“you are on the wrong track, mr. crewe,” said gillett, who was determined not to part with the theory he had built up round the evidence he had collected. “i was positive the murder took place in the house. this man jauncey, whom i mentioned, can swear that he heard a shot fired. and more than that, he can swear that he was hit by the bullet. this is the bullet that was extracted from his wound in the left arm. it fits this revolver.”
“my dear gillett, i don’t dispute any of these things,” said crewe. “they merely support my contention that the murder was not committed at the farm, but that the body was brought there, and that the man who took the body there took certain steps with the object of creating the impression that the tragedy took place in the room in which the body was found.”
“what evidence have you of that?” asked sergeant westaway, coming to the aid of his official superior.
“the bullet that killed lumsden went clear through his body—so much was decided at the post-mortem examination,” crewe said. “but that fact was also evident from a cursory examination of the body, as we saw it in the chair. you will remember that i drew attention to the fact when we were looking at the body. your theory is that the shot was fired as lumsden was standing at the window, with his back towards his murderer, that the bullet went through him, through the window, and lodged in the arm of this man jauncey who stated he was outside in the garden. but the course of the bullet through lumsden’s body was slightly upward. how in that case could it strike downward and wound a man on the ground ten or twelve feet below the windows on the first story?”
“the bullet might have been deflected by the glass of the window,” said gillett.
“it might have been, but it is highly improbable that ordinary window-glass would deflect a bullet—even a spent one. in any case this bullet hit the cherry-tree outside the window before hitting jauncey. you will find that it cut the bark of the cherry-tree—the mark is 4 ft. 4½ inches from the ground.”
“then it was the cherry-tree that deflected it?” said sergeant westaway.
“yes and no,” said crewe. “certainly its course was deflected downwards after hitting the cherry-tree—i assume that jauncey was close to the tree. but if it had not been travelling downwards, it would have hit the tree much higher up—somewhere near the level of the window. the bullet that hit jauncey was fired in the room in which we saw the body, but it was fired by the man who took the body to the farm, with the intention of giving the impression that the crime took place there. knowing that the bullet which killed lumsden had gone through his body, he placed the body in a chair near the window and then fired a shot through the window. he made the mistake of going close up to the window to fire, and as a result he fired downwards instead of on a level at the height of the wound in lumsden’s body.”
“if that is all you have to support your theory——” began detective gillett.
“it isn’t all,” said crewe, with a slight indication of impatience. “it is only my first point. you will recall that on the stairs there were indications that a wet rag had been used for wiping away some traces or stains. inspector payne suggested that the rag had been used to wipe away muddy boot-marks on the stairs—the traces of these boots. these boots were not worn by the man as he went upstairs; he put them on afterwards. presently i will tell you why he did. but the marks on the stairs were not the marks of muddy boots. they were stains of blood which dropped from the dead man’s wound, as his body was carried upstairs. these marks are in the hall leading to the stairs and on the landing leading to the room in which the body was placed. in the room itself no attempt to remove the blood-stains was made, because they were an indication that the shooting took place there. if he had been aware that there was a stain of blood on the latch-key which he took from the dead man’s pocket, he would have washed it away.”
“if he had possession of the key in order to get the body into the house in the way you state, mr. crewe, why did he break into the house? remember one of the downstairs windows was forced.”
“it was forced by the man who took the body there. but he forced it in breaking out of the house—not in breaking into it. he wanted to give the impression that some one had broken into the house, but he was pressed for time—he was anxious to get away. in searching for a rag in the kitchen with which to wipe out the blood-stains, he saw these boots. they belonged to lumsden, as you have said, but it was more likely that lumsden kept them in the kitchen than in the barn or cowshed. this man—let us call him the murderer—saw in the boots a means of averting suspicion from himself. he decided to leave clues that would suggest that the murderer broke into the house. but, instead of going out of the front door and breaking into the house, he forced the window from inside the room. then, with these boots on, he climbed out of the window backwards, and when he reached the ground he walked backwards across the garden bed to the path in order to give the impression that some one had walked forwards across the bed to the window.
