The body hung horribly limply, and the face which was turned towards them was slightly discoloured as though death had resulted from strangulation rather than dislocation. The mouth hung open, and between lids that were almost shut the whites of the eyes gleamed in the lamplight.
Peter's hand fell from the latch of the door which he was still holding. He felt sick, but conquering the rising nausea he went up to that still figure, and touched one of the drooping hands. It felt chilly, and with a feeling of loathing he let it fall. The arm swung for a moment and then was still.
"Dead…' Charles said. "Poor chap!"
Peter was looking round the room; it was untidy, and a dirty plate with a knife and fork stood on the table, but there were no signs of any struggle having taken place. The only thing that seemed significant was a fallen chair, and from its position it looked as though Duval had kicked it from under his feet when the rope was round his neck. "Think the whole affair got on his nerves so badly that he - did himself in?" Peter said, instinctively lowering his voice.
Charles shook his head. "I don't know. It's possible; he was pretty distraught to-night. But I can't help thinking of what he said about the other man who died."
Peter jumped and looked round. "You don't think - the Monk did this?"
Charles did not answer immediately. "He was trying to find out who the Monk is," he said after a short pause. "He was scared out of his life; he was afraid he was being followed. So much was he afraid that he carried a fairly murderous knife on him. Now we find this." He made a gesture towards the hanging corpse.
"No sign of a struggle," Peter said, again scanning the room. "And his hands are free, and there's that chair which he obviously stood on."
"His hands might have been bound," Charles said. "No, don't touch them. This is a matter for the police. Come on, let's get out of this: we can't do anything here. We'd better go on to the Inn, and ring up the police-station at Manfield."
"Charles, we can't leave him hanging there!" Peter said, impelled by his horror of that dangling corpse.
"He's been dead for at least an hour from the look of' it," Charles said. "We can't do any good by cutting him down, and the police won't thank us for interfering. Come on: let's get out, for God's sake!"
Peter followed him into the garden. As Charles shut the door he said: "Door was unbolted. It looks damned black to me."
"Why should he bolt the door if he meant to kill himself?" was Peter's answer.
Charles did not say anything. Both he and Peter were glad to be out of that dreadful room, and they set off at a brisk pace towards the village.
The Inn was only some ten minutes' walk distant from the cottage, and they soon reached it. The place was in darkness, but they pressed the electric bell, and heard it ring somewhere inside. After a short interval the door was opened, and the barman's startled face looked out.
"I want to use your telephone," Charles said curtly. "It's urgent, so let me in, will you?"
Spindle seemed reluctant to let him pass, but Charles pushed by him without ceremony. "Where is it?" he asked impatiently.
"What - what's happened, sir?" Spindle said. "I 'ope - no one's taken ill?"
"Never you mind," Charles said. "Where's the telephone?"
"There's a box outside the coffee-room, sir. But I don't know as - I don't know as Mr. Wilkes…'
"Rubbish! Wilkes can't possibly object to having Ills telephone used. Where is he?"
"He's Born to bed, sir. I'll show you where the 'phone is, and call 'im."
He led the way down the passage to a telephone box, and casting another wondering look at them made off in the direction of the back premises.
Charles found the number he wanted, and stepped into the box. Peter remained at his elbow, listening. He supposed the landlord's room must be reached by way of the back stairs since Spindle had gone in that direction, but a moment later Spindle reappeared, and saying that he would rouse Mr. Wilkes at once, went quickly up the stairs that ran up at the front of the house.
Charles had at last got himself connected with the police-station, and was endeavouring to make an apparently sleepy constable understand. "Hullo! Hullo, is that Manfield Police Station?… Yes? This is Malcolm speaking - Malcolm… M.A.L.C.O.L.M. — yes, Malcolm, from Framley… No, Framley. Is Inspector Tomlinson there?… Damn! Look here, you'd better send a man over at once. There's been an accident… No, I said there's been an accident… Yes, that's right… What?… Well, it's either suicide, or murder, and the sooner you get a man over here the better… You'll what?… Oh good, yes!… I'm speaking from the Bell Inn, and if you call for me here I'll take you to the place. Right, good-bye." He hung up the receiver, and turned to tell Peter what the constable had said. "He's going to get hold of Tomlin…' He broke off, staring past Peter. The front door was open, and on the threshold, his hand on the latchkey which he had not yet withdrawn from the lock, was Michael Strange, standing as though arrested by what he had heard, and looking directly at him.
