The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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Pity!” he exclaimed; and then with quick tact he added “But still, you are here. It comes to the same thing.”
I don’t know about that,” said I. “But, at any rate, I am at your service.”
“Thank you,” said he. “And in that case I will ask you to come round with me at once to Tanfield Court. A most shocking thing has happened. My old friend and neighbour, Giles Herrington has been—well, he is dead—died suddenly, and I think there can be no doubt that he was killed. Can you come now? I will give you the particulars as we go.”
I scribbled a hasty note to say where I had gone, and having laid it on the table, got my hat and set forth with Mr. Bidwell.
“It has only just been discovered,” said he, as we crossed King’s Bench Walk. “The laundress who does his chambers and mine was battering at my door when I arrived—I don’t live in the Temple, you know. She was as pale as a ghost and in an awful state of alarm and agitation. It seems that she had gone up to Herrington’s chambers to get his breakfast ready as usual; but when she went into the sitting-room she found him lying dead on the floor. Thereupon she rushed down to my chambers—I am usually an early bird—and there I found her, as I said, battering at my door, although she has a key.
“Well, I went up with her to my friend’s chambers—they are on the first floor, just over mine—and there, sure enough, was poor old Giles lying on the floor, cold and stiff. Evidently he had been lying there all night.”
“Were there any marks of violence on the body?” I asked.
“I didn’t notice any,” he replied, “but I didn’t look very closely. What I did notice was that the place was all in disorder—a chair overturned and things knocked off the table. It was pretty evident that there had been a struggle and that he had not met his death by fair means.”
“And what do you want us to do?” I asked.
“Well,” he replied, “I was Herrington’s friend; about the only friend he had, for he was not an amiable or a sociable man; and I am the executor of his will.
“Appearances suggest very strongly that he has been murdered, and I take it upon myself to see that his murderer is brought to account. Our friendship seems to demand that. Of course, the police will go into the affair, and if it turns out to be all plain sailing, there will be nothing for you to do. But the murderer, if there is one, has got to be secured and convicted, and if the police can’t manage it, I want you and Thorndyke to see the case through. This is the place.”
He hurried in through the entry and up the stairs to the first-floor landing, where he rapped loudly at the closed “oak” of a set of chambers above which was painted the name of “Mr. Giles Herrington.”
After an interval, during which Mr. Bidwell repeated the summons, the massive door opened and a familiar face looked out: the face of Inspector Badger of the Criminal Investigation Department. The expression that it bore was not one of welcome, and my experience of the inspector caused me to brace myself up for the inevitable contest.
“What is your business?” he inquired forbiddingly.
Mr. Bidwell took the question to himself and replied: “I am Mr. Herrington’s executor, and in that capacity I have instructed Dr. Jervis and his colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, to watch the case on my behalf. I take it that you are a police officer?”
“I am,” replied Badger, “and I can’t admit any unauthorised persons to these chambers.”
“We are not unauthorised persons,” said Mr. Bidwell. “We are here on legitimate business. Do I understand that you refuse admission to the legal representatives of the deceased man?”
In the face of Mr. Bidwell’s firm and masterful attitude, Badger began, as usual, to weaken. Eventually, having warned us to convey no information to anybody, he grudgingly opened the door and admitted us.
“I have only just arrived, myself,” he said. “I happened to be in the porter’s lodge on other business when the laundress came and gave the alarm.”
As I stepped into the room and looked round, I saw at a glance the clear indications of a crime. The place was in the utmost disorder. The cloth had been dragged from the table, littering the floor with broken glass, books, a tobacco jar, and various other objects. A chair sprawled on its back, the fender was dislodged from its position, the hearth-rug was all awry; and in the midst of the wreckage, on the space of floor between the table and the fireplace, the body of a man was stretched in a not uneasy posture.
I stooped over him and looked him over searchingly; an elderly man, clean-shaved and slightly bald, with a grim, rather forbidding countenance, which was not, however, distorted or apparently unusual in expression. There were no obvious injuries, but the crumpled state of the collar caused me to look more closely at the throat and neck, and I then saw pretty plainly a number of slightly discoloured marks, such as would be made by fingers tightly grasping the throat. Evidently Badger had already observed them, for he remarked: “There’s no need to ask you what he died of, doctor; I can see that for myself.”
“The actual cause of death,” said I, “is not quite evident. He doesn’t appear to have died from suffocation, but those are very unmistakable marks on the throat.”
“Uncommonly,” agreed Badger; “and they are enough for my purpose without any medical hair-splittings. How long do you think he has been dead?”
“From nine to twelve hours,” I replied, “but nearer nine, I should think.”
The inspector looked at his watch.
“That makes it between nine o’clock and midnight, but nearer midnight,” said he. “Well, we shall hear if the night porter has anything to tell us. I’ve sent word for him to come over, and the laundress, too. And here is one of ’em.”
It was, in fact, both of them, for when the inspector opened the door, they were discovered conversing eagerly in whispers. “One at a time,” said Badger. “I’ll have the porter in first,” and having admitted the man, he unceremoniously shut tile door on the woman. The night porter saluted me as he came in—we were old acquaintances—and then halted near the door, where he stood stiffly, with his eyes riveted on tile corpse.
Now,” said Badger, “I want you to try to remember if you let in any strangers last night, and if so, what their business was.”
“I remember quite well,” the porter replied. “I let in three strangers while I was on duty. One was going to Mr. Bolter in Fig Tree Court, one was going: to Sir Alfred Blain’s chambers, and the third said he had an appointment with Mr. Herrington.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Badger, rubbing his hands. “Now, what time did you let him in?”
“It was just after ten-fifteen.”
“Can you tell us what he was like and how he was dressed?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “He didn’t know where Tanfield Court was, and I had to walk down and show him, so I was able to have a good look at him. He was a middle-sized man, rather thin, dark hair, small moustache, no beard, and he had a long, sharp nose with a bump on the bridge. He wore a soft felt hat, a loose light overcoat, and he carried a thickish rough stick.”
“What class of man was he? Seem to be a gentleman?”
“He was quite a gentlemanly kind of man, so far as I could judge, but he looked a bit shabby as to his clothes.”
“Did you let him out?”
“Yes. He came to the gate a few minutes before eleven.”
“And did you notice anything unusual about him then?”
“I did,” the porter replied impressively. “I noticed that his collar was all crumpled and his hat was dusty and dented. His face was a bit red, and he looked rather upset, as if he had been having a tussle with somebody. I looked at him particularly and wondered what had been happening, seeing