Scallaway's End

Escape in the Night

The storm continued throughout the night, which passed slower than anything Sturling could recollect. Ethel Braithwaite, who had fainted on the spot, had to be taken to her room and revived, and the maid, who after fit of screaming had burst into tears had to be calmed and given a large glass of something which Sueducate promised was very alcoholic. In fact, everyone needed a very large glass of whatever it was but for Sturling, who had a job to do. He calmly carried out an investigation of the crime scene and then covered Mrs Minkwater’s body with a sheet and locked the door.

In his investigation, Sturling noted two very interesting things. On the floor, near the bed, he found a small pistol with an empty cartridge, clearly used to carry out the murder. The second clue was not an object. It was simply the position of Mrs Minkwater, lying calmly in her bed with her expression certainly tense but not scared or anxious. This led Sturling to a very interesting but rather bewildering conclusion, she wasn’t scared when the murderer entered her room. His suspicions went at once to the maid, but, of course, it was too early to make guesses.

He also found a third point of much interest. On Mrs Minkwater’s bedside table there were two items; a half burnt paper cone and a letter. Sturling pocketed these, wanting time to closely inspect them later.

On locking the door to the room he heard footfalls coming up the stairs. It was Sueducate. ‘You don’t need any assistance, do you?’ he asked. Sueducate was a little paler than usual, but altogether rather composed.

‘I’ve done a brief search of the scene,’ said Sturling. ‘I’ve discovered the weapon of murder.’ He showed the small pistol to Sueducate, who took it delicately, without touching the hilt or trigger.

‘You could do a fingerprint test on this,’ he suggested. ‘I believe any fine powder can be used to pick up fingerprints. I could try, if you like.’

‘I’ll test for fingerprints myself,’ said Sturling firmly, taking the pistol and wrapping it carefully in a handkerchief. ‘In fact, I’d better test now. Where is everyone?’

‘Everyone’s except Ms Braithwaite and the maid are in the drawing room.’

‘Could you do me a favour and bring those two down into the drawing room?’ said Sturling. ‘I’d like to present the evidence to everyone.’

On Sueducate’s consent, Sturling turned on his heel and strode back to his room, where he took out a small box of powder and a brush. Gently, he dusted the pistol with it. There were certainly marks all over the hilt and trigger, even on the barrel. But they were all so smudged and smeared that it was impossible to make out any fingerprints at all. Sturling brushed the powder off. The marks didn’t tell him who the murderer was, but they told him something. Whoever the murderer was, they were nervous. They had been fingering the pistol, most probably moving it from hand to hand in nervous activity. Their palms had also been sweating, judging from the amount of marks on the pistol. Very nervous.

Richard Sturling’s mind ran carefully over all of the previous happenings; each suspect’s reasons for guilt, the absence of each person throughout the night, the footfalls on the stairs, the nervous handling of the pistol. Carefully and rationally he picked his key suspects. Then he went downstairs.

All the guests were waiting in the drawing room, faces white and drawn. Several candles had been lit, creating an eerie glow about the room. ‘Damned shocking affair!’ Sir Cumbridge was saying, shaking his head. ‘Damned shocking, the whole thing!’

On Sturling’s entering, everyone turned. ‘I’ve checked the body and the crime scene,’ Sturling said. ‘This was found at the scene, and I believe it to be the weapon of murder.’ He placed the pistol on the card table, and everyone leaned forward to have a look.

‘Is she… is she quite dead?’ asked the maid, her hands at her mouth. Sturling nodded, and the maid let forth a wail.

‘What I want to know,’ said Sueducate, stepping forwards, ‘is who killed her?’

‘Perhaps someone climbed in through a window and snuck upstairs?’ suggested Sir Cambridge.

‘Highly unlikely,’ said Sturling. ‘They would have been soaking wet, and there were no wet footprints anywhere near the crime scene. Besides, in a house like this any opening door or window would have caused a draught and a noise, which we neither heard nor felt.’

‘Then… who killed her?’ quavered Ethel Braithwaite.

‘We can make an educated guess,’ said Sturling, ‘that the murderer is someone in this room.’ The silence following this speech was deafening. Outside, the volume of the rain seemed to decrease, and all eyes were fixed on Sturling.

‘Really Sturling,’ said Symes at last, his voice as greasy as ever, ‘you do continue to strike me as a detective with all of these cunning murder schemes.’ He turned to the rest of the room. ‘We’ll all be gone by tomorrow, so what does it matter? The police can find the murderer, and I dearly hope none of us will ever see each other again.’

‘Sturling’s right,’ said Sueducate. ‘Someone in this room killed my aunt, and though we certainly may be gone by tomorrow if the flooding isn't too bad, I for one certainly won’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight with a murderer in the house.’