Peter turned quickly, following the direction of Charles' gaze. "Strange!" he ejaculated. "What the hell are you doing?"
Strange drew the key out of the lock, and shut the door. "I might echo that question," he said coolly. He came towards them, and they saw that he was looking decidedly unpleasant. "What have you found?" he said.
Charles laid a restraining hand on Peter's arm. "Do you know, that is something we propose to tell the police," he said. "I don't immediately perceive what it has to do with you."
Strange looked at him under frowning brows. "Look here," he said harshly, "if you're wise you'll stop poking your nose in where it's not wanted."
Charles' brows rose in polite surprise. "Is that a threat?" he inquired.
"No, it's not a threat. It's a warning, and one which you'd do well to follow." He swung around on his heel as he spoke and went up the stairs without another word.
Peter had started forward as though to pursue him, but again Charles checked him. "Leave it," he said. "We've no right to detain him. All we can do is to tell the police."
"While you stand on ceremony he'll get clean away!" Peter said hotly.
"I don't think it," Charles answered, "if he had anything to do with what we found to-night I'm pretty sure we've discovered who the Monk is. And he's a damned cool customer - much too cool to give himself away by bolting." He glanced up the staircase. "I don't know about you, but I feel as though I could do with a stiff peg. What on earth's Wilkes up to all this time?"
As though in answer to his question the landlord came into sight at the top of the stairs. "Sorry to keep you waiting, sir," he said, "but I stayed to pop on my clothes. Spindle says you wanted to use the telephone, urgent, sir. I do hope nothing's wrong up at the Priory?" He came down as quickly as a man of his bulk might, and they saw that he was fully clothed and that his placid countenance had taken on a look of anxiety.
"No, there's nothing wrong at the Priory," Charles answered. "It's that fellow, Duval. We've just been up to his place, and - he's dead."
The landlord fell back a pace. "Dead." he echoed.
"Dooval? So that's…' A cough broke off what he was about to say. He went on again when the spasm was at an end: "So that's why he never turned up to-night like he generally does," he said. "How - what happened, sir? Was it the drugs he takes, do you think? Perhaps he ain't actually dead. I have heard as how they often goes into a kind of a stupor."
"He's dead right enough," Charles said grimly. "We found him hanging from his own ceiling."
The landlord's rosy cheeks turned suddenly pale. "Hanging?" he whispered. "You mean - someone - did him in?"
"No, it looks like suicide on the whole. I say, can you get us a drink? We feel we need one after this."
Wilkes turned mechanically towards the bar. "Yes, sir. That is, it's after hours, you know, sir, but I can stretch a point seeing what the reason is. I - I take it you wanted to ring up the police?"
"Naturally. They'll be over in about half an hour, I should imagine. Can we sit and wait here till they come?"
"Yes, sir, certainly. Will you have a whisky? And I'd be glad if you'd keep it quiet that I served you after hours, if you don't mind, sir." He measured out two tots, still looking rather pale about the gills. Charles told him to pour a third for himself, and he did so. "Hanged!" he repeated. "My Gawd, sir, I can't get over it! Regular shock it is, when I think how he took his dinner here this morning same as usual. He did seem a bit queerer than usual now I come to think of it, but there, he was always such a one for going off into one of them silly fits that I didn't set any store by it."
"What about the soda, Wilkes?" Peter interrupted.
The landlord started. "I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir." He produced a siphon, and squirted the soda-water into the glasses. "It's given me such a turn I don't hardly know what I'm doing." He sat down, limply. "To think of him - dead! And like that too. It must have upset you, finding him," he shuddered.
