Towards Zero

  “Who wanted to kill her, I wonder? A lot of cantankerous old ladies about just asking for a tap on the skull. She doesn’t look that sort. I should think she was liked.” He paused a minute and then asked:

  “Well off, wasn’t she? Who gets her money?”

  Leach answered the implication of the words.

  “You’ve hit it! That will be the answer. It’s one of the first things to find out.”

  As they went downstairs together, Battle glanced at the list in his hand. He read out:

  “Miss Aldin, Mr. Royde, Mr. Strange, Mrs. Strange, Mrs. Audrey Strange. H’m, seem a lot of the Strange family.”

  “Those are his two wives, I understand.”

  Battle’s eyebrows rose and he murmured:

  “Bluebeard, is he?”

  The family were assembled round the dining room table, where they had made a pretence of eating.

  Superintendent Battle glanced keenly at the faces turned to him. He was sizing them up after his own peculiar methods. His view of them might have surprised them had they known it. It was a sternly biased view. No matter what the law pretends as to regarding people as innocent until they are proved guilty, Superintendent Battle always regarded everyone connected with a murder case as a potential murderer.

  He glanced from Mary Aldin, sitting upright and pale at the head of the table, to Thomas Royde, filling a pipe beside her, to Audrey sitting with her chair pushed back, a coffee cup and saucer in her right hand, a cigarette in her left, to Nevile looking dazed and bewildered, trying with a shaking hand to light a cigarette, to Kay with her elbows on the table and the pallor of her face showing through her makeup.

  These were Superintendent Battle’s thoughts:

  Suppose that’s Miss Aldin. Cool customer—competent woman, I should say. Won’t catch her off guard easily. Man next to her is a dark horse—got a groggy arm—poker face—got an inferiority complex as likely as not. That’s one of these wives, I suppose—she’s scared to death—yes, she’s scared all right. Funny about that coffee cup. That’s Strange, I’ve seen him before somewhere. He’s got the jitters all right—nerves shot to pieces. Redheaded girl’s a tartar—devil of a temper. Brains as well as temper, though.

  Whilst he was thus sizing them up Inspector Leach was making a stiff little speech. Mary Aldin mentioned everyone present by name.

  She ended up:

  “It has been a terrible shock to us, of course, but we are anxious to help you in any way we can.”

  “To begin with,” said Leach, holding it up, “does anybody know anything about this golf club?”

  With a little cry, Kay said, “How horrible. Is that what—?” and stopped.

  Nevile Strange got up and came round the table.

  “Looks like one of mine. Can I just see?”

  “It’s quite all right now,” said Inspector Leach. “You can handle it.”

  That significant “now” did not seem to produce any reaction in the onlookers. Nevile examined the club.

  “I think it’s one of the niblicks out of my bag,” he said. “I can tell you for sure in a minute or two. If you will just come with me.” They followed him to a big cupboard under the stairs. He flung open the door of it and to Battle’s confused eyes it seemed literally crowded with tennis racquets. At the same time, he remembered where he had seen Nevile Strange before. He said quickly:

  “I’ve seen you play at Wimbledon, sir.”

  Nevile half turned his head. “Oh yes, have you?”

  He was throwing aside some of the racquets. There were two golf bags in the cupboard leaning up against fishing tackle.

  “Only my wife and I play golf,” explained Nevile. “And that’s a man’s club. Yes, that’s right—it’s mine.”

  He had taken out his bag, which contained at least fourteen clubs.

  Inspector Leach thought to himself:

  “These athletic chaps certainly take themselves seriously. Wouldn’t like to be his caddy.”

  Nevile was saying:

  “It’s one of Walter Hudson’s niblicks from St. Esbert’s.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Strange. That settles one question.”

  Nevile said: “What beats me is that nothing was taken. And the house doesn’t seem to have been broken into?” His voice was bewildered—but it was also frightened.

  Battle said to himself:

  “They’ve been thinking it out, all of them….”

  “The servants,” said Nevile, “are so absolutely harmless.”