“you saw from the sash of the window that the catch had been forced back by a knife, but apparently you overlooked the fact that the marks of the knife are much broader at the top, where the catch is, than at the bottom, where the knife would enter if the catch had been forced by some one outside. it was at the top, near the catch, and not at the bottom below it, that the knife was inserted; that is to say, the knife was used by some one inside the room. the footprints outside the window showed that they were made by a person walking backwards; the impression from the toe to the ball of the foot being very distinct and the rest of the foot indistinct. a person in walking backwards puts down his toes first, and gradually brings the rest of his foot down; a person walking forwards puts his heel down first and then puts down the rest of his foot as he brings his weight forward. our man, having made his way to the garden path from the window, walked along the path to the motor-car at the gate, probably carrying his own boots in his hand. as soon as he entered his car he drove off along the road in the direction of staveley with the lights out. he took a risk in travelling in the dark, and in spite of the fact that he knew the road well he came to grief before he reached staveley.”
“how do you know all this?” asked gillett. “how do you know he had a car?” he had not given up his own theory in favour of crewe’s, but he realized that crewe’s theory was the more striking one.
“in marsland’s statement he said that his horse swerved from something in the dark as he was coming down the cliff road, and fell lame,” said crewe. “the horse shied at the motor-car as it passed. marsland neither saw nor heard the car because of the darkness, intensified by the storm, and because of the roar of the wind and waves.”
“you don’t really expect us to regard the swerving of the horse as proof there was a motor-car there?” demanded gillett, with a superior smile.
“contributory proof,” said crewe. “if you went along the cliff road, as i did on leaving the farm after meeting you there, you would have noticed that the danger post nearest the farm was out of the perpendicular. that was not the case previous to the night of the storm. this motor-car without lights bumped into it. the mark of the wheels where the car had left the road was quite plain when i looked—it had not been obliterated by the rain. four miles away the car was run into the ditch and overturned. i saw it as sir george granville and i drove along to cliff farm on saturday morning. if you want information concerning it and the person who drove it you can obtain it at gosford’s garage at staveley. the car was hired from gosford.”
“by whom?” asked gillett.
“by a man named arnold brett, who was a very close friend of the dead man.”
“i know all about brett from inspector murchison,” said gillett. “he rang me up about him and promised to let me know when he came back to his lodgings at staveley. he said that brett was a close friend of lumsden’s, and would probably be able to give us some useful information when he returns.”
“when will he return?” asked crewe.
“you think he has cleared out?” suggested gillett.
“i’m sure of it,” was the reply.
“murchison gave the impression that he was sure to come back—that he had left staveley the day before the murder. i understood from murchison that brett is doing some secret service work for the government, and that it was quite a regular thing for him to disappear suddenly.”
“no doubt it was,” said crewe. “but this time he is not coming back.”
“i’ll ring up murchison,” said gillett.
“don’t waste your time,” was crewe’s reply. “murchison is an excellent fellow—an ideal police official for a quiet seaside place where nothing happens, but too genial and unsuspecting for an emergency of this kind. go and see brett’s apartments at staveley—no. 41 whitethorn gardens—and the landlady, mrs. penfield, will tell you as she told murchison, and as she told me also, that brett left staveley on secret service work on thursday morning, 15th october, and that she expects him back at any moment. but go to gosford and he will show you the car that brett hired on friday.
“he will tell you that on saturday about midday brett rang him up—from lewes, gosford says, but it was more probably from marlingsea, on his way to london—and told him that he had met with an accident with the car, and that it was lying in the ditch on the side of the road about six miles out from staveley on the road to this place. it was there that gosford’s foreman found the car when he went for it. if brett hired a car at staveley on friday he couldn’t have left staveley on thursday, as his landlady says. she doesn’t know what to think in regard to this murder, but she is ready to shield brett all she can because she is in love with him.”
