Philip MacDonald

“ For an instant sanity returned, and he thought of going back to help her. Then fear got him by the throat again; fear of arrest; fear of publicity; fear of the hangman. He saw it all. And he drifted silently away through the darkness. And next morning, while the world read about his death, John Hoode lay in a Whitechapel doss-house. Later, an officious policeman found a carpenter’s wood-rasp and on it some blood and some finger-prints. So Deacon was arrested for the murder of a man who was still alive. The blood on that wood-rasp was not the dead man’s, nor were the finger-prints Deacon’s. ”

“ In all this morass of doubt and wilderness of evil—a wilderness wherein innocent men had obviously committed crimes they had nothing to do with, where every one was sure except Anthony Ruthven Gethryn—he felt alone. Not even the golden-dark background to his thoughts which was the perpetual image of the Lady of the Sandal could compensate for the blackness of bewilderment—the blackness through which he could see light but not yet the way to light. ”

“ Sir Arthur spoke first. “Out with it, now, Gethryn. You’ve excited me, you know.” He rubbed his hands. “I’ve always thought you’d do something; go one better than those damn’ fools of policemen!”
Anthony leant back in his chair. “This,” he said, “is a most unusual business. I said so at the beginning, and, by God, I say so now! You might say that I have solved the mystery. After I’ve told you, that is. And in another way, as you’ll see, it’s more of a puzzle than ever.”
Sir Arthur leant forward. “Go on, man, go on! Do you mean to say you actually know who killed John?” ”

“ This gave it a gay, elfin humpiness that attracted Anthony strangely. Many-hued clouds of creeper spread in beautiful disorder from ground to half-hidden chimney-stacks. Through the leaves peeped leaded windows, as a wood-fairy might spy through her hair at the woodcutter’s son who was really a prince. A flagged walk bordered by a low yew hedge ran before the house; up to this led a flight of stone steps from the lower level of the lawns. Opposite the head of the steps was a verandah.
“This here, sir,” explained Mr. Syme unnecessarily, “is rightly the back of the ’ouse.” ”

“ All England will be there! And you tell me this absurd story. What in God’s name has come to you that you can play pranks of this sort? Haven’t we all suffered enough without this?” The man was shaking.
Anthony sat up. “Wait!” he said. “And let me finish. I said that John Hoode had not been murdered. I did not say that no murder had been done. Murder was done. I know it. You know it. The world knows it. But what you and the world do not know is that the body upon which the inquest was held, the body which is to be buried to-morrow, is not the body of John Hoode!”
Sir Arthur glared at him. ”

“ If I say that even if you killed Hoode and tell me so, I won’t move in any way except to help you, will—you—tell—me—all—about—it?”
Those eyes blazed at him. “Do you dare to suggest that I——”
“Oh, woman, Illogicality should be thy name,” Anthony groaned. “I was merely endeavouring, madam, to show how safe you’d be in telling me all that you know. Listen. I’m in this business privately. I oblige a friend. If I don’t like my own conclusions, I shall say nothing about them. I seek neither Fame nor Honorarium. I have, thank God, more money than is good for me.” ”

“ The pale eyes of Laura Hoode regarded him with curiosity. He felt with surprise that she seemed every minute to grow more human.
“You are an unusual person, Mr. Gethryn,” she said. “You spy upon me and torture me—and yet I feel that I like you.” She paused; then went on: “You’ll tell me that you know that the young man Deacon did not kill my brother; you tell me that although I have behaved so suspiciously you know also that I had nothing to do with—with the crime. How do you know these things?”
Anthony smiled. “I know,” he said, “because you both told me. ”

“ Anthony nodded assent.
“Then you must know that this woman—the Thing that wrote them was John’s—John’s—mistress.”
Again he nodded, watching curiously the emotions that supplanted each other in the nondescript face of his victim. Fear he had seen and anxiety; but now there were both these with horror, indignation, tenderness for the dead, and a fervour of distaste for anything which savoured of “loose living.” ”

“ Now, when you were kneeling outside the window of Hoode’s study, what did you see? You’ll understand that if I am to be allowed to help you I must find out all I can and as quickly as I can.”
Their lids veiled the great eyes. A convulsive movement of the white throat told of the strain she was under. When she spoke it was without feeling, without emphasis, like a dull child repeating a lesson memorised but not understood.
“I saw a man lying face-downwards by the fireplace. There was blood on his head. It was a bald head. I saw a clock half-fallen over; and chairs too. And I came away. ”