  “I shall talk to Miss Aldin about the servants,” said Inspector Leach smoothly. “In the meantime I wonder if you could give me any idea who Lady Tressilian’s solicitors are?”

  “Askwith & Trelawny,” replied Nevile promptly. “St. Loo.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Strange. We shall have to find out from them all about Lady Tressilian’s property.”

  “Do you mean,” asked Nevile, “who inherits her money?”

  “That’s right, sir. Her will, and all that.”

  “I don’t know about her will,” said Nevile. “She had not very much of her own to leave so far as I know. I can tell you about the bulk of her property.”

  “Yes, Mr. Strange?”

  “It comes to me and my wife under the will of the late Sir Matthew Tressilian. Lady Tressilian only had a life interest in it.”

  “Indeed, is that so?” Inspector Leach looked at Nevile with the interested attention of someone who spots a possibly valuable addition to his pet collection. The look made Nevile wince nervously. Inspector Leach went on and his voice was impossibly genial.

  “You’ve no idea of the amount, Mr. Strange?”

  “I couldn’t tell you offhand. In the neighbourhood of a hundred thousand pounds, I believe.”

  “Indeed. To each of you?”

  “No, divided between us.”

  “I see. A very considerable sum.”

  Nevile smiled. He said quietly: “I’ve got plenty to live on of my own, you know, without hankering to step into dead people’s shoes.”

  Inspector Leach looked shocked at having such ideas attributed to him.

  They went back into the dining room and Leach said his next little piece. This was on the subject of fingerprints—a matter of routine—elimination of those of the household in the dead woman’s bedroom.

  Everyone expressed willingness—almost eagerness—to have their fingerprints taken. They were shepherded into the library for that purpose, where Detective Sergeant Jones was waiting for them with his little roller.

  Battle and Leach began on the servants.

  Nothing very much was to be got from them. Hurstall explained his system of locking up the house and swore that he had found it untouched in the morning. There were no signs of any entry by an intruder. The front door, he explained, had been left on the latch. That is to say, it was not bolted, but could be opened from outside with a key. It was left like that because Mr. Nevile had gone over to Easterhead Bay and would be back late.

  “Do you know what time he came in?”

  “Yes, sir, I think it was about half past two. Someone came back with him, I think. I heard voices and then a car drive away and then I heard the door close and Mr. Nevile come upstairs.”

  “What time did he leave here last night for Easterhead Bay?”

  “About twenty past ten. I heard the door close.”

  Leach nodded. There did not seem to be much more to be got from Hurstall at the moment. He interviewed the others. They were all disposed to be nervous and frightened, but no more so than was natural under the circumstances.

  Leach looked questioningly at his uncle as the door closed behind the slightly hysterical kitchenmaid, who had tailed the procession.

  Battle said: “Have the housemaid back—not the pop-eyed one—the tall thin bit of vinegar. She knows something.”

  Emma Wales was clearly uneasy. It alarmed her that this time it was the big square elderly man who took upon himself the task of questioning her.

&n
bsp; “I’m just going to give you a bit of advice, Miss Wales,” he said pleasantly. “It doesn’t do, you know, to hold anything back from the police. Makes them look at you unfavourably, if you understand what I mean—”

  Emma Wales protested indignantly but uneasily:

  “I’m sure I never—”

  “Now, now.” Battle held up a large square hand. “You saw something or else you heard something—what was it?”

  “I didn’t exactly hear it—I mean I couldn’t help hearing it—Mr. Hurstall, he heard it too. And I don’t think, not for a moment I don’t, that it had anything to do with the murder.”

  “Probably not, probably not. Just tell us what it was.”

  “Well, I was going up to bed. Just after ten it was—and I’d slipped along first to put Miss Aldin’s hot water bottle in her bed. Summer or winter she always has one, and so of course I had to pass right by her ladyship’s door.”

  “Go on,” said Battle.

  “And I heard her and Mr. Nevile going at it hammer and tongs. Voices right up. Shouting, he was. Oh, it was a proper quarrel!”

