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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1934 by S. Fowler Wright
Copyright © 2009 by the Estate of S. Fowler Wright
Originally published under the title, Who Else But She?
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
CHAPTER I.
Chief Inspector Pinkey was annoyed. The crime (for he was disposed to agree with the view of the local police that the possibility of suicide could be eliminated) had been committed within a few minutes of 5:00 p.m. on Tuesday last, and now it was 11:30 on Tuesday morning; and it was only an hour ago that the assistance of Scotland Yard had been solicited by the Chief Constable of Buckfordshire, and within ten minutes of that telephone conversation he had been in a taxi for Paddington. Now he gazed at the high banks of the railway cutting, pleasant in October sunshine, as the train pulled slowly up the Chiltern gradients, and wondered how many clues had been blurred or obliterated before he had been called in to clear up a puzzle which the local officers had been unwilling to consider beyond their powers. Well, there was nothing new in that. He knew that it was of the first importance that he should stifle his annoyance and accept it cheerfully.
Any impatience on his part, any affectation of superiority, would make a difficult problem even harder than it must inevitably be. He must put aside all he had heard, all he had read, even all the possibilities that had engaged his mind as he had thought it over during the last few days (anticipating the possibility that he might soon be travelling in this direction), and approach it freshly. That was always the safest way. He got out at Ricksfield to change into the local train.
The village of Beacon’s Cross lies about two miles from the station of that name. Inspector Pinkey remembered reading of this distance, and hoped that he would not be obliged to walk. Probably there would be a taxi. But you could never be sure at these little country stations. And he had a rather heavy bag. It was with a real gratitude, disposing him to unusual geniality, that he found himself being greeted by a tall man of somewhat military aspect, who announced that he was Superintendent Trackfield of the County Constabulary.
“I’m driving myself,” he added, “so that we can talk freely. There aren’t many places where you can be equally certain that you couldn’t be overheard.”
Inspector Pinkey had a moment of wonder as to whether this local policeman really believed this to be a remark of unusual profundity. Was he anxious to show that the country constabulary are shrewder than is commonly believed in the metropolitan area?
“Yes,” he said, in a rather drier voice than he had meant it to be, “when you’ve looked under the seat.”
“Under the seat?” Superintendent Trackfield had a moment of surprise. Then his face cleared. “Oh yes. I see. You don’t mean that too literally. You mean when you’ve had a good look inside. Oh yes, of course.”
By this time they were in the car.
The two officers exchanged platitudes upon the weather and the Cotswold Hills. Inspector Pinkey was too accustomed to the delicate operation of taking over investigations from less experienced or less competent hands to feel any awkwardness, but he knew the importance of doing it in a tactful way. It was to open the subject rather than to gain information that he remarked: “I understand that the inquest has been adjourned?”
But to Superintendent Trackfield, remembering the unadvertised reason for that adjournment, it was an unpleasant question to hear, and many would have given it a shorter answer. Chief Inspector Pinkey could observe that Trackfield might be obtuse, but he was an honest man. He said:
“Yes. You see, I told the coroner that we were about to arrest Lady Denton, and so he agreed to adjourn sine die in the usual way. After that Sir Henry said he’d like to go over the evidence again before we committed ourselves finally, and then he said he wasn’t quite satisfied, and he’d decided to call you in.”
Sir Henry Titterton was the Chief Constable of Buckfordshire.
“The evidence against Lady Denton must have appeared fairly strong. You felt satisfied of her guilt?”
The answer came rather stiffly. “Obviously. I applied for a warrant for her arrest.”
Inspector Pinkey thought silently: “And you are still convinced of her guilt.” He reminded himself again of the necessity of keeping an open mind. It might be true, as the obvious often is—but not always. What he said was: “Going by the Press photographs, she seems to be quite an attractive woman.”
The Superintendent agreed. Exceptionally. He added that she was very popular also.
“Not the sort you would expect to be guilty of such a crime?”
“Not in the least.” Trackfield was quite frank about that. The experienced ears of the Scotland Yard officer caught a tone which suggested that, though the speaker had been resolved to arrest her, he had not been entirely insensible of the lady’s charm. It was confirmed by the remark that followed, rather stolidly spoken. “But you have to go on the evidence.”
“That,” Inspector Pinkey thought silently, “is an indisputable proposition, which makes it particularly important that the evidence should be considered by those who are most competent to handle it.” But it was obviously not a reflection to be spoken aloud What he said was: “I was told—it was not in the press reports—that you are able to fix the time with certainty, owing to one of your own men having heard the shot.”
Trackfield agreed again. “There is no doubt about that. But it was not one of my men. I was cycling along the lane below Bywater Grange when I heard the shot. I reached the station within five minutes, and it was then four minutes after five, as our records happen to show in a particularly conclusive way. Unfortunately, the exact time is not one of the decisive elements in the case. It does no more than confirm all the evidence of those who were in the house. Indeed, you may say that the time is the one point about which there has never been any doubt.”
“Still, it’s an advantage to know that we can accept that. I suppose you were quite near?”
“Yes, out of sight, but quite close. The lane is slightly hollowed, and there’s a tall hedge. On the other side, a narrow strip of paddock divides the grounds of the Grange from the road. Sir Daniel’s study faced that way, looking across a rather wide lawn to a strip of flower bed, and a background of laurels that hid the field fence from the house.”
“And you heard or saw nothing beside the shot?”
“Nothing at all. Had I done so, I should have stopped to investigate then.”
“Yes, of course. I suppose there was nothing remarkable in the sound of a shot coming from that direction? I dare say they’d often be potting a rabbit in the grounds?”
“No, I can’t say that. I don’t think Sir Daniel ever used a gun, or Mr. Gerard either. The gardener may take a shot at the birds sometimes, but I don’t know.” Inspector Trackfield had answered frankly, but he saw the implication of the question, which he did not like. He added: “It’s just that there’s so much shooting round here that we get in the habit of taking no notice. If I told our men to follow up every shot they hear, they’d be off the road half their time, and a nuisance to every neighbour I have.”
“Yes, I see.” The Inspector fell silent. He thought that, whatever absurdity there might be in ordering constables to investigate every shot they heard, it was a very different proposition that their Superintendent should ride on when he heard a shot in a house nearby, from which no sound should be expected to come, without investigating what it might mean. But it was a thought which should not be spoken aloud. He thought also that, if the tale told by the inmates of the house were true, there was no one (on his own account) who had been better placed than the Superintendent to have committed the crime himself. But it would be still more inexpedient to say that!
Still, he resolved to keep an open mind on that too. The fact that it was the Superintendent’s