too.”

“Think anyone had a grudge against him?  A real grudge, I mean.”

“Nobody liked him.  But that’s not to say anyone ’ud blow his brains out.  Course, he was in with the people who live up in the wood—Flipps.  That’s another one who likes his liquor.  But he has it at home.  Sends down for bottles when he can get them, and seems to get a bit from London.  What there was between him and the Shoulters I don’t know.”

“Ah!” said Beef.

“Tell you what,” said Mr. Bristling.  There’s young Jack Ribbon who works for Miss Shoulter.  He’ll know more.  It was him found the body, too.”

Out came Beef’s enormous notebook, a relic of his days in the Force, and I saw him write in his laborious hand “J.  Ribbon” and underneath it, “J.  Bridge”.

Then there’s the old gent that came to live here about a year ago.  He might have heard something.  Lives on the outside of the wood.  Chickle, his name is.”

“Initial?”

“W.”

Thanks.  That’s a start anyway.”

“Inquest’s tomorrow.”

“Been a long time over it, haven’t they?”

“It’s been put off, I understand.”

“Who’s in charge of the police investigation?”

“An inspector from Ashley.  Name of Chatto.”

“Well, you’ve been very helpful.” Mr. Bristling had not finished yet.

There’s the constable here, of course.  He’s not much use, except for hanging round at closing time.  Proper spoil-sport he is.  Chapel.”

“What’s his name?”

“Watts-Dunton.”

“What?”

“Watts-Dunton.  With a hyphen.”

“Gor’!” said Beef.  “I don’t know what the Force is coming to since I left it.  Constables with hyphens.  I once had a young constable called Galsworthy under me, and that was bad enough.”

There you are,” said Mr. Bristling.  “And he’s a misery.  Now what about lunch for you gents?  I’m afraid there’s nothing much in.  Still, we’ll see what the missus can do.”

It was not until nearly three o’clock that we left the Crown, and I was getting impatient.

“No sense in hurrying,” said Beef.  “I’ve got to think.”

“Whom do we see first?” I asked.

“We’ll do things correct,” said Beef.  “And call at the Police Station.”

This turned out to be the semi-detached house in which Constable Watts-Dunton lived.  It was marked by a blue plate and a blue lamp.  Beef marched up to the door and knocked boldly.

My first view of Constable Watts-Dunton confirmed the description given by Mr. Bristling.  He was a tall, cadaverous man who would have been in his element with a banner warning us that the Day of Judgement is at hand.

“Well?” he asked.

“I should like to see the inspector in charge of the Shoulter Case,” said Beef.

“Have you got any information for him?” asked the constable with a mixture of gloom and self-importance.

“Not yet.  You tell him Sergeant Beef would like to see him.”

Watts-Dunton disappeared and returned to say that Inspector Chatto would spare him five minutes.  We were shewn into a little room in which there was a bright fire.  At the table Inspector Chatto sat before a stack of papers.  He was stout, clean-shaven, rather jovial, but I saw that he had quick, shrewd eyes.

“You’ve heard of me?” asked Beef rather anxiously.

“’Fraid not,” said the inspector genially.

Beef turned on me almost savagely.

“There you are!” he said.  “Never heard of me.  What did I tell you?”  Then, turning again to Inspector Chatto, he said:  “Now if I was Lord Simon Plimsoll or Monsieur Amer Picon, or Mr. Albert Campion, or one of them, you’d know of me quick enough, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not a great reader,” said Inspector Chatto.  “But I do know of these.  Private detectives in novels, aren’t they?”

That’s right,” said Beef.  “And that’s what I am, or what I ought to be if Mr. Townsend here was as good at his job as I am at mine.  Five cases I’ve handled, inspector, and got the answer every time, though Inspector Stute himself will tell you . . .”

“I know him, of course.”

I saw that it was time to interrupt.

“Inspector,” I said firmly, “my friend here talks a little impulsively at times.  But what he says is substantially true.  He is, in fact, a very clever investigator, and Inspector Stute will acknowledge his indebtedness to Beef on more than one occasion.  I do trust you won’t be put off by my friend’s rather rough appearance and manner.  I feel sure he can be of assistance to you.  He is retained in this case by Miss Shoulter.”