  “Remember exactly what was said?”

  “Well, I wasn’t really listening as you might say.”

  “No. But still you must have heard some of the words.”

  “Her ladyship was saying as she wouldn’t have something or other going on in her house and Mr. Nevile was saying, ‘Don’t you dare say anything against her.’ All worked up he was.”

  Battle, with an expressionless face, tried once more, but he could get no more out of her. In the end he dismissed the woman.

  He and Jim looked at each other. Leach said, after a minute or two:

  “Jones ought to be able to tell us something about those prints by now.”

  Battle asked:

  “Who’s doing the rooms?”

  “Williams. He’s a good man. He won’t miss anything.”

  “You’re keeping the occupants out of them?”

  “Yes, until Williams has finished.”

  The door opened at that minute and young Williams put his head in.

  “There’s something I’d like you to see. In Mr. Nevile Strange’s room.”

  They got up and followed him to the suite on the west side of the house.

  Williams pointed to a heap on the floor. A dark blue coat, trousers and waistcoat.

  Leach said sharply:

  “Where did you find this?”

  “Bundled down into the bottom of the wardrobe. Just look at this, sir.”

  He picked up the coat and showed the edges of the dark blue cuffs.

  “See those dark stains? That’s blood, sir, or I’m a Dutchman. And see here, it’s spattered all up the sleeve.”

  “H’m.” Battle avoided the other’s eager eyes. “Looks bad for young Nevile, I must say. Any other suit in the room?”

  “Dark grey pinstripe hanging over a chair. Lot of water on the floor here by the washbasin.”

  “Looking as though he washed the blood off himself in the devil of a hurry? Yes. It’s near the open window, though, and the rain has come in a good deal.”

  “Not enough to make those pools on the floor, sir. They’re not dried up yet.”

  Battle was silent. A picture was forming itself before his eyes. A man with blood on his hands and sleeves, flinging off his clothes, bundling the bloodstained garments into the cupboard, sluicing water furiously over his hands and bare arms.

  He looked across at a door in the other wall.

  Williams answered the look.

  “Mrs. Strange’s room, sir. The door is locked.”

  “Locked? On this side?”

  “No. On the other.”

  “On her side, eh?”

  Battle was reflective for a minute or two. He said at last:

  “Let’s see that old butler again.”

  Hurstall was nervous. Leach said crisply:

  “Why didn’t you tell us, Hurstall, that you overheard a quarrel between Mr. Strange and Lady Tressilian last night?”

  The old man blinked.

  “I really didn’t think twice about it, sir. I don’t imagine it was what you’d call a quarrel—just an amicable difference of opinion.”

  Resisting the temptation to say, “Amicable difference of opinion my foot!” Leach went on:

  “What suit was Mr. Strange wearing last night at dinner?”

  Hurstall hesitated. Battle said quietly:

  “Dark blue suit or grey pinstripe? I dare say someone else can tell us if you don’t remember.”

  Hurstall broke his silence.

  “I remember now, sir. It was his dark blue. The family,” he added, anxious not to lose prestige, “have not been in the habit of changing into evening dress during the summer months. They frequently go out after dinner—sometimes in the garden, sometimes down to the quay.”

  Battle nodded. Hurstall left the room. He passed Jones in the doorway. Jones looked excited.

  He said:

  “It’s a cinch, sir. I’ve got all their prints. There’s only one lot fills the bill. Of course I’ve only been able to make a rough comparison as yet, but I’ll bet they’re the right ones.”

  “Well?” said Battle.

  “The prints on that niblick, sir, were made by Mr. Nevile Strange.”

  Battle leaned back in his chair.

  “Well,” he said, “that seems to settle it, doesn’t it?”

  IV

  They were in the Chief Constable’s office—three men with grave worried faces.

  Major Mitchell said with a sigh:

  “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done but arrest him?”

  Leach said quietly:

  “Looks like it, sir.”

  Mitchell looked across at Superintendent Battle.