"Yes, not a pretty sight," Charles said.
They remained seated in the bar, until the noise of a car approaching roused Wilkes from his awe-struck meditations. The car drew up outside, and he hurriedly concealed the tell-tale glasses. "I'll go and let 'em in, sir," he said, and went out to the main door.
Charles and Peter followed him. Inspector Tomlinson was standing in the entrance, and at sight of Charles he said briskly: "Very good of you to wait, sir. Hope we haven't kept you. If you'll come out I've got a car here, and you can tell me what has happened while we go along to this place. Where is it, sir?"
"Only a stone's throw. I'll direct you."
"Who's the dead man, sir? Do you know him?"
"Duval. The artist I spoke to you about."
"I remember, sir," the inspector said. As usual he displayed nothing but a business-like and detached interest in the occurrence. "Will you get in beside Sergeant Matthews in the front, sir, and tell him the way? This is Dr Puttock, the Divisional Surgeon. Can you find room behind, Mr. Fortescue? I'm afraid it's a tight fit."
Peter managed to wedge himself between Dr Puttock and the inspector, and the car started forward. In a few minutes it turned into the rough lane, and drew up outside the cottage.
"I shall have to ask you gentlemen to come in with me," the inspector said. "Hope you don't mind, sir."
"No, it's all right," Charles said, and got out of the car.
They went into the cottage, and the sergeant, producing a note-book began to write in it, his eyes lifting from it from time to time to observe everything in the room. None of the three men paid any attention to Charles or Peter for some time, but when the body had been taken down and laid on the floor, the inspector seemed to become aware of them again, and said kindly: "Not very pleasant for you two gentlemen, but we shan't keep you very long, I hope Note the position of that chair, Matthews. Looks as though deceased must have stood upon it, doesn't it?" He glanced down at the doctor who was kneeling beside the body, making some sort of an inspection. "Clear case of suicide, eh, doctor? As soon as the ambulance comes we'll get the body away."
The doctor spoke over his shoulder. "Hand me my bag, will you, inspector?" He opened it, and took out a pair of forceps. As far as Peter could see, from his place by the door, he was doing something inside the dead man's mouth. Then the doctor shifted his position slightly, and Peter could see only his back. At length he got up, and closely scrutinised something that his forceps had found. He took a test-tube from his case, and carefully dropped the infinitesimal thing the forceps held into it. Then he corked it tightly.
The inspector watched him with the air of an inquisitive terrier. "Got something, doctor?"
"I shall want to do a more thorough examination," the doctor replied. He glanced down at the body. "You can cover it, sergeant. I've finished for the present." He replaced the test tube in his case. "I'm not satisfied that 1 his is a case of suicide," he said. "I found a scrap of cotton wool in the deceased's nostrils, very far back."
The inspector pursed his lips into a soundless whistle. "Nothing in the mouth, doctor?"
"Nothing now," said the doctor significantly.
"Better go over the place for finger-prints," the inspector said. "Now, Mr. Malcolm, if you please, I'd like to hear just how you happened to find the body."
Charles gave him a clear and concise account of all that had passed that evening, up to the time of the discovery of the corpse. He neither omitted any relevant point nor became discursive, and at the end of his statement Sergeant Matthews, who had taken it down, looked up gratefully.
"Thank you, sir," the inspector said. "If more witnesses were as clear as you are the police would have an easier time."
Charles smiled. "I'm not exactly new to this sort of thing," he said.
The inspector cast him a shrewd glance. "I thought I'd spotted you, sir. I saw you at the Norchester Assizes about six months ago, didn't I?"
"Quite possibly," Charles said. "Now there's one other thing I'd like to mention. When my brother-in-law and I reached the Bell Inn, the barman went to rouse Wilkes, the landlord, while I was ringing you up. As soon as I had finished speaking to the station, I turned round to find that Strange had come in with his own latchkey, and had been listening to all I'd said."