‘And isn’t it odd,’ chipped in Sir Cumbridge, ‘that Symes was so ready to suggest that we don’t bother looking into who killed the old woman? I say that Symes is guilty. He would have had plenty of time to slip upstairs while we were all blundering around in the dark looking for a generator.’

Symes eyes glittered in the candlelight. ‘Rubbish,’ he spat. ‘Well then, if we’re all laying bets, I’ll put mine on Mr Detective over here.’ He pointed at Sturling. ‘He certainly seems very sure of all the happenings and ready to check the crime scene alone. Perhaps he was just covering up his tracks so the police won’t catch him.’

‘It was him!’ cried the maid, pointing at Sturling.

‘Really,’ said Sturling calmly, ‘I should think you all more sensible than to start laying blames with no prior facts or evidence. We all here have a reason for wanting to murder Mrs Minkwater -’

Sturling’s voice was overridden by loud cries of ‘No I don’t,’ and ‘Me, want to kill her?’ He waited for the hubbub to subside, then calmly continued, ‘Mrs Minkwater had many enemies and there are many who would be convenienced by her demise. Though we cannot properly find out who it was tonight, we may certainly go through some clues and evidence.’ He looked carefully about the room, then at his two main suspects. ‘At the moment, all of Mrs Minkwater’s fortune goes to Ethel Braithwaite.’

‘Me?’ said Ethel faintly.

‘According to Mrs Minkwater, that is,’ said Sturling, ‘though I haven’t seen the will myself. If, however, Ethel is found guilty of the murder, the money will then, I believe, go to her lawyer, Symes, who will deal with it as he sees necessary.’

‘But I didn’t kill my friend!’ cried Ethel Brathwaite.

‘So far you are the key suspect in terms of motive,’ Sturling told her. ‘However we will make no accusations tonight. I suggest we all try and get some sleep.’

Sueducate gave a harsh laugh. ‘I doubt that’ll be very likely, with a murderer patrolling the corridors.’

‘You mentioned, Sturling,’ said the lawyer, ‘that there were more clues?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Sturling. ‘We know from the marks on the pistol that the murderer was nervous, probably moving it from hand to hand.’ Everyone gave an instinctive glance at everyone else’s hands. ‘I also heard someone slipping up the back stairs, though I cannot be sure whether it was the murderer or not,’ said Sturling. ‘We cannot tell the exact time of the murder, of course, so will never know if Mrs Minkwater was killed just before the maid found her or earlier in the evening. Did anyone walk up the back stairs?’ As Sturling had expected, no one answered.

‘Those are the only clues I have to offer at the moment,’ sad Sturling. ‘Oh, one other. From Mrs Minkwater’s position and expression I came to the conclusion that she was not concerned when the murderer entered her room. And now I suggest we go to bed.’

*

But Richard Sturling did not sleep at all that night. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, going through the evidence over and over. Something didn’t add up, he’d ruled out something too early on, but he couldn’t think what. There was one small piece of evidence he’d gained from the late night meeting, though. When going through the clues, he had noticed the maid go slightly pale, especially when the back stairs where mentioned.

Though Ethel Braithwaite had the most reason for murder, his prime suspect was the maid. It was not only that she had seemed shifty as he listed off the clues, or that she would have had more chance than anyone else to shoot Mrs Minkwater. There was something about her which he couldn’t put his finger on, and he felt certain it was something to do with her motive. Her motive itself was perfectly logical, but a needling in the back of his mind kept bringing him back to it over and over again. There was something odd about it which didn’t add up, something that he’d missed. But he couldn’t think what.

Later that night, Sturling, who was still dwelling matters over in his head, awoke to a small sound from downstairs. He was alert instantly, and, climbing softly out of bed, he went to the window, which looked out across the back of Scallaway’s End. Below him, he knew, was the servant’s quarters, and directly below his window was the servant’s door leading outside. A shaft of light slid across the back lawn, and someone stepped outside. Sturling leaned to the side as far as he could, but he could not make out whoever it was that stepped outside into the rain. Just then there was a flash of lightning which illuminated the whole sky as bright as day, but it was too late, the figure had stepped behind a tree and was gone. As the world went dark again, Sturling saw a blacker figure against the darkness of the night slip off around the side of the house.

Well, thought Sturling, tomorrow morning they would all see who was missing and would know who had killed Mrs Minkwater.

*

But when Sturling went down to breakfast the next morning, everyone was there. The maid had got the generator working and they sat round the table eating eggs on toast. There was no tea or coffee as in the storm there had been some bad flooding and Scallaway’s End was cut off. How bad the flooding really was they were yet to find out.