“ Sir Arthur smiled. “You’re a curious feller, Gethryn. You amuse while you expound.” He grew grave again. “I quite see what you mean: it’s difficult, very difficult. And I can’t imagine any one having a grudge against John.”
Anthony went on: “Another thing; the messiness of the business indicates madness on the part of the murderer. With homicidal mania there might be no motive other than to kill. Myself, I don’t think the murderer was as mad as all that. Look at the care he took, for all his untidiness. No, the murderer was no more mad than the rest of the affair. ”

“ He looks at you and connects your obvious strength with the ruts in Hoode’s skull. He sees your titanic length of leg and argues that you’re the only person in the house likely to be able to step through that open study-window without marking the flower-bed by treading on the flowers. He does a sum, and the answer is: x equals the murderer and Archibald Deacon equals x. That’s what you know, isn’t it?”
“You have it all, old thing, all! Quel lucidité!”
“But you haven’t,” said Anthony, thinking of the finger-prints and his promise to Boyd. ”

“ Anthony Ruthven Gethryn was something of an oddity. A man of action who dreamed while he acted; a dreamer who acted while he dreamed. The son of a hunting country gentleman of the old type, who was yet one of the most brilliant mathematicians of his day, and of a Spanish lady of impoverished and exiled family who had, before her marriage with Sir William Gethryn, been in turn governess, dancer, mannequin, actress, and portrait painter, it was perhaps to be expected that he should be no ordinary child. ”

“ Anthony looked after. “If you were your sister, my dear,” said he to himself, “escape would’ve been more difficult.”
The door opened again. This time it is Lucia, composed now and more mistress of herself than for days past. With relief, her sense of humour had returned in full strength; there is nothing more steadying than one’s sense of humour.
Anthony was still on his feet. She looked first at him and then at the damp pages of the Telegraph covering the chair. She began to laugh. ”

“ Anthony said with brutal clearness: “Mrs. Lemesurier, I am, as best I know how, trying to clear of the charge of murder a man I believe innocent. I’ve got to a point where a five minutes’ conversation with your brother will help me. Your brother—you have told me yourself—cannot be considered as seriously ill. I must see him.”
This time it was her eyes that fell. Anthony was angry—with himself. And a man angry with himself is invincible. ”

“ I know, I, I! You know nothing!” His hands seemed to be reaching higher, clawing, as if they would tear holes in heaven. “You fool!” he screamed again. “He’s dead. I know! I killed him! I climbed down and killed him——”
Anthony sat down on the edge of the table. “That’ll be all, I think,” he said.
The curtains over the alcove at the end of the room parted. From behind them came three men: the first tall and of middle-aged immaculateness, the second an obvious detective-inspector, the third negligible save for the pencil and notebook he carried. ”

“ But Sir Arthur had swallowed the bait. “Look here, Gethryn,” he said; “why not come in with me? The inside’s more worth seeing than the out. And I’d like you to meet Lucia and her sister. They’d be glad to see you too. They were expecting another to lunch besides me—young Deacon, John’s secretary. He wouldn’t come. He’s very busy, and being young, I suppose he feels it’d be a sin to enjoy himself in any way to-day. Silly, but I like him for it. He don’t know the necessity yet for doing anything to keep sane.” He laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. ”

“ Mrs. Lemesurier rose to her feet. “No, no. I’d better see him. Elsie, what name—oh, you said he wouldn’t give one. All right. The drawing-room, you said?” She walked slowly from the room.
Outside the drawing-room door she paused, fought for composure, gained it, and entered. Anthony came forward to meet her.
Her hand went to her naked throat. “You!” she whispered.
Anthony bowed. “You are right, madam.”
“What do you want? What have you come here for, again?” So low was her voice that he could barely catch the words.
“You know,” said Anthony, “we’re growing melodramatic. Please sit down.” ”

“ Anthony conceived a liking for this girl; a liking born not altogether of sympathy. But he wondered, with half-humorous desperation, how he was to provide the cleanser and yet not waste much time.
“Consoler-in-Chief to the Birds of the Air, I am,” he said to himself; then aloud: “You can help, Miss Masterson, by listening to me think. In this business, I’m like a mad poet without hands or tongue. ”