Inspector Chatto lit a cigarette.  He seemed rather amused.

“I have no wish at all to discourage amateurs,” he said.  “And I’m quite prepared to believe that Sergeant Beef may be of assistance to us.  But what exactly do you mean when you say that he is ‘retained’ by Miss Shoulter?”

This was awkward.  Beef had the sense to keep quiet and leave it to me.

“Er—Miss Shoulter is under the impression that the police believe her brother’s death to be suicide.  She is convinced that it is nothing of the sort.  She wishes Sergeant Beef to collect any evidence there may be to that effect.”

Inspector Chatto was smiling openly now.

“And if I tell you that the police are convinced of the same thing?”

“You mean?”

“I mean it was murder.”

There was an awkward silence.

“In that case the only honourable thing for Sergeant Beef to do will be to tell Miss Shoulter that since the police are now convinced, there is no need for her to employ him.”

Inspector Chatto looked at both of us.

“You were expecting to get a book out of this, Mr., er—”

“Townsend.  Yes, I did rather hope—”

“Exactly.  Well, frankly I see no reason for the two of you to leave.  It is an interesting little case.  And at present I’ll tell you frankly we haven’t much in the way of a clue.  Since you’ve come down here you may as well wait for the inquest.”

That’s very friendly of you, Inspector.”

Beef nodded towards the stack of papers.

“What about telling me what you’ve got?” he asked crudely.

Inspector Chatto chuckled.

“I see no objection,” he said.  “I should rather like to go over the case from the beginning.  It might clear my ideas a bit.  Watts-Dunton, d’you think your good lady could manage a cup of tea for us?”

Watts-Dunton’s face came as near to producing a smile as its gaunt features would allow it.

“She’s got the kettle on now,” he said.

“Then let’s get down to it,” said Chatto.

So in this amiable atmosphere, which Beef really owed to my ready apology for him and my explanation of his abilities, we were taken into the confidence of the police.

❦

Case for Sergeant Beef, Chapter Seven

Case for Sergeant Beef

CHAPTER SEVEN

   

JACK RIBBON GOES TO CHURCH

Jack Ribbon was sixteen years old and considered that his job as kennel-boy to Miss Shoulter was a good one.  He was fond of dogs, fond of all animals for that matter, and in a desultory way was studying with the hope of one day becoming a veterinary surgeon.  His hours of work were not too long and his pay was generous.  He thought Miss Shoulter a bit of a gorgon, but he liked the straight way she talked to him, and used to say that it “wasn’t like working for a woman”.

Jack Ribbon was rather apt to talk of “women” just then, for they had begun to interest him, and he them.  He was considered the best dancer in Barnford and never missed one of the village hops.  He was concerned with such matters as ties, brilliantine, and a new suit which he had just obtained from Ashley.  He knew himself to be a presentable youth, fair-haired, light-skinned, quick of eye and movement, with an easy laugh which shewed his excellent teeth.  He found that he liked girls.  A year ago he had not been aware of the fact.  Now he was aware of little else.

Not that there was “anyone special”.  He knew all of them who came to the dances, but he had not yet started walking off with one.  He was adept at the familiar slightly Americanized banter of the dance floor, but he had not yet started “anything serious”.

He was not a remarkably inquisitive boy, but he could not help noticing things.  Miss Shoulter’s brother now—he did not like him.  A sullen fellow who drank too much and “treated the old girl rotten”.  Jack could not make out why she put up with him.  Yet every now and then he'd turn up at the bungalow, stay a night or two, drink anything he could lay hands on and, Jack believed, borrow a few quid from Miss Shoulter.  He could not understand a woman who was so strong and downright in everything else being so weak over her brother, who, Jack thought, was nothing but a rotten sponger.  He was supposed to make a living in some vague way out of horse-racing, but whether as a professional punter or a tout he would not like to say.  Privately Jack did not believe that Shoulter had ever done a day’s work in his life.