There was an air of mistrust between all the guests that morning. Out the window the heavy rain of the night had turned to a light drizzle, and when Sueducate suggested that they go for a walk to see how bad the storm damage was, they all readily agreed but for Ethel Braithwaite, who didn’t like walking and wanted to stay at home. They donned their macintoshes and walking shoes and set out down the sweeping concrete steps and onto… what was left of the driveway. Trees had fallen and smashed tiles from the roof littered the flooded driveway. A tree branch had tidily cut off the power line coming into the house, and the driveway wound off into a deep puddle. The storm had done its worst.

The four of them trudged down the driveway and stopped at a long, deep puddle, more like a sea really, stretching across the driveway and into the road beyond. The two gate posts stuck out of the water like bollards.

‘Who fancies wading through this for four miles to get to the station?’ asked Sueducate. Sir Cumbridge strode forwards into the water until he reached the gatepost, where he peered into the road beyond.

‘The road’s flooded the whole way along!’ he called. ‘Damned shocking affair! No way of getting out now.’

Sturling waded into the flooding to join Sir Cumbridge. The road which led to the town of Scallaway - about three miles away - was completely flooded, as were the fields around it. Not only this, but great trees had fallen over the road. There was certainly no escaping Scallaway’s End that way.

‘Is there any other road out of this godforsaken place?’ asked Sir Cambridge.

‘There’s a small back road,’ said Symes, who was standing on the edge of the water, clearly not wanting to get his feet wet. ‘But from what I hear it gets flooded frequently anyway. It’ll be a river by now.’

Slowly they walked back up to the house. The walk had given Sturling a lot to think about. Whoever it was who had left the house in the night clearly could not have gone far. So why had they left? They couldn’t have been meeting someone, there was no one to meet in such weather with the trees over the road. Of course, perhaps the person slipping out of the house was nothing important, but still…

It suddenly occurred to Sturling that someone else might have heard the noise and looked out the window as well. After all, he doubted that anyone had slept that night. And of course, the person in the room next door to his room would have had a perfect view of who it was leaving the house.

On reaching Scallaway’s End, Sturling went straight to the corridor his room was on. The door to the right of his own was closed. Opening it, Sturling saw that indeed the room was occupied. There were some clothes and a suitcase, and on the table by the bed was a large cigar. It was clearly Sir Cumbridge’s room. Sturling moved quickly to the window and peered outside. Yes, Sir Cumbridge would have had a very good view of whoever it was, especially in that flash of lightning.

Going back into his own room, Sturling took off his coat. As he did, one of the pockets made a crackling sound. Dipping his hand into the pocket, Sturling retrieved the paper cone and envelope which he had taken from Mrs Minkwater’s room, and which he had entirely forgotten about. Clearly these were the two key clues in figuring out who had attempted to kill Mrs Minkwater. Unfolding the partially burnt paper cone, he saw that it was the remains of a legal document with an unsigned dotted line. The envelope had already been opened, and the letter inside was about a gambling debt. Sturling eyed the two papers thoughtfully. The letter only confirmed his suspicions of Sueducate. And yet the paper cone… somehow Sturling couldn’t imagine Symes setting fire to Mrs Minkwater’s skirts. He was too cunning for that. And he also wasn’t stupid enough to use his own legal document as a means of trying to kill Mrs Minkwater.

Someone had framed Symes for an attempted murder. But who?

It was then that Richard Sturling saw a small mark on the corner of the paper. He peered closer, then took out a magnifying glass. If he wasn’t much mistaken, it was a tiny mark of lipstick.

Just then, Sturling heard a slight sound from the room next door. Was it Sir Cumbridge? Sturling went into the corridor and knocked on Sir Cumbridge’s door. There was no reply, so he pushed open the door, thinking that he might have imagined the sound.

Inside the room was the maid. She appeared to be tidying the bedside table, and yet there was something in her guilty expression which caught Sturling’s attention.

‘Pardon me,’ said Sturling. ‘Do you happen to know where Sir Cumbridge is?’

‘I believe he is downstairs,’ said the maid. But Sturling did not miss the quick movement of her hand as she replaced something she was holding onto the bedside table.

Sturling closed the door, but he did not leave. Instead he slipped back into his room and waited to hear the maid leave the room. When he heard her footfalls pad off down the passageway he went back into Sir’s room.

The object the maid had replaced on the bedside table was a small pillbox. On opening it, Sturling saw that it had in it several flat white pills. He inspected them closely. They were cyanide. One would easily be enough to kill someone.

Sturling also noted that the pillbox had not been there when he had first entered the room. Was it the maid’s? Was she trying to kill Sir? He inspected the pillbox and found that it had the engraved initials of BC. Clearly the pillbox was Sir Cambridge’s.

This certainly gave Sturling a lot to dwell on, however he currently had a more pressing matter on hand. He had to ask Sir Cumbridge if he had seen who was leaving the house.