The doctor looked up sharply. "Strange?" he repeated.
"Yes, doctor, we've got a note about him," the inspector said. "Go on, sir."
"He asked us what we had found, and upon my refusing to tell him, he seemed distinctly annoyed, and said, as near as I can remember, that he advised us to stop poking our noses where they weren't wanted. I asked whether that was a threat, and he replied that it was a warning which he advised us to take."
"That's very interesting, sir," the inspector said. "You say he came in from the street?"
"Yes, using his own key."
"Then Strange was not in the Inn when this happened," the inspector said. "I think I'll be having a word with him." He nodded to the sergeant. "You'd better run these gentlemen back to, their home, Matthews. I take it they know at the Inn where we are, sir?"
"Wilkes knows, yes."
"Then he'll direct the ambulance on. Now, sir, I don't think there's any need for me to keep you standing about here any longer, but if you could make it convenient to come over to the station to-morrow we may have something more to ask you. And we'd like you to read through your statement, which we'll have put into longhand by then, and sign it. Sergeant Matthews will drive you home now. I hope what you've seen won't keep you awake." He went out with them to the car, and saw them off. The police car backed down the lane to the main road, and in a very short time deposited them at their own front door.
Celia and Margaret were both awake, and no sooner had the two men entered the house than Margaret leaned over the banisters, and asked them to come up at once and tell them what had happened.
Celia was sitting up in bed with a shawl round her shoulders. "Thank goodness you're back!" she sighed. "You've been away such ages we've imagined all sorts of horrors. Did you discover anything?"
Charles and Peter exchanged glances. "They're bound to know when the inquest comes on," Peter said. "Tell them."
"Inquest?" Margaret said sharply. "Who's dead? You haven't - no, of course you haven't."
"It's Duval," Charles explained. "We didn't find him in our grounds, so Peter suggested we should go down to his cottage. And we found him there, dead."
"Murdered?" Celia quavered, gripping her shawl with both hands.
"We don't know," Charles answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Apparently he hanged himself, but we shan't know definitely whether it was suicide or not till the inquest, I imagine."
"But what a ghastly thing!" Margaret said. "Who can - oh, surely it wasn't murder? Why should anyone think so?"
"Well, perhaps it isn't," Charles said consolingly. "Peter and I have got to go over to the police-station to-morrow, and we may hear something fresh then. At present we only know that the doctor wasn't satisfied, and is going to conduct a post mortem."
"Please tell us just what happened!" Margaret begged.
Charles made the story as short as possible, and he did not mention the doctor's discovery. At the end of his tale Celia said: "If anyone killed him it was the Monk, and now we know for certain he's not a ghost. Well, I always said I wasn't scared of flesh and blood, but do you think it's safe for us here?"
"Yes, I think so," her brother replied. "If the Monk did murder Duval it's fairly certain he did it because Duval had discovered his identity. Or even because he knew Duval had been talking to us. He isn't likely to try to do any of us in. Too risky, for one thing, and for another, no motive."
"How could he have known that Duval had talked to us?" Margaret asked. "Do you think he followed him here this evening?"
"Duval undoubtedly thought that possible. It would be easy for him to find out that we'd had dealings with Duval without that, though. I never made any secret of the fact that I visited him, and all sorts of people have seen me talking to him at various times," Charles said. "Wilkes, Ackerley, the Rootes - they all knew, not to mention various locals who've seen Duval and me together at the Bell."
"And, from what you told us to-day, Mr. Strange as well," Margaret said, meeting her brother's eye.
"Yes, Strange, too." Charles glanced at his watch. "Well, I don't know how the rest of you feel, but I'm all for bed."
Margaret got up rather reluctantly. "Yes, I suppose we'd better try and get some sleep," she agreed. "But I do wish we weren't so much in the dark still. Well, good night, you two. Coming, Peter?"
Brother and sister went out together, and soon quiet descended on the house.