“ Digby-Coates, I reasoned, must have begun his preparations immediately after Belford saw him standing in the doorway of his room at eight minutes to eleven. To descend the wall; to enter the study; to hold Hoode in chaffing conversation for a moment to allay his curiosity regarding the unusual method of entry; to kill him; to reassemble the wood-rasp; to set the ‘struggle’ scene; arrange the clock; to climb back up the wall again; and all as noiseless as you please, cannot have taken him less than eight minutes at the very least. ”

“ It became my business to prove, in spite of all difficulties, that this man, whatever the appearances, had had no hand in the death of John Hoode. In what follows, they who read will find, I hope, absolute proof of his innocence; or if not that, at least a battering-ram to shake the tower of their belief in his guilt.
“Knowing that Deacon was not the murderer, I nevertheless realised that his innocence—so strong was the case against him—could only be established by definite proof that some one else was. That is to say: a negative defence would be useless. ”

“ He backed the Mercedes into the garage of the Bear and Key at twenty-five minutes to ten. By five minutes to the hour he was walking with his long, lazy stride up the winding drive of Abbotshall.
Drawing near the house he saw that the great oaken door stood open, letting a shaft of hot, clean, morning sunlight paint a golden track across the polished floor of the wide hall. He entered, flung his hat on to a chair, and turned in the direction of the stairs. ”

“ An innocent person—not the one of the finger-prints—stealing letters from the corpse to hide the fact that the corpse had a mistress. An attempt to make a clock give an alibi, the attempt being so clumsily carried out that it seems very ill in accord with other indications of the murderer’s ingenuity. Secret drawer in corpse’s desk full of newspaper-cuttings, all of ’em vicious attacks on corpse when alive. ”

“ Now, thought Anthony, for the murderer. This, in spite of its painful side, was all vastly entertaining. Who killed Cock Robin Hoode?
Anthony felt more content than for the last year. It appeared that, after all, there might be interest in life.
In the hall he found Boyd; with him Poole, the butler—a lean, shaking old man—and a burly fellow whom Anthony knew for another of Scotland Yard’s Big Four. ”

“ Every one is satisfied that the murderer wore gloves, because nowhere else in the study, where he must have handled one thing after another, were any finger-prints found. They are found, these important pieces of evidence, upon the one object where their presence is utterly damning—and there only!
“The spirals, whorls, and what-nots which compose these marks correspond exactly with those to be found in the skin and thumb and first two fingers of Archibald Deacon’s right hand. Ergo, say Police and Public, Archibald Deacon is the murderer. ”

“ Anthony quoted with a wry face. “Poor devil, poor devil. He’s made more stir by dying than he ever did in his life.”
Sir Arthur emerged, a packet of tobacco in one hand, a sheaf of newspapers in the other. With fleeting amusement Anthony noticed the red and black cover of an Owl “special.” They walked on.
The elder man glanced down at the papers in his hand. “It’s a queer thing, Gethryn,” he said, “but I somehow can’t keep away from the sordid side of this awful, terrible tragedy. Up at the house I keep feeling that I must get into that study—that room of all places! ”

“ Now, look at this. ‘The Minister of Imperial Finance, in his efforts for advancement of self, would do well to remember that hackneyed line of Pope: “A little learning is a dangerous thing.”’ Did you see that?”
Anthony opened his eyes. “I did. And thought how refreshing it was to see the quotation given right. They nearly all get it wrong, though you’d think any one could see that Pope couldn’t have been such a fool as to say a little knowledge was dangerous. Knowledge is always useful; learning isn’t—until you’ve got plenty. But go on: what about it?”
Masterson was searching feverishly. ”

“ The other stared.
“Good God!” he exclaimed.
“You exaggerate, Sir Arthur,” said Anthony.
Sir Arthur Digby-Coates recovered himself. “The most amazing coincidence that ever happened, Gethryn,” he said. “I was just thinking of you.”
“Really?” Anthony was surprised.
“Yes, yes. I suppose you’ve heard? You must have. Poor Hoode!”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“But I thought you’d left——”
“Oh, yes,” said Anthony, “I’ve left the Service. Quite a time ago. I’m here because—look here, this’ll sound rot if I try to explain in a hurry. Can we go and sit somewhere where we can talk?” ”