Last time he had been down there had been trouble—and it had something to do with Flipp.  That was another thing Jack had never understood; what there was between Ron Shoulter and Flipp.  Every time Shoulter came down he would go up to Flipp’s place, usually in the evening, yet Flipp never came to Miss Shoulter’s while her brother was there.

And last time, after her brother had gone, Jack Ribbon had seen an extraordinary thing.  He had gone into the bungalow to see her about one of the dogs and had found the old girl in tears.  He could scarcely believe it.  Miss Shoulter, such a manly, noisy woman, sitting in an arm-chair crying her eyes out.  He had not told anyone.  It was the sort of thing Jack believed in keeping to himself.  But it had made him think.

Then there was the old boy who had come to live at “Labour’s End”.  He was pretty thick with Miss Shoulter now.  In and out of the house every day.  What was the idea?  Decent old boy, mind you.  He had given Jack ten bob as a Christmas present for no reason at all that he could see.  And he was always smiling and spoke friendly.  Still, you couldn’t size him up.  There was something funny about the old chap.  And he did not like dogs.

Well, it was Christmas Eve.  And tomorrow he’d be free all day except just for the feeding.  But tonight he was going to Midnight Mass at the little church in Copling.  His mother would not be able to come this year because of her rheumatism which had been chronic lately, though she’d never missed before.  A good Catholic his mother, and she’d brought him up strict.  She didn’t mind him going to a dance and having a bit of fun, but let him miss Mass on Sunday and see what would happen.  Not that he wanted to miss Mass—particularly on Christmas Eve.  The little church at Copling had been made out of an old barn and was still thatched.  It was just like the real Christmas night, Jack thought.

So at eleven o’clock he started off from Barnford and began his lonely walk by the footpath through Deadman’s Wood.  Pity there was no one to go with him, but he and his mother were almost the only Catholics in the village, except for one family who would be going by car.  Still he did not mind the walk and it was a nice clear night with lots of stars.

Jack Ribbon passed “Labour’s End” on the outskirts of the wood and noticed a light on in the housekeeper’s room.  She'd probably come back on the Ashley bus and was just turning in.  The old man must have gone to bed—no light anywhere else in the house.

He followed the path by which old Chickle came when he called on Miss Shoulter.  It was still a bit sticky underfoot from last night’s rain, and you had to be careful how you walked.

Presently he reached a point in the path where there was a slight clearing and a fallen tree.  It was here that old Chickle was always hanging about.  He had heard Flipp tell Miss Shoulter that.  “The old boy’s always standing about near that fallen tree beside the footpath,” Flipp had said.  “I wonder what the idea is.”  Miss Shoulter had laughed and said that he was probably waiting for rabbits to come out.  But Flipp had seemed very puzzled.  “I’ve met him half a dozen times, and always in the same spot.”

Jack was early for Mass.  The church was only ten minutes away now and it was not yet half-past eleven.  He crossed to the fallen tree, sat down on it and lit a cigarette.

When he told the story afterwards he could not say exactly what had made him look on the ground behind him.  He did mutter something incoherent about feeling as though someone was watching him, but admits that was just his imagination.  But look he did, then jumped to his feet.

The first thing he saw was the dirty old teddy-bear overcoat which Ron Shoulter always wore.  Perhaps it was this which made him certain that the Thing behind him was, or had been, Ron Shoulter.  He never had any doubt of it at the time or afterwards, though it was not by the face that he recognized it, for the very sufficient reason, which he gave between chattering teeth later, that there wasn’t any face.  In fact what he saw was a corpse with—as he put it—the best part of its head blown off.

He did not, he could not, touch it.  He thinks he gave some sort of a shout.  Then he set off as fast as he could and did not stop running till he came out of the wood.  He was very scared.

The first thing he wanted to do was to get among people.  Talk to someone.  As he came to “Labour’s End” he saw that the light was still on in the housekeeper’s room and without thinking very clearly he hurried up to the front door and gave the electric bell a long ring.  As he waited he watched the footpath into the wood as though he thought someone might be following him.  Mrs. Pluck came to the door.