The two men drove over to Manfield on the following morning. It was a Sunday, and the market-town had a forlorn appearance. Even the police-station seemed rather deserted, and the constable in charge ushered them immediately into the inspector's office. Here in a short time the inspector joined them.
He bade them good morning, thanked them for coming over in such good time, and sat down behind his desk.
"Discovered anything fresh?" Charles asked, drawing up his chair.
The inspector shook his head. "Looks like a nasty case against someone, sir," he said. "The inquest will be held on Tuesday, and I'm afraid both you gentlemen will have to give evidence."
"Of course," Charles said. "We were quite prepared for that. Can you tell us anything more?"
"Well, sir, strictly speaking I ought not to, but seeing how much you know already, I don't. mind telling you that the Divisional Surgeon has just finished his post mortem, and there doesn't seem to be much doubt that it's murder. I needn't ask you not to repeat this, sir, I know."
"Of course not. What did he discover?"
"It's that piece of cotton wool, sir. Looks as though Duval was chloroformed, and then strung up. Dr Puttock found traces of chloroform still lingering. And during his examination he found various abrasions on the deceased's body as though there had been a bit of a struggle, and in it Duval had knocked against things - the table, maybe, or something like that. Then, sir, the doctor found a bit of skin in one of his finger-nails, as though he might have clawed at someone's face, or hand, or whatever it may have been."
"Any finger-prints?" Charles asked.
"No, Sir. Only the deceased's on that plate you saw, and the glass, and such-like. Whoever did this job took care to wear gloves." He unlocked a drawer in his desk, and took out an envelope. From this he shook a black bone button. "After you'd gone, I had a good look round and I found this lying under the coal-box. Must have rolled there."
Charles and Peter inspected it. It was about the size of a farthing, a cheap-looking button with a pattern stamped on it. "Looks like an ordinary glove-button," Peter said.
Just so, sir. Made in France, too, but that doesn't tell us much. But I went through all the deceased's belongings, and there wasn't a single pair of gloves in the house, let alone one lacking a button. It doesn't prove anything, but it's something to go on." He put it back into the envelope.
"You're not producing that at the inquest, are you?" Charles asked.
"Oh no, sir," the inspector replied, smiling. "The police aren't as thick-headed as that, you know. Our course is to ask for an adjournment. You've never seen anyone wearing gloves with this type of button, I suppose?" They shook their heads. "No, well, I didn't expect you would have, but there was just a chance of it." He locked it away again. "You won't mention that to anyone, if you please, sir."
"Certainly not." Charles looked round as the door opened. A man came in with a typewritten document, which he laid before the inspector.
"That's right, Jenkins," the inspector said. "That'll be all. Now, sir, would you please read through what you said last night, and see that we've got it down right? And if you'd just tell me your part of the story, Mr. Fortescue, I'll take it down, and we shall have everything shipshape."
Peter briefly recounted his share in the night's happenings. When he had done Charles put down the typewritten sheets. "Yes, that's right," he said. "Want me to sign it?" He drew out his fountain pen, and scrawled his name at the bottom of the statement. As he screwed the cap on again, he said: "I don't think, inspector, that when we came to see you the other day you set much store by our tale, but has it occurred to you just where all this points?"
"Yes, sir, it has," the inspector replied at once. "And you'll pardon me, but I did set considerable store by what you told me. If I hadn't I wouldn't have been quite so open with you this morning. But you see, what you told me wasn't the first thing I'd heard about the Priory Monk. I've been remarkably interested in him for some time."
"No good asking you what your previous information was, I suppose?" Charles asked.
"No, Sir, I'm afraid it's not. But you can be quite sure I'm not taking the matter lightly. I know what you think. You think that it was the Monk who murdered Duval. Well, it's not for me to give my opinion, lacking any proof, but I would like you, if you will, sir, to try and remember just what Duval said to you about the Monk."
As well as he could Charles gave the gist of Duval's remarks, but as he warned the inspector, Duval had made so many vague references to that mysterious figure that he found it hard to recollect them all. But on one point his memory was perfectly clear: Duval believed that the only man who had ever seen the Monk's face had been murdered, and he knew that in trying to discover the Monk's identity he was running a great risk. "So much so," Charles said, "that he had taken to carrying a businesslike looking knife about with him."
"Yes, and that raises a question," Peter put in. "If he was murdered last night, there must have been a bit of a struggle. The fragment of skin proves that. And you can't chloroform a man without overpowering him first. If the Monk did it, why didn't Duval draw his knife? He must have had time, because as soon as he set eyes on the Monk he'd have been on his guard. The Monk can't have taken him unawares in his own house. Was the knife on him?"
"Yes, sir, it was. But you can look at it in another way. We know from what Duval said to Mr. Malcolm here the very night he died that he hadn't seen the Monk's face then. He'd discovered something, but it seems fairly plain it wasn't the Monk. If you think it over, he had precious little time to discover who the Monk was in between the time when Mr. Malcolm says he left the Priory, and you found him hanging in his cottage. From the fact of his evidently having been taken by surprise, since he never got the chance to draw his knife, doesn't it look as though whoever it was who went to his cottage didn't go in his disguise of a Monk? Looked at in that light, my reading of the thing is that the person who visited Duval didn't rouse any suspicion in him. He didn't know who the Monk was; some man whom he didn't suspect at all came to his house, possibly with a plausible excuse. He let him in, and before he knew where he was this person had clapped the pad over his face. We'll say there was a struggle: it looks as though the murderer was a pretty strong man. Duval was a bit of a weed, besides being weakened by the dope he took, but you try holding a handkerchief over a man's face when that man's struggling. It's not easy, and a struggle there must have been. But you can understand Duval trying too hard to wrench his assailant's hand away from his mouth to have time to try and get at his knife. For what it's worth, I found a broken plate in the kitchen, but the place was such a pig-sty there's no saying it was put there by the murderer. Still, it might have been, and we know he set the room to rights when he'd finished Duval. One of the cold-blooded ones, he is: you do find 'em sometimes. He staged the whole thing to look like a suicide, and it's the doctor's opinion he was cute enough to remove any of the pad that may have got into Duval's mouth. But that scrap you saw the doctor extract from Duval's right nostril he missed. The doctor only found it with his forceps. If it hadn't been for that it would have looked like a clear case of suicide, especially with a man of Duval's temperament. But a man don't chloroform himself when he sets out to commit suicide by hanging, and even if he did, that's ruled out by the fact that there was no trace of the bottle, nor the pad either. No, it's murder right enough, and if you ask me, murder by some person whom Duval didn't dream was likely to attack him."
Both men had listened to him in attentive silence. "If that is so," Charles said slowly, "it seems to exonerate Strange. For if I'm not very much mistaken Duval was afraid of Strange."
"But did he suspect him of being the Monk?" Peter asked.
"No, I don't know that he did, but he thought Strange had something to do with the Monk. At least, so I infer from what he said when he saw Strange come into the bar yesterday morning."
The inspector was fingering the typewritten statement. "I wouldn't go about saying Strange did this, sir," he said slowly.
"Well, naturally not, but you must admit things look pretty black against him. Did you see him after we'd left you last night?"
"Yes, sir, I saw him. You'll understand I can't tell you anything about him, but you can set your mind at rest on one point: there's nothing Strange can do that we shan't know about. So in case you were feeling that we are leaving any dangerous person at large you can be sure that his doings are known to us, and you don't stand in danger from him."
"I must say, I'm glad to hear you're keeping a watch on him," Charles said, preparing to get up. "Well, we mustn't waste your time. If there's nothing else you want me to tell you I think we'd better be pushing off."
"No, sir, nothing else, only to remind you again not to talk of this. The inquest will be held here at eleven-thirty on Tuesday."
Charles nodded. "We'll be here. I take it I shan't be wanted to speak about Duval's fears of the Monk?"
The inspector came as near to a wink as so staid an individual could. "The coroner won't want to hear any ghost stories, sir," he said meaningly.