  “Cheer up, Battle,” he said kindly. “Your best friend isn’t dead.”

  Superintendent Battle sighed.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “I don’t think any of us like it,” said Mitchell. “But we’ve ample evidence, I think, to apply for a warrant.”

  “More than ample,” said Battle.

  “In fact if we don’t apply for one, anybody might ask why the dickens not?”

  Battle nodded an unhappy head.

  “Let’s go over it,” said the Chief Constable. “You’ve got motive—Strange and his wife come into a considerable sum of money at the old lady’s death. He’s the last person known to have seen her alive—he was heard quarrelling with her. The suit he wore that night had bloodstains on it, of course, most damning of all, his fingerprints were found on the actual weapon—and no one else’s.”

  “And yet sir,” said Battle, “you don’t like it either.”

  “I’m damned if I do.”

  “What is it exactly you don’t like about it, sir?”

  Major Mitchell rubbed his nose. “Makes the fellow out a bit too much of a fool, perhaps?” he suggested.

  “And yet, sir, they do behave like fools sometimes.”

  “Oh I know—I know. Where would we be if they didn’t?”

  Battle said to Leach:

  “What don’t you like about it, Jim?”

  Leach stirred unhappily.

  “I’ve always liked Mr. Strange. Seen him on and off down here for years. He’s a nice gentleman—and he’s a sportsman.”

  “I don’t see,” said Battle slowly, “why a good tennis player shouldn’t be a murderer as well. There’s nothing against it.” He paused. “What I don’t like is the niblick.”

  “The niblick?” asked Mitchell, slightly puzzled.

  “Yes, sir, or alternatively, the bell. The bell or the niblick—not both.”

  He went on in his slow careful voice.

  “What do we think actually happened? Did Mr. Strange go to her room, have a quarrel, lose his temper, and hit her over the head with a niblick? If so, and it was unpremeditated, how did he happen to have a niblick with him? It’s not the sort of thing you carry about with y
ou in the evenings.”

  “He might have been practising swings—something like that.”

  “He might—but nobody says so. Nobody saw him doing it. The last time anybody saw him with a niblick in his hand was about a week previously when he was practising sand shots down on the sands. As I look at it, you see, you can’t have it both ways. Either there was a quarrel and he lost his temper—and, mind you, I’ve seen him on the courts, and in one of these tournament matches these tennis stars are all het up and a mass of nerves, and if their tempers fray easily it’s going to show. I’ve never seen Mr. Strange ruffled. I should say he’d got an excellent control over his temper—better than most—and yet we’re suggesting that he goes berserk and hits a frail old lady over the head.”

  “There’s another alternative, Battle,” said the Chief Constable.

  “I know, sir. The theory that it was premeditated. He wanted the old lady’s money. That fits in with the bell—which entailed the doping of the maid—but it doesn’t fit in with the niblick and the quarrel! If he’d made up his mind to do her in, he’d be very careful not to quarrel with her. He could dope the maid, creep into her room in the night—crack her over the head and stage a nice little robbery, wiping the niblick and putting it carefully back where it belonged! It’s all wrong, sir—it’s a mixture of cold premeditation and unpremeditated violence—and the two don’t mix!”

  “There’s something in what you say, Battle—but—what’s the alternative?”

  “It’s the niblick that takes my fancy, sir.”

  “Nobody could have hit her over the head with that niblick without disturbing Nevile’s prints—that’s quite certain.”

  “In that case,” said Superintendent Battle, “she was hit over the head with something else.”

  Major Mitchell drew a deep breath.

  “That’s rather a wild assumption, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s common sense, sir. Either Strange hit her with that niblick or nobody did. I plump for nobody. In that case that niblick was put there deliberately and blood and hair smeared on it. Dr. Lazenby doesn’t like the niblick much—had to accept it because it was the obvious thing and because he couldn’t say definitely that it hadn’t been used.”

  Major Mitchell leaned back in his chair.

  “Go on, Battle,” he said. “I’m giving you a free hand. What’s the next step?”