“What . . .  Why, Ribbon, what on earth . . .” she began.

“A dead man,” he said.  “A dead man in the wood.” A light showed in another window and in a few moments Mr. Chickle came to the door in a thick woollen dressing-gown.

“What’s this?” he asked rather snappily.  “Young Ribbon, what do you want at this time?”

“I . . . just found a dead man, sir.  In the wood.  Just near that place where you often go . . .”

Mr. Chickle seemed cross.

“Place where I often go”  he repeated frowning.

“Yes, sir.  You know, by the fallen tree.  He’s dead.  Half his head blown off.  I think it’s Miss Shoulter’s brother.”

If Mr. Chickle had seemed angry before he was much more so now.

“Miss Shoulter’s brother!  What makes you think that, young man”

It’s got his coat on,” said Jack Ribbon lamely.

Mr. Chickle seemed to have recovered himself.

“Well, really, Ribbon, I don’t see why you should come and wake us up at this time of night.  I was asleep and I expect Mrs. Pluck was just going to bed.  If as you say you’ve found some evidence of an accident, surely you should know that it’s your duty to report it to the police.  Not to come ringing our door-bell.”

“Yes, sir.  I was a bit upset. . . .”

Then Mr. Chickle became more like his old self.

“I must say you look upset, Ribbon.  I’m sure it was very distressing.  And since you are here and Mrs. Pluck has not retired, you’d better drink something before you go to find the police.  Give him a drop of brandy, Mrs. Pluck.”

“Thank you, sir.  I didn’t ought to wait really.  I ought to tell the police.  It was a horrid sight, really it was.  No head to speak of left, you might say.”

Mrs. Pluck brought some brandy in a medicine glass, as though she wanted to stress the fact that it was restorative and not festive.  Jack swallowed it.

Mr. Chickle did not seem at all interested in the “horrid sight”.  He asked no questions at all, and when the brandy was finished told Jack to hurry down to the village.

“I expect you’ll find Constable Watts-Dunton in bed,” he said.  “But you should knock him up in view of what you have found.  Please tell him not to disturb me again tonight, however.  He will know what arrangements to make.”

Jack, feeling a little better, hurried on to the village and knocked at the constable’s door.  It was ten minutes before he got any answer and then a woman’s head appeared at an upper window.

“Yes?” said Mrs. Watts-Dunton.

“Tell the constable there’s a dead man in Deadman’s Wood,” said Jack breathlessly.

“I’ll tell the constable,” suddenly shouted his wife.  “And you’ll see what happens to you, young Ribbon.  He knows all about you and your silly larks.  Now you’ve gone a bit too far, let me tell you.  Waking people up . . .”

Jack began to lose his temper.

“It’s true, I tell you.  I’ve seen him myself.  Half his head blown off.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You call the constable.  There’s nothing funny about this.  If you’d seen what I’ve seen.”

The window was closed, but after ten minutes Constable Watts-Dunton himself appeared at the door, fully clothed.

“What’s this?” he asked severely, as though Jack Ribbon was certainly to blame for something or other.

“It’s what I say.  A dead man in Deadman’s Wood.”

Constable Watts-Dunton, a thin and very solemn man who attended a chapel called Mount Sion and disapproved of most human activities, suddenly leant forward to sniff at Jack Ribbon’s breath.

“Have you been drinking” he asked in a hollow voice.

“I had a tot of brandy from Mr. Chickle,” admitted Jack.  “I was upset, see?  It’s not a nice thing to happen to anybody.”

“What isn’t?” asked Constable Watts-Dunton.

“Finding a stiff in a wood with its head blown off.”

“And what were you doing in the wood at this time?” asked the constable.

“On my way to church.  Midnight Mass at Copling.”

“No wonder,” said Constable Watts-Dunton darkly, but did not enlarge on this cryptic negative.

“I believe it’s Ron Shoulter,” added Jack.

“Oh, you do?  Well, we’ll have to look into all that.  You'd better come along and shew me where you found whatever you have found.  Wait a minute while I get my torch.”

So the police began their investigations rather earlier than Mr. Chickle had anticipated.

❦

Case for Sergeant Beef, Chapter Six

Case for Sergeant Beef

CHAPTER SIX

   

JOURNAL OF WELLINGTON CHICKLE
Continued

Eighteenth Entry

Today is Christmas Eve—the greatest day of my life, if all goes well.  I intend to commit my murder at about four o’clock, or as soon after four o’clock as my victim comes walking down the footpath.  Of course no one may come.  That will be a pity, but it only means a postponement, for everything is ready.  It is half-past two now, and I have a clear hour in which to make this, the most important entry in my Journal.

But first I must tell you about the cartridge.  I remembered a few days ago that for the suicide a cartridge case (or two if the tape has pulled both barrels) must be found actually in the gun.  You see how careful you have to be? A less intelligent murderer would have made a slip there and perhaps used a type of cartridge which was not found locally.  So I asked Miss Shoulter where I could buy some cartridges.

“Don’t think you’ll get any now,” she said, “unless you can persuade Warlock’s to let you have some.  They used to supply me and Flipp before the war.”

“What kind do they sell?” I asked.

“Potter’s Fesantsure,” she said.  “At least that’s what I always got, and Flipp the same.”

My own brand.  Lucky again.  So if I use these to fake the suicide, and the police decide that it wasn’t suicide, there’s still nothing to direct suspicion from Miss Shoulter or even Flipp.

Then fingerprints.  Yesterday I went into the wood and polished every inch of Miss Shoulter’s gun.  today, of course, I shall wear gloves.  No sense in taking any chances, even though I’m pretty sure it will pass as suicide.  Whoever it turns out to be is sure to have something about him which will provide reason enough for him to take his own life.  Who hasn’t?

Also yesterday I went to my bedroom and took out the pair of Miss Shoulter’s shoes which I have kept locked up there.  I put them into the little haversack which I always take with me when I take my evening stroll.  I took them to the place where the gun is hidden and put them beside it, wrapped in a piece of old sacking.  They’ll be ready today.  And that was all before I went to bed last night, and slept like a top.  Everything, I felt, was in complete readiness.  Not a chance taken or a mistake made.  I had nothing whatever to worry about.

And now I will tell you how I have spent today, and you will have a unique opportunity of seeing into the mind of a murderer on the day of his crime.  And a very unusual murderer, too.  One who not only will not be caught, but will not even be suspected.

I had my early morning tea, then went to the window to look at the weather.  Excellent.  It had rained in the night, so that the ground will be nice and sticky today for footprints—of Miss Shoulter’s shoes!— yet there is scarcely a cloud visible now and everything promises a cold clear day.

I came down to breakfast and found that Mrs. Pluck had managed to inveigle a kidney from the butcher.  Delicious.  I have missed such things during the war.  Kidneys, sheep’s hearts, liver, sweetbreads, brains—all the little etceteras of meat which are so pleasing.  I drank my coffee thoughtfully, wondering what I should do first.

I decided that the most urgent matter was that of loading my own gun and fixing it in the tree.  I sent Mrs. Pluck on her bicycle to the village and while she was gone carried out that simple operation.  I found a branch about breast high pointing away from the house, loaded the gun and tied it firmly to the branch.  Then I passed my long string round the trigger and brought the double line back to my lawn, seeing that from the foot of the tree to the edge of the lawn it was hidden in the undergrowth.  So now the ends were ready for tying to the single thicker line I use for measuring out and marking flower-beds.  All that was ready.

Then I went into the room where I keep my books, looked through my Journal from the beginning and went over in my mind exactly what I shall do this afternoon.  After lunch I should work in the garden for a while, I decided, then at about half-past three I shall go for my stroll.  Mrs. Pluck usually has what she calls “half an hour to herself” in the afternoon, disappearing into her little room on the east side of the house.  From her window the front entrance is not visible so she will not be able to see that I go out without my gun.  I shan’t call her attention to the fact in case I am seen later with a gun under my arm.  I will just walk slowly out as though it were an ordinary day.

Then I shall make my way to the place where the gun is hidden, unroll it from its mackintosh and load it.  Then I shall take off my shoes and put on Miss Shoulter’s.  (I’ve already tried them, by the way.  They are a little large, but I Can easily walk in them.)  Then I shall set off to the point, my point, where the fallen tree is.  If I should happen to meet anyone on the way I feel quite convinced that he or she will not notice my shoes.  But I shall keep my eye on him, watching his eyes.  If I see him look down and I know that he has observed them, well, it will be all off till another time.  But those are all ifs.

I suppose there is a slight danger, by the way, that I might meet someone who notices the shoes after the murder.  It is very unlikely.  And it is the only minute risk I am taking.  After all, I can probably avoid anyone approaching—if anyone should be about.

To continue with my plan.  I settle down behind my fallen tree trunk and wait.  I am prepared to stay there for a full hour.  And if a stranger comes it will be my great moment.  I shall call him over.  “I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle,” I shall say.  The gun will be beside me, leaning against the trunk in the most natural position.  He will cross to see what is wrong.  Then when he’s quite near me, not more than a yard or so, he shall have both barrels in his face.

I shall then get busy.  I shall first clean the outside of Miss Shoulter’s gun which I shall be carrying, for although I shall have been wearing gloves all the afternoon it would be a useful extra precaution.  Then I shall grip his fingers round it in a number of places.  Then I shall tie the red tape to the triggers and set him as though he had been leaning over the gun while it was upright and had pulled the triggers with his foot.  His foot will, in fact, be still in the loop which I shall tie in the tape.  Right.  He’s there.  An obvious suicide.

Slowly I shall walk away and back to the point where my own shoes are waiting.  A quick change into these and I shall be ready for “Labour’s End”.  “Dear me, Mrs. Pluck,” I shall say.  I’m out late this evening.”  “It’s only half-past five, sir,” she’ll tell me.  Then, I’ll remember my gardening things including the line, and go out to get them in.  It will be nice and dark by now so that I can tie my garden line to the double line round the trigger and let off the report in the woods without any trouble at all.  Then all I have to do is to draw in my line and come in to enjoy my tea by a bright fire.

And there it will be—the perfect murder.  Impossible of solution.  And the victim?  I do not know, and certainly do not care.  It will be someone I have never seen before, that’s all.

Later Mrs. Pluck will come in to say that she’s catching the Ashley bus and going to the pictures.  “Very well,” I shall say.  “You have your key?”  And I shall be once again absorbed in my book.  But when she has gone I shall go out quietly, untie my own gun, and bring it in.  Tomorrow, there will not be a single unusual thing about “Labour’s End”.

It leaves only one problem—Miss Shoulter’s shoes.  I don’t want to keep them in my possession, and it would be better not to leave them in the wood, for one doesn’t know how thoroughly the police will search it.  They had best be cleared very soon, I think.  If the body is found the same evening there will be no questioning or search for some hours.  I think my best plan would be to put them in my haversack that night and run up to London for a day tomorrow.  Then they could go out of the train window.  Or would it be better to leave them where they are?  The police would have to search twenty acres of woodland to find them.  I think they would be safe there.

Next day will come what is called, I think, the hue and cry, and I shall know the name of my victim.  It will not disturb me.  “Something attempted, something done”, will certainly earn me a night’s repose.

It is a quarter-past three now.  The great moment is rapidly approaching.  Mrs. Pluck has just been in and I’ve given her her Christmas present.  A touching scene—the benevolent old gentleman, the lonely housekeeper.  She seemed grateful.  And ironically enough there was the sound of a distant shot while we were speaking, so I needn’t have bothered with my gun-in-the-tree idea at all.  Still, I rather enjoyed that.  It was so ingenious.  I shall use it just the same.  And now I’m off.  My great triumph is at hand.  I only hope a suitable victim appears this afternoon.  I am so excited that my hand is trembling and I can’t write any more till afterwards